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Chapter Text

“Tormund!” 

“My princess!” 

A small girl bundled in furs rushed the giant man and threw herself into his arms as the wildling bent down to scoop her into his arms before pressing a kiss to her cheek. He purposefully rubbed his beard across her skin and the girl let out a peal of laughter. It was hard to believe that not even an hour ago the man had murdered one of the Free Folk. 

Tormund put her down and ruffled her hair, allowing Jon to get a better look at her. 

She could be no more than eight or nine, about the same age Bran was when Jon had left for the Night Watch. The girl had lightly sun kissed skin and a splatter of freckles across her cheeks. Her red hair curled in the cold and was held back by a simple braid, exposing her red cheeks and bright grey eyes. She reminded him a bit of Arya, almost, and yet he could see Sansa in her too. 

The thought of his sisters caused a chasm to grow in Jon’s stomach. He had to believe they were still alive. He had to believe that they were out there, somewhere safe. He had to believe it or he would go mad. He had lost his father, Robb, Bran, and RIckon. His sisters had to be alive or else he did not know what he would do. 

“Is this your daughter, Tormund?” Jon ask, his voice rough, but he hoped that the other man would think it was from the cold. 

“She’s a tad too pretty to be one of mine,” Tormund said, cupping the girl’s chin with his thumb and forefinger. “This one’s my brother’s lass. Celia, the little princess.” 

“That’s quite a southron name,” Jon said, smiling down at the girl as she held onto the giant man’s leg, looking up at him with bright eyes, smiling back. 

“Aye, my brother stole a girl from south of the Wall. The name was Sharra, wanted her girl to have a fancy name.” He knelt down to be at the girl’s level and, once more, Jon was shocked by the difference in the man’s behaviour towards the child. He wondered, briefly, if Ygritte would have been like this, yet, at the same time, he could not even imagine this. “You see this crow here?” Tormund said, pointing to him. “He’s of that House Stark your ma liked to harp on about.”

The girl wiggled slighlty and frowned, forcing herself to grow serious. “Winter is coming, she said, trying to make her voice deeper.” 

“Aye,” Jon said, not sure how else he might answer. “It is.” 

Tormund stood then. “Be on your way lass. Get your cousin to pack your things.” 

The girl nodded before sprinting off to wherever it was that Tormund had sent her. “Are your brother and his wife still here?”

“Killed two years ago by some rangers. Sharra could fight when she wanted to, like a lion trying to protect her cub. Celia’s been with me and mine ever since.” 

“I’m surprised she wasn’t afraid of me.” He thought of Olly, of his anger, his hatred. 

“She’s learned to spot those she can trust,” Tormund said with a shrug. “She’s a smart girl.” 

Jon grunted before turning to help prepare people to begin crossing onto the boats. 

—

Jon sat upon one of the boats, still shaking at the image burned into his mind. The dead rising, the king of the others lifting his hands like a singer about to perform a song before his lord and master, only for the song to spit in the face of the very home he had found dwelling. It made him sick. All this time, the Night Watch had kept the Free Folk on the other side of the Wall, letting this army of the undead grow with every person they lost. It was… It was different seeing it, knowing the people, even briefly, who had now joined the army of the Night King. Children had lost their mothers. Wives, their husbands. Parents, their children. Lost. Lost. 

If only he had come sooner. If only he had been able to get more to get on the boats. 

He opened his eyes from his seat on the boat and saw Tormund’s niece, Celia, had sat herself upon one of the crates, sitting cross legged upon it as other children, some younger than her, sitting below and around her in awe. 

“The golden lion of the Rock and the gardener of the Reach stood against the dragon’s invasion,” she said, her tone serious and her eyes glittered with memory. “They commanded 400 people, a thousand iron men on horses and ten thousand regular crows. Though the dragon, Aeron, was outnumbered, when he fled, the lion and the gardner were no match for the three dragons. Everyone but the lion was killed by the flames, so the lion knelt.” 

It took a moment for Jon to realize she was talking about the Field of Fire and of when King Loren Lannister had knelt to Aegon Targaryen. It was told as a child who had only heard the story once might speak of it. The numbers wrong and the names misremembered. It was so plainly spoken as well, as though it were only a story, something the children need not be frightened of. However, it was endearing, the way she told the story, the way she captivated the other children, letting the rattle of the battle at Hardhome slink into the back of their minds. 

“The wolves of the North didn’t want to bend to dragons, so they were going to fight. King Torrhen Stark led an army to do what the lion could not. But when the wolf saw the dragons, he couldn’t let his pack be burned, so he bowed to the dragon and made them their kings.” 

“She’s a smart one, isn’t she,” Edd said, sitting down beside Jon. Neither of them were boat men and had let the others more knowledgable of the art take charge. “Sam’s going to love her.”

A smile slipped onto Jon’s lips at the thought. “Sam would want to know everything.” Gilly’s experiences would no doubt differ from that of the girl’s. “I’m surprised he isn’t working on a book. The first complete history of the Free Folk or something like that.” 

Edd snorted. “He might have started on it while we were gone.” 

Jon smiled, closing his eyes again as he listened to Celia carry on about the world south of the Wall. 

—

“Are we going to go live in a castle like my ma used to?” Celia asked, walking between Tormund and Jon, bundled in fur and looking a little top heavy, as though she might fall over at the smallest of breezes. 

“Ain’t no castles to give you, lass,” Tormund told her. “The kneelers won’t be wantin’ us in their castles.”

Jon felt her small hand slip into his own as they reached the gates of the Wall. He looked down and found Celia looking up at him with wide innocent eyes. 

“Will we get to live in a castle, King Crow?”

He rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand. “You can stay with me,” he said it without thinking. A promise he had made once long ago, when he had first contemplated joining the Night Watch. It was with Arya or Bran, he could not remember. Jon squeezed Celia’s hand lightly. “Until Tormund can find you a castle of your own.” 

Perhaps he could find her mother’s family. Sharra. Perhpas he could find her southron family and give her a home, return to her the family he migh never get back. 

They stood before the wall, pausing, waiting to be let in. Jon held his breath as the gate was not opened. He thought of Karsi’s final words to him. If he were not here, if he had been killed and brought back by the Night King, would they open the gates? Would they even open them now?

Jon squeezed Celia’s hand and stepped forward, looking up at where he knew Thorne to be, waiting. 

But then the gates opened and Jon let out a sigh of relief. 

When they began to head inside and it was obvious that Celia would not let go of Jon’s hand, Tormund chuckled. “You’re a sight prettier than me, little crow,” the man said. “Looks like she’s chosen her southron knight her ma was always talking about. Look after her while we settle, yeah?”

So, that was how Jon found himself standing in Castle Black next to Sam, Celia’s face buried in his hip, his hand on her head, letting her know that he knew she was there. It felt natural, like somehting he would do for Arya, Bran or Rickon, something his father would do for him. It felt centering, considering all they had gone through, and yet…

“It was a failure,” Jon said queitly. 

“It wasn’t,” Sam tried to reasure him.

“I want to save them,” Jon said in a harsh whisper. “I failed.” 

Sam looked at him earnestly and began nodding to the Free Folk entering the castle.”You didn’t fail him, or him.” He nodded head towards Celia. “Or her. Every one of them is alive because of you, and no one else. You’ve done something no one else has ever done before.” 

Jon looked at his brothers. “I don’t think that fact’s lost on them.” 

He could see the way some of the brothers looked at the Free Folk and looked at him. Jon glanced up to the top of the stairs and saw Olly. The boy was scowling, his eyes alight with burning hatred and it made Jon’s heart sink.

—

Celia had taken residence of sorts in Jon’s room, sleeping near the fire, her arms wrapped around Ghost. Tormund had shuddered at the sight of the animal, but Celia didn’t seem to fear him, as though she understood that the direwolf wasn’t a threat. 

Her staying in Castle Black would only be temporary, until Tormund could properly situate himself. Jon was in no position to take care of a child, much less a girl. It was one thing for the Watch to take over looking after Olly, it was another to have Celia stay there. Jon trusted most of his brothers and Celia was but a child, but he knew there were men who would not care about that fact. 

At least Ghost seemed to watch over her. It was one less thing he had to worry about. 

Jon looked through the scrolls upon his desk, plans to how to route supplies, especially now that they had made their stance with Stannis clear. 

“Lord Comannder,” Olly said, coming into his rooms. “It’s one of the wildlings you brought back. Says he know your Uncle Benjen. Says he’s alive.” 

Jon stood up quickly, motioning for Celia to not worry as she began to stand too, curious of what was happening. “Are you certain he’s talking about Benjen?”

“Says he was a first Ranger,” Olly said. “Said he knows where to find him.” 

Jon’s heart pounded in his chest as he rushed from his room and raced down the stairs to the ground of the castle. Uncle Benjen could be alive. One bit of family that could be brought back to him. A piece of his life before his father had been beheaded, before the girls were taken hostage, before Bran and Rickon were killed, before Robb and Lady Stark were murdered. 

“Man says he saw your uncle at Hardhome the last full moon,” Thorne said, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs.

“He could be lying,” Jon said, trying to not allow his hopes up, not wishing for them to be raised, only for them to be squashed. 

“Could be,” Thorne admitted. “There are ways to find out.” 

“Where is he?” Jon asked. 

“Over there.” 

Jon walked towards a group of brothers holding torches. He wondered breifly if the man was injured. There were plenty of survivors who were still nursing wounds. Perhas he wished to trade information for a more knowledgable hand. Jon pushed through the line of men and found a sign nailed into a beam like a grave marker. 

Traitor

Jon turned and Thorne stood before him and stabbed him in the stomach. 

“For the Watch,” the older man said. 

He stepped back and another brother stabbed him in the chest. “For the Watch.”

Then another. “For the Watch.” 

Another. “For the Watch.”

And another. “For the Watch.”

Jon fell to his knees, blood and bile rising in his throat as he struggled against the sharp pain

that was bleeding into his skin. Hot iron spread into his blood as he felt himself turn grey, as he felt himself grow dizzy and delirious against the weight of the falling snow.  

Olly stepped forward and for a moment, he saw Bran, young and whole. But no, this was Olly.

“Olly…” 

The boy’s face shifted between anger and heartbreak until it settled into a forced sneer as the boy’s dagger went into his chest. “For the Watch.” 

Jon fell completely then, onto his back as the stars, red and blurred shone above him. Red, like her hair. Robb, snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. Bran, clambering up the walls so he might see as the birds did. Rickon’s breathless laughter as he ran about the yard. Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. High in the halls… You know nothing, Jon Snow. Arya wild and free… 

Jon’s gaze slipped as his head fell to the side and he saw Celia upon the top of the stairs screaming. A child like Sansa was when the Lannisters killed Lady. A child like Arya was when she watched Mycha die. A child like Bran was when he fell. A child like Rickon was when he died. A child like Robb was when he became king. 

The brother’s of the Night Watch climbed the stairs, drawing close to her, rushing to her as though she were one of the shieldmaidens trying to breach their walls. He saw a knife, still red with his blood. 

“Ghost,” Jon whispered. 

Celia’s scream echoed in his head as the taste of blood entered his mouth and the cries of those who betrayed him, echoed in his ears as he dragged Celia back into the safety of his den. 

Chapter Text

Celia pressed her face into Ghost’s fur, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck as bitter tears slid down her cheeks, the tang washing away the even more bitter taste of blood upon her tongue. The cut from the crow’s blade upon her cheek stung, but everything else felt numb, save for the warmth of Ghost as he licked at her as best he could from his position. 

The image of Jon Snow bleeding out into his namesake was burned into her mind as she closed her eyes even tighter to forget it. 

Snow had always meant that something bad was going to happen. It meant the Cold Ones were coming, the storm their warning to all those who still walked with their own head. Their eyes blue and clear like a cloudless sky. Beautiful, horrible, dead. 

Ghost’s fur stood on end as he turned towards Jon Snow’s door and growled, his lips curling, his baring his fangs to threaten any who entered. It only stopped when those at the door came through. 

Celia peeked out from Ghost’s fur and saw the long faced gentle crow who gave her sweets cleaning off the table of maps. Another crow came in, holding Jon Snow’s body and put him on the table. The gentle crow, Edd, looked at Jon Snow and breathed harshly through his nose, setting his hands upon Jon Snow’s face and shut his eyes. 

“Thorne did this,” he said harshly. 

“How many of your brothers do you think you can trust?” the elderly man with the strange accent asked. Jon Snow had told her he was from the far south where it never snowed and it was as warm as a fire without the flames. 

“Trust?” Edd asked. “The men in this room.” He suddenly looked to her and Celia pressed herself further against Ghost, only her wide eyes peering at him from the white fur. 

“Does the wolf know you?” the old man asked. He was a knight. Jon had told her. A knight like one of her ma’s stories. He must have been a knight from a good story for he was alive. Her mother said bad knights always died because all good stories ended with the bad knights dying. Something had been said, but Celia missed it. The old knight knelt beside the desk, but not too close, leaving her some space to breathe. “Are you alright, lass?” Ghost licked her hand and Celia looked up at the knight and the man’s face darkened. “Did they hurt you?” 

Celia nodded, not sure how to speak. 

The knight drew closer, but Ghost snarled, although not dangerously. 

“We just want to help her,” Edd said. 

The knight took out white cloth with a black stag upon a yellow field embroidered on it. “Put this to your cheek, lass,” the man said gently as Celia hesitantly took it and did as he said. “It doesn’t look to be too deep a cut, but keep it there until we can get a better look at it. Okay?”

Celia nodded. 

A knock came to the door and Celia pressed her face back into Ghost’s neck as swords were drawn. A woman’s voice came from outside. “Ser Davos.” 

Things were quiet for a moment as Celia heard the swords slide back into their sheathes. The door opened and Celia peeked out and saw the red woman glide into the room, her beautiful features paling at the sight of Jon Snow’s body. 

“I saw him in the flames,” she said softly. Celia wondered if they were the same flames that burned Mance. “Fighting at Winterfell.” 

The word was odd to Celia, and yet, it felt like a soft word, a gentle word. She thought that perhaps she had heard Jon Snow say it. 

“I can’t speak for the flames,” the knight, Ser Davos, said. “But he’s gone.” 

Ghost’s muscles tensed beneath Celia’s arms as she rested her uninjured cheek upon his fur. He licked at her hand carefully as the red woman left as though she had been smoke. 

“He’ll have seen we didn’t come,” Ser Davos said. “Thorne will have made it official by now. Castle Black is his.” 

“I don’t care who’s sitting at the high table,” Edd said sharply. “Jon was my friend and those fuckers butchered him. Now, we return the favor.” 

“We don’t have the numbers,” the knight said plainly. 

“We have a direwolf,” one of the men said. 

“It’s not enough,” the knight continued. “I didn’t know Lord Commander Snow for long, but I have to believe he wouldn’t want his friends to die for nothing.” 

Die. 

Gone. 

Dead. 

Just like her parents. 

Die.

Gone.

Dead.

Celia was lost. She was alone. The muffled voices of the adults talking faded away as she closed her eyes and let herself dream. Of the stone walls of a place she had never been. 

—

A knock came to the door, pulling Celia from her sleep, from the embrace of a man and a woman she could not remember, could no longer recognize. It had felt like her ma though.

“Ser Davos,” the harsh crow’s voice came from beyond the door. Celia’s cheek stung and she curled in on herself, drawing closer to Ghost as his fur began to stand on end. “We have no cause to fight. We are both anointed knights.” 

It was a lie. Bad knights always died. Jon Snow would not have been killed by a bad knight. Her ma said bad knights always died because that was the justice south of the Wall. Her ma had whispered that it was where women did not fear being stolen. It was a land where bad knights were defeated and vanquished and where good knights triumphed. Triumphed like Jon Snow did when he brought her people south of the Wall. When he had killed a Cold One with his pale sword. 

“Hear that, lads?”Ser Davos asked, his voice gruff and bitter. “Nothing to fear.” 

“I will grant amnesty to all brothers who throw down their arms before nightfall,” the bad crow said. “And you, Ser Davos, I will allow you to travel south, a free man with a fresh horse.” 

The good knight was quiet for a moment. “And some mutton,” he said. “I’d like some mutton.” 

“What?” the voice asked. 

“I’m not much of a hunter,” the knight said humbly. “I’ll need some food if I’m gonna make it south without starving.” 

The world was quiet again. It was as though it had taken a breath, and it left Celia feeling uneasy. This was not like the arguments laid out between the Free Folk. This was like a predator stalking its prey, slowly circling until it could pounce. Like a vulture, waiting for an animal to die. 

“We’ll give you food,” the bad crow said. “You can bring the red woman with you if you like. Or you can leave her here with us, whichever you choose.” 

“And the wildling child?” Ser Davos asked.

Celia tensed at being mentioned. Ghost growled lowly, the sound rolling against the ground like a river.

A boy of six and ten grabbing her, pulling her hair as he held his over her mouth.

“Just stay quiet, just stay quiet,” his breath hot and rotting against her neck as she struggled against him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tried to scream for her ma, tried to scream for Tormund, tried to scream for anyone. His hand moving from her hair as he dragged her away. 

She managed to move her face, opening her mouth and screaming, screaming until he tried to quiet her again and she bit down on his hand, hard until the tang of blood entered her mouth. 

Tormund had split his head open with an ax

She began to cry softly into Ghost’s fur. Tormund wasn’t there to save her and neither was Jon Snow. 

“You can take her as well,” the bad crow said. “But surrender by nightfall or this ends with blood.” 

“Thank you, Ser Alliser,” Ser Davos said slowly. “We’ll discuss amongst ourselves and come back to you with an answer.” Everything was quiet and the good knight turned to the other men in the room. It was then that Celia realized that Edd was gone. “Boys, I’ve been running from men like that all my life. In my learned opinion, we open that door—”

“And they’ll slaughter us all,” a man said, angry. Celia shrank from his voice and buried her face back into Ghost’s fur. 

“They want to come in, they’re going to come in,” the second man said.

“Aye,” Ser Davos said. “But we don’t need to make it easy for them.” 

“Edd is our only chance,” said the second man.

“It’s a sad fucking statement if Dolorous Edd is our only chance,” said the first. 

“There’s always the red woman,” Ser Davos said. 

“What’s one redhead gonna do against forty armed men?”

“You haven’t seen her do what I’ve seen her do.” Ser Davos turned to her. “Come here, sweet girl,” he said. “I’m sure Ghost here will be glad to let you pet him. I just want to make sure that cut isn’t too bad.” 

Celia hesitated until Ghost shifted, encouraging her to stand. Ser Davos sat her on Jon Snow’s chair and began to check the gash on her cheek, Ghost’s head resting carefully upon her lap. She closed her eyes and cleaned the blood from her face, wiping away the tears as he did so, telling her she had been such a brave girl. 

—

Another knock came to the door. Celia had already gotten back down under the desk and curled next to Ghost. The direwolf licked her uninjured cheek and stood, nosing her to sit closer to the wall and away from the door.

“It’s time, Ser Davos,” the bad crow said. “Open the door and the men inside can rejoin their brothers in peace. We’ll even set the wolf free north of the Wall where it belongs. Nobody needs to die tonight.”

Ser Davos turned to the other men. “I’ve never been much of a fighter.” He walked to the desk and lifted Jon Snow’s sword, looking just like the knight in Celia’s ma’s stories, just like Jon Snow. The elderly man looked at her kindly. “Apologies for what you’re about to hear, little lady. Close your eyes and cover your ears. I know Ghost here won’t let anything happen to you.” 

The others unsheathed their swords and Celia closed her eyes. 

It was like the dead ramming themselves against the door. Over and over and over. Until a louder thundering could be heard from beyoung. The shouts and cries of the old tongue filled her ears and her lungs as Celia opened her eyes. 

“Attack!” a crow screamed. 

The world dissolved into chaos of cold and screams of living men and steel. It seemed to happen for an eternity and in no time at all. Was this how it felt to the gods? Is that why they did not care to listen?

Celia only felt relief when she saw the giant form of Tormund walk through the door, but even then, she knew that it would not bring back Jon Snow. For the bodies must burn, they must burn or else the ice shall sink into their veins and all would be lost. To save them from freezing they must burn and then there would be nothing left to remember them by. How many had died already? How many had died and were already forgotten? 

Forgotten like Ma. 

Forgotten. 

—

Ghost had fallen asleep on the floor near his master and Celia stood next to Tormund, holding his large hand with both of her own. Ser Davos, Ed, and the red woman were gathered around Jon Snow’s body. She was cleaning his wounds, carefully, as though he were still alive, as though he would still feel the pain. She wrung out the cloth and continued to clean. She cut his hair then and trimmed his beard, throwing them into the fire and placing her hands on Jon Snow’s chest, whispering in a tongue that Celia did not know, the words rolling into the air like a babbling river. 

The air was silent after, void of anything, even the soft noise of Ghost breathing. 

“Please,” the red woman whispered, but nothing happened. 

Celia began to cry, words sticking to her throat and refusing to come out. Tormund picked her up, holding her like a she would a doll and began to carry her from the room as the others left. Words continued to clump in her throat as she tried to breathe them, trying to say goodbye. 

Goodbye, goodbye. 

She never got to say goodbye. 

The world was no longer breathing as the words continued to knot together. 

But then, the world breathed and a gasp shuddered through the air like a stuttering heart beat. 

Chapter Text

The gates of Castle black creaked open, pushing the snow with the same ease that a plow might rich earth. Lady Brienne rode out before Sansa as the lady’s squire, Podrick Payne, rode closely beside her. The world about her was cold and her grey cloak did little to keep her warm, the ache of her healing cuts biting against the cold, and yet Sansa did not mind it. She was alive and soon… Soon she would be with Jon. 

Jon, who looked like Father, with the long brooding face and soft brown hair he had once let her braid. Jon, whom she had felt sorry for once she learned that not all men of the Night Watch were like their Uncle Benjen. Jon, whom she had sung for in the Sept of Baelor as she sang for the rest of their family, thankful that he and their uncle were safe from those that might harm them. Jon, who she had remembered even as Alayne, when she should not have known him. Jon…

And Uncle Benjen would be there too, be there to protect them both as their father had in Winterfell. Even if women were not allowed at the wall… 

No, Jon would not turn her away. He had always been her Aemon the Dragonknight to her Naerys. He had been the only boy in their family to truly care about her stories, her love of romance and wonder. He had been the only one to not see her as foolish. 

Sansa looked about her as she dismounted her horse, almost dead from exhaustion and cold. The castle was not as grand as Uncle Benjen had said it was. The tales he would weave whenever he visited Winterfell, sitting by the fire like a dark knight from the songs, telling them of wildlings and bears and savage beasts that lived beyond the Wall. Yet… knowing that Jon was there, that Uncle Benjen was there. This was the safest place for her, this was the safest she had ever been in years. 

Sansa looked about as the snow fell around her. Winter is coming. It was her father’s voice, or as near as she could remember. Winter is coming and we must protect ourselves. 

Sansa looked up and her breath caught in her throat as she saw the ghost of the man she had last seen in the Red Keep, his head upon a spike, his last words a lie, a lie for her. But no, this was not her father. The man who was so shocked at her appearance he had stepped back, as though his world had begun to turn on its head, and perhaps it had. She had not been with Ramsay long for him to boast of his capture of her. 

Jon descended from the stairs, never taking his eyes off her and Sansa did the same, stepping forward slightly, her body moving on its own. He was real. He was real and alive and real. He reached the bottom of the stairs and moved towards her, in a trance as much as she was. Did he recognize her? Did he know who she was? Could he see the girl he had once played a knight for in the woman who had been broken too many times to count?

“Sansa,” he said softly. 

Tears flooded her vision as she rushed forward to hug him, a girl once more. Jon opened his arms to her and lifted her once she was settled. Her toes brushed against the ground as she sank into his warmth, holding onto his shoulders as his arms wrapped securely around her waist. She pressed her face into his neck, the tears running hot along her cheek as she nuzzled into him. 

She was home. 

Gods, she was finally home. 

—

Sansa sat in front of the fire as Jon tucked a small girl into his bed, Ghost upon it and the girl’s arm wrapped around the giant direwolf’s neck. She smiled as Jon brushed stray hair from the girl, Celia’s, face. Her brother had told her of the Wildlings, or Free Folk, of how they had crossed the Wall to escape the very stories Old Nan used to tell them to scare them into behaving. The girl was without parents, with only an uncle to occasionally tend to her. 

The sweet girl seemed to adore Jon though, hugging his legs and refusing to go to bed until her eyelids began to droop. He was good with her, as he had been with their younger siblings. To Sansa, Jon had reminded her so much of their father that it had surprised her when she learned he wished to join the Night Watch. She had always thought he had wanted a family of his own, a wife, children. Sansa watched her brother smile gently at the little girl and she supposed the gods often worked in mysterious ways. 

Her heart simply broke for all that he had to endure to get there. The loss, the betrayal, death.

Jon set his cloak firmly on Sansa’s shoulders before he pulled a stool to sit next to her before the fire. He had offered her soup, but she had waited until little Celia was tucked away. Once he was settled she took a generous sip, her stomach churning for want of food. 

“This is good soup,” she told him. “Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?”

“With the peas and onions?’ Jon asked. 

Sansa closed her eyes, relishing in his voice the accent so very like their father’s, the only one of them to truly take it. “Mmm.” 

He smiled at her sadly. “We never should have left Winterfell.”
“Don’t you wish we could go back to the day we left?” Sansa asked softly. She looked up and then into the fire. “I want to scream at myself, don’t go, you idiot. ”

Jon put his hand on her arm. “How could we know?”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t regret it.” 

Jon nodded. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had abandoned my vows and joined Robb.” 

Sansa set her bowl down and took his hand in hers. “We’ll never know,” she said. “And, if you weren’t here, then there wouldn’t be anyone for me to escape to. Not with Benjen gone.” 

Her brother squeezed her hand tightly. “I wish I had come for you,” he said. “If I had known that you were in Winterfell, I would have come for you. If I had known the Boltons had you...” 

Sansa brought his hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “I was not there for long,” she assured him. “They did not know who I was until the end.” 

Theon had known. Theon had done what he could to get her out. But, unlike in the Red Keep where her name had afforded her some protection, or the Eyrie where her anonymity protected her from most advances. Ramsay Snow had been brutal in his treatment of her. It was only when he had seen her red hair growing from the black that he realized who she was. She was wedded for the second time, but never bedded, Theon knocking the bastard unconscious before anything could be done. 

“Even so,” Jon replied. 

Sansa squeezed his hand. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

He squeezed her hand once more and let it go, reaching out to take a horn of ale and drank from it. Sansa watched him curiously and reached out her hand in a silent question. Jon smiled at her and offered her a drink. She took a sip, thinking it might be like the wine from the Eyrie or the Red Keep. The bitterness hit her tongue abruptly and she coughed, gagging at the taste, causing Jon to laugh as she thrust it back to him. 

“You’d think after a thousand years,” he said, taking it from her. “The Night Watch would have learned how to make a good ale.” 

They were quiet for a moment and Sansa watched him. He was no longer the boy she once knew, he had been through too much, just as she was not the girl he had once known either. “Where will you go?”

He looked at her and without a second thought. “Where will we go?” he said firmly. “If I don’t watch over you, Father’s ghost will come back and murder me.” 

Sansa smiled, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks. “Where will we go?”

“We can’t stay here,” Jon said. “Not after what happened.” 

Sansa chewed her lip carefully. “There’s only one place we can go. Home.”

—

Sansa found Celia’s antics amusing. She played with Ghost more often than not, running about, her hands in the air, dancing slightly from foot to foot, catching the sparse snow in her hands. It worried her though, the way she seemed to force away anything about the coup against Jon or the events in the place Jon called Hardhome. It was as though she could not remember the moments fully, or did not wish to, instead her smile was big and wide as she rushed about Castle Black without a single fear. To the point that Podrick Payne often ran after her, trying to make sure she was okay. 

“Sorry about the food,” Edd, the current Lord Commander of the Night Watch after Jon said. He was a kind looking man, reminding Sansa a little of Jory Cassel. “It’s not what we’re known for.” 

Sansa smiled at him. “That’s alright,” she said. “There’s more important things.” 

He smiled back at her as the door opened and a black brother entered holding a scroll. He held it out to Jon. “A letter for you, Lord Commander.” 

“I’m not Lord Commander anymore,” Jon corrected before taking the scroll. His expression darkened when he saw the seal and broke it. He began to read. “ To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow. You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall .” Tormund, the almost giant Free Folk man, straightened, his face darkening. “ You betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon…” Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as Jon looked at her with wide eyes. “His direwolf’s skin is on my floor. Come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride north and slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them alive. You… ”

“Go on,” Sansa urged. 

Jon shook his head. “It’s just more of the same.” 

He began to put it away, but Sansa took it from him and found where he had stopped. “ You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister, ” her voice cracked. “ You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. ”

“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” Jon repeated.

“His father must be dead then, and his wife and child.” Sansa set the scroll down. “And now he has Rickon.” 

“We don’t know that,” Jon tried to reason.

Sansa looked at him sadly. “Yes, we do.” 

“How many men does his army have?” Tormund asked. 

“I heard him say five thousand,” she said. “Some soldiers spoke of it in the kennels.” 

Jon’s eyes went to her for a moment, knowing why she would be there. He then turned to Tormund. “How many do you have?”

“That can march and fight?” the ginger man asked. “Two thousand. The rest are children and old people.” 

Jon’s lips formed a firm line. 

“You’re the son of the last true Warden of the North,” she told her brother. “Northern families are loyal. They’ll fight for you if you ask.” Jon closed his eyes and began to turn, but Sansa took his hand in her own and pulled so that he faced her fully. “A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both.” 

Jon looked at her a long time, his eyes dark. She squeezed his hand tightly and only realized she had stopped breathing when he finally nodded and she let the stale air free from her lungs.

—

While Jon seemed to trust the remaining brothers of the Night Watch, he still slept with his back against the door of his chambers with Ghost resting his massive head on Jon’s knee. 

Sansa and Celia shared Jon’s old bed, the girl snuggled into her arms. In her shift, anyone could see Sansa’s scars, but Celia had been the only one to see them, as Jon had turned around to allow her to change. 

“Are you a shieldmaiden?” Celia asked, tracing one of the older scars from Joffrey with her finger. 

“No,” Sansa replied. “Very bad men gave them to me.” She ran her fingers through Celia’s hair as the girl seemed to flit between sleep and wakefulness.

“Did the bad men get punished?” she asked quietly. 

“Some of them did,” Sansa replied. “There is one that still lives.” 

Celia sat up and pulled at the bandage on her cheek and showed Sansa the healing cut on her cheek. “A bad man did this to me,” she said. “But Jon Snow made them stop.” She said it proudly, as Sansa would have whenever one of her brothers, on the rare occasion, took her side over Arya’s. She put the bandage back on and curled into Sansa’s arms again. “They hurt Jon Snow too,” she said quietly then. “But he made them pay.”nSansa stroked the girl’s hair, causing Celia’s eyelids to grow heavy. “Jon Snow will make your bad man pay too.”  

Chapter Text

A map was spread out before them on a long table with tokens of different houses laid upon its surface. Davos, Lady Brienne, Edd, Tormund, and Melisandre were gathered around the table. Jon stood next to Sansa, who was sitting, a sleeping Celia in her lap. The girl could hardly be parted from Sansa. Celia seemed to adore Jon’s half-sister to the point that she would glare at Tormund for not minding his manners around the lady. 

“Aye, haven’t heard such talk since she was a wee one and her mother was around,” the red headed man would say, his laugh boisterous and kindhearted. 

But now, Celia had fallen fast asleep against the weight of the adults speaking of strategy and other things that did not understand. 

“We can’t defend the North from the Others and the south from the Boltons,” Jon said, leaning against the table, examining what they had put together so far. “If we want to survive, we need Winterfell, and to take Winterfell, we need more men.”

“Aside from the Starks and the Boltons,” Ser Davos stated. “The most powerful houses in the North are the Umbers, the Karstarks, and the Manderlys.” He moved some of the tokens on the map to Winterfell. “The Umbers and the Karstarks have already declared for the Boltons, so we’re not doing so well there.” 

“The Karstarks have decent reasons to be against House Stark for what my brother did, no matter how right it was. The Umbers, perhaps, were not aware of any other choice. It was not Lord Umber who gave them Rickon, but I fear they know the North will not look upon them kindly for what their men have done. They have thrown their lot in with the Boltons because they fear the wrath of the North for such actions.” 

“Many died during the Red Wedding, my lady,” Ser Davos said carefully. “Many of whom, while blaming the Freys for breaking guest rights might blame King Robb for breaking his oaths to them.” 

Sansa turned to look at the man. “How well do you know the North, Ser Davos?” 

“Precious little, my lady.” 

“My father always said Northerners are different. More loyal, more suspicious of outsiders. It was why Tywin Lannister was able to seat Roose Bolton with precious little resistance from the Northmen. Any who lived to tell the tale of the Red Wedding were sided with the Lannisters or imprisoned. While I admit I do not know much about the current politics of the North, it begs to question on whether the houses know of Roose Bolton’s part in the Red Wedding, whether they know that he was the one to stab my brother.” They were silent for a moment. “We must prioritize the houses who have not already aligned with House Bolton, but we cannot think that they would remain loyal should they learn the part the Boltons played in the deaths of their friends and family.”
“Even so,” Ser Davos said. “I may not know the North, but I know men. They’re more or less the same in any corner of the world and even the bravest of them don’t want to see their wives and children skinned for a lost cause. If Jon’s going to convince them to fight alongside him, they need to believe it’s a fight they can win.” 

“There are more than three other houses in the North,” Jon continued. “Glover, Mormont, Cerwyn, Mazin, Hornwood and two dozen more. Together, they equal all the others. We can start small and build.” 

Sansa nodded towards him. “The North remembers,” she said and then turned to Ser Davos. “They remember the Stark name. People will risk everything for it, from White Harbor to Ramsay’s own door.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Ser Davos replied. “But Jon doesn’t have the Stark name.” 

“No,” Sansa said. “But I do.” 

Jon’s heart stuttered in his chest as he looked to Sansa in surprise. 

“Jon is every bit as much Ned Stark’s son as Ramsay is Roose Bolton’s,” she continued. “And there are also the Tullys. They’re not Northern, but they will back us against the Boltons without question. Family, duty, honor.” 

“I didn’t know the Tullys still had an army,” Ser Davos said. 

“My uncle, the Blackfish, has reformed it and retaken Riverrun.” 

“How do you know that?” Jon asked. 

“Theon said he heard about it. We thought about going south, but I knew we would be safer in Castle Black.” 

Ser Davos nodded. “That’s good. The Blackfish is a legend. His support would mean a great deal. Stark, Tully, a few more houses, almost starts to look like a winning side.” 

Sansa’s smile was radiant. 

—

The men who would be traveling with them began to ready the horses. Jon stood overseeing the preparations. He had left Celia to Ser Davos. She was sitting on the horse with the Onion Knight, clapping happily as he explained to her the proper way to ride a horse like a little lady. 

A flash of red entered his vision and he turned to see Sansa approaching him, carrying a bundle of fur. 

His gaze lowered and he saw a dress of green satin. Queen Selyse Baratheon had left quite a few clothes behind and it appeared that Sansa had remade it into one befitting their house. “New dress?”

“I made it myself,” she said. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he said carefully, trying to figure out where he should and shouldn’t look. “It’s… I like the wolf bit.” 

Sansa smiled at his awkward compliment. “Good,” she said as she lifted the bundle in her arms. “Because I made this for you.” 

She handed him the budle and he realized that it was a cloak. He held it in his hand gingerly and saw that the sigil of House Stark had been embossed into the leather. It was like their father’s. 

“I made it like the one Father used to wear,” she said. “As near as I can remember it.” 

A smile played on his lips. His heart fluttered in his chest and he felt lighter than he had in years. He looked up at her. “Thank you, Sansa.” 

She smiled back at him proudly. “You’re welcome.” 

Jon stepped forward and cupped Sansa’s face in his hands and pressed his lips to her brow. “I’ll get our home back,” he promised. Sansa smiled at him and walked to her horse where one of the men helped her onto the beast. Jon carefully put the cloak on, grinning. Edd approached in and the two laughed at one another. “Don’t knock it down while I’m gone.” 

Edd looked up at the walls of Castle Black. “I’ll do my best.” The two hugged. “Good luck.” 

Jon went to his horse and climbed atop it. They headed for the southern gates and made their way to the Gift.

—

Jon stood with Sansa, Ser Davos, Tormund, and Wun Wun. The giant was sitting, Celia leaning against him, bundled in his furs, her head sticking out from beneath his coat, just under his head. She had gone to the giant happily and began to babble to him in the Old Tongue. 

They stood around a fire pit with the other leaders of the Free Folk. 

“We said we’d fight with you, King Crow,” Dim Dalba said. “When the time comes and we meant it, but this isn’t what we agreed to. These aren’t the Others. This isn’t an army of the dead. This isn’t our fight.”

“If it weren’t for him,” Tormund said, arms crossed. “None of us would be here. All of you would be meat in the Night King’s army and I’d be a pile of charred bones just like Mance.” 

“Remember Mance’s camp?” Dim Dalba scoffed. “It stretched all the way to the horizon. And look at us now; look what’s left of us. If we lose this, we’re gone. Dozens of tribes, hundreds of generations. Be like we were never there at all. We’ll be the last of the Free Folk.” 

Jon stepped forward. “That’s what’ll happen to you if we lose. The Boltons, the Karstarks, the Umbers. I know these names mean nothing to you, but they are families that have more than enough people to destroy us all. They know that more than half of you are women and children. After they finish with me, they’ll come for you. You’re right. This isn’t your fight. You shouldn’t have to come to Winterfell with me. I shouldn’t be asking you. It’s not the deal we made. I need you with me if we have any hope of beating them. We need to beat them if you’re going to survive. They don’t care about the threat beyond the Wall. If we don’t do this now, then you might as well not have left Hardhome at all.” 

Tormund motioned towards him. “Some of the crows killed him because he spoke for the Free Folk when no other southerners would. He died for us. If we are not willing to do the same for him, we’re cowards. And if that’s what we are, we deserve to be the last of the free folk.” 

Wun Wun stood, opening his coat and setting Celia to the ground. “Snow.”

The giant walked away as though that were all that needed to be said. Dim Dalba looked at the men around him and one of them nodded. The man went to Jon and offered his hand as Celia ran over to Sansa and hugged her hips. Jon took the hand and shook it before Dim Dalba returned to his men. 

“Are you sure they’ll come?” Jon asked Tormund. 

“We’re not clever like you kneelers,” the man said. “When we say we’ll do something, we do it.” 

Jon released a breath and motioned for them all to follow him as they headed out, the plan to leave Tormund and Celia behind. 

“No!” Celia said, stomping her foot. She grabbed onto Jon’s cloak.

“Princess,” Tormund warned carefully. “You’re to stay here with me and your cousins.” 

“No!” she repeated. “Don’t leave me, Jon Snow!” she begged, tears catching upon her lashes. “Don’t go!”

Jon closed his eyes and knew that he could not say no to the little girl. He knelt down and held her hands. “If you are to travel with us,” he said. “You must behave. Some kneelers don’t take kindly to the Free Folk. Keep close to me, Sansa, or Ser Davos. Alright?” 

Celia nodded. 

—

Lyanna Mormont could be no older than ten, but she had a scowl that spoke of a much older soul. She was flanked by two men, one dressed like a soldier and the other was a maester. Jon stood next to Sansa, Celia standing behind them with Ser Davos. 

“Lady Mormont,” Jon said, bowing his head. 

“Welcome to Bear Island,” the girl replied, her chin raised. She had lost about as much as Jon and Sansa had and she was much younger. He wondered if she remembered much of her mother and sisters. 

Jon glanced at Sansa, unsure how they should proceed. 

“I remember when you were born, my lady,” Sansa said. “You were named for my Aunt Lyanna. From what I have heard, you are just as proud and strong as she is. Much like my sister, Arya.” 

The Lady of Bear Island sniffed. “Your lady aunt caused a stupid war after running of with a married man. I highly doubt any would wish to be like her.” 

Jon stiffened, not liking the implications about his aunt. None knew what had happened. It did not sit right that someone who did not know the circumstances judging everything years later. “I served under your uncle at Castle Black, Lady Lyanna. He was a great and honorable man. I was his steward. In fact—”

“I think we’ve had enough small talk,” she said. “Why are you here?”

Jon took a deep breath. “Stannis Baratheon garrisoned at Castle Black before he marched on Winterfell and was killed. He showed me the letter you wrote him when he petitioned for men. It said—”

“I remember what it said,” she replied firmly. “ Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. ”

“Robb is gone.” The phrase left a bitter taste in his mouth. Sometimes he could not believe that his brother was dead. Could not believe that he would never see Robb again. “But House Stark is not. And it needs your support now more than ever. I’ve come with my sister to ask for House Mormont’s allegiance.” 

Lady Lyanna leaned towards her maester and the two whispered to each other before returning her gaze to Jon. “As far as I understand, you’re a snow and Lady Sansa is a Lannister. Or perhaps a Bolton. I’ve heard conflicting reports.” 

“My lady,” Sansa began as Jon stiffened at the young girl’s words. “I was a prisoner and if they had wished me to die, they would have. However they needed my blood because they hoped to have a stronghold to the North, to have a claim to Winterfell. I pray that you never have to go through the hardships that I did, my lady. But I have bled for the North just as my brother’s soldiers did. I am a Stark, my lady, and winter is coming.” 

The Lady Lyanna scowled. “In any case, you don’t just want my allegiance. You want my fighting men.” 

“Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell, my lady,” Jon said forcefully. “It is our duty to stop him. Even more so because he holds our brother, Rickon Stark, as prisoner. What you have to understand, my lady, is that—”

“I understand that I am responsible for Bear Island and all who live here. So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for someone else’s war?”

Jon tried to think of a way to respond. 

“If it pleases, my lady,” Ser Davos said. “I understand how you feel.” 

“I don’t know you, Ser…?”

“Davos, my lady,” he said, a slight dip in his voice as he bowed. “Of House Seaworth.” The lady glanced at her maester for confirmation. “You needn’t ask your maester about my house. It’s rather new.” 

“Alright, Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how I feel?”

“You never thought you’d find yourself in your position. Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age. I never thought I’d be in my position. I was a crabber’s son, then I was a smuggler. And now I found myself addressing the lady of a great house in time of war. But I’m here because this isn’t someone else’s war. It’s our war.”

Lady Lyanna frowned. “Go on, Ser Davos.” 

“Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made that man his steward. He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life. Because Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow both understood that the real war isn’t between a few squabbling houses. It’s between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady, the dead are coming.”

Her eyes shifted to Jon. “Is this true?”

Jon nodded. “Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost.” 

“As long as the Boltons hold Winterfell, the North is divided,” Ser Davos continued. “And a divided North won’t stand a chance against the Night King. You want to protect your people, my lady. I understand. But there’s no hiding from this. We have to fight and we need to do it together.”

The maester of Bear Island leaned over to whisper to Lady Lyanna but she waved him away. “House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for one thousand years. We will not break faith today.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” Jon said. “How many fighting men can we expect?”

Lady Lyanna leaned towards the soldier and they whispered for a moment and then straightened. “Sixty-two.” 

“Sixty-two?” Jon repeated.

“We are not a large house,” she continued. “But we are a proud one. And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of ten mainlanders.” 

Ser Davos smiled. “If they’re half as ferocious as their lady, the Boltons are doomed.” 

The little lady smiled.

Chapter Text

Celia pressed her nose into Lady Sansa’s hip, peering out from the hem of her cloak to look at the man they had come to meet with. The fur cloak was warm and Celia felt protected under it, like a memory that came when she was sleeping. 

The castle they were in was much better than the one that belonged to the crows and not as surrounded by forest and water like the one of the bear girl. However, this castle looked like it had been worn, like the old tents that belonged to the elderly, those who had moved for years and years. The castle belonged to a lord called Glover. They had visited the Manderlys and the Cerwyns after they had visited Bear Island and all had sworn their swords to Jon Snow and Lady Sansa. They had also gotten word from a house called Reed that they too would fight for Jon Snow and his lady. 

Celia thought the men they had were enough. It was like all the tribes were being brought together by Mance, but this time they were being brought together by Lady Sansa and Jon Snow. However, all the houses they visited could not give their full armies. Some of them had lost many during the war with Lady Sansa’s brother and many had been wounded during battles with a king named Stannis. 

So, there they were, asking the castle’s lord for assistance. 

“The answer is no,” Lord Glover said sternly. 

“Lord Glover,” Jon Snow said. “If you could just hear us out.” 

“I’ve had enough,” the lord said. “We’ve only just taken back this castle from the Ironborn. The Boltons, may the gods damn them, helped us do it. I have barely any men able and willing to fight as it is. They could all be skinned just for me talking to you.” 

“The Boltons are traitors,” Jon Snow insisted. “Roose Bolton—”

“Have other northern houses pledged to fight for you?”

“Aye, they have,” Jon Snow said. “We have the men and we wish for you to fight with us.” 

“I have heard rumors that you have the men,” Lord Glover said. “And tell me, are the rumors true? Who is it that is fighting in your army?” 

Jon Snow was quiet for a moment. “The bulk of the force is made up of wildlings.” 

Lord Glover laughed, but it was not a hearty one. “Then the rumors are true. I didn’t believe them.” He shook his head. “I received you out of respect for your father. Now I would like you to leave. House Glover will not abandon its ancestral home to fight alongside wildlings.” 

“Lord Glover,” Jon Snow began as the older man began to turn away. 

“There’s nothing more to say.” 

“I would remind you that House Glover is pledged to House Stark,” Lady Sansa said. Celia looked up at her, eyes wide, as the woman lifted her chin proudly, every inch a princess. “Sworn to answer when called upon.” 

Lord Glover paused and then turned, walking straight to Lady Sansa. Jon Snow put his hand on his sword as Celia clung to Lady Sansa’s skirts. “Aye, my family served House Stark for centuries. We wept when we heard of your father’s death. When my brother was lord of this castle, he answered Robb’s call and hailed him King in the North.” He stepped closer to Lady Sansa, but she did not falter, not as Celia did when she pressed her face into Lady Sansa’s hip peeking up at him. “And where was King Robb when the Ironborn attacked this castle? When they threw my wife and children in prison and brutalized and killed our subjects? Taking up with an enemy whore. Getting himself and those who followed him killed.” 

“Do not speak to me of what my brother did and did not do,” Lady Sansa said calmly. “Every victory that Robb took brought me to the throne room of the Red Keep where I would be stripped and beaten by Joffrey’s kingsguard. My brother had Jaime Lannister as a prisoner and not once was there an offer of trade. You understand war better than my brother or I for you took up your banners when the Mad King called for my father and Robert Baratheon’s heads and when the Greyjoys rebelled. You know as well as I do that it is the women and children who often suffer when war breaks out. As a girl who was left in the hands of the enemy after her father’s head was chopped off, I can attest to the cruelties given to women who have not male relatives to protect them.”

Lord Glover bowed his head slightly. “If we had known that Ned’s girl had been in the hands of the Boltons, we would have fought for you, my lady. But to take back Winterfell would be a fool's errand.” 

“The North remembers,” Celia said, looking up at the man, her eyes narrowed. 

Lord Glover looked down at her, but Celia stood her ground, glaring at him. “I thought the Starks had three boys and two girls, not the other way around.” 

Lady Sansa put her hand on Celia’s back. “House Stark stands, Lord Glover. If the Boltons hold Winterfell then the North is lost. Your brother died for nothing and you wife and children suffered for nothing. If there must be suffering, then let there be victory in something.” 

He stood there for a moment. “House Glover will stand with you, my lady.” He turned to Jon Snow. “But know that I fight with the wildlings with great reluctance.” 

Jon Snow bowed his head. “That is all we can ask, my lord.” 

—

“Celia,” Lady Sansa said as they set up camp. “Come here please.”

She giggled as Ghost liked her cheek quickly before bouncing off to join Jon Snow and Celia went to the lady to help. 

Celia liked Lady Sansa. Lady Sansa was like a princess from her ma’s stories and was a Stark too. 

The North remembers , her ma would say, her voice deep with longing. The Starks shall always protect the North, sweetling. For winter is coming and the Starks shall keep the Others away.

Lady Sansa and Jon Snow would keep them all safe. Lady Sansa was a princess who would take care of the people and Jon Snow was like a knight who would protect them all from the bad men. Jon Snow would make sure the bad men couldn’t hurt Lady Sansa anymore. 

Celia skipped over to Lady Sansa, humming. She gave a clumsy curtsy, Ser Davos teaching her whenever they stopped to camp. “Yes, my lady?”

Lady Sansa smiled at her and held out her hand and Celia took it. She was guided to sit next to the young woman and then a small bundle of furs was placed in her hands. 

“Tormund said you needed a new dress,” Lady Sansa said. “And Jon told me you liked princesses.”

Celia opened the furs and found it was a cloak with a dress similar to Lady Sansa’s only with wildflowers embroidered upon the chest. The fabric was as soft as running water and Celia wasn’t sure if she had ever touched something so soft.

“For me?” Lady Sansa nodded and Celia squealed happily, throwing her arms around the lady’s neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Lady Sansa laughed and stroked Celia’s hair. “Shall I help you change?”

“Is this why you used the string last time?”

“Yes,” Lady Sansa said gently. “I was taking your measurements.”

“Measurements,” Celia repeated. “Can you teach me?”

“Once we take back Winterfell,” Lady Sansa said. “I can teach you how to make dresses. We are going to have to see leather into armor as well, so the soldiers don’t get cold.”

Celia nodded happily. “Can I try it on?”

Lady Sansa laughed again. “Of course. Let’s get you changed. But you shall have to change out of it to sleep tonight.”

“Okay,” Celia said, standing and holding the bundle in her arms, bouncing on her toes. 

Lady Sansa took them to their private tent and helped her change. And when she was finished changing, Lady Sansa sat them both down on the bed and began to comb and braid her hair. 

Celia closed her eyes. Her aunt used to braid her hair after her ma went away. Then one of her cousins when she went away too. She felt sleepy when Lady Sansa brushed through her hair with a comb and then her fingers. Her hair moving the way Lady Sansa arranged it until it was in a neat braid that looked almost like hers. 

“There,” the lady said. “Just like a princess.”

—

Ghost was far too big for the bed Celia shared with Lady Sansa, so the giant world simply laid his head upon the mattress, his nose close to Celia’s face so he could lick her cheek lazily whenever he wished to, which was often. Lady Sansa’s arm was wrapped around Celia and it reminded her of her ma, holding her tight as they slept, ready to carry her away if she needed to. 

Lady Sansa reminded Celia so much of her ma. Sometimes, when she was waking up, she would reach out and touch Lady Sansa’s face, dreams still holding her down and then she would slowly wake completely and know her ma was gone.

Die. 

Gone. 

Dead. 

She missed her ma, and the echoes of her da rippling across her memories sometimes when she clung to Jon Snow’s leg. 

“You should be asleep, little one,” Jon Snow said, sitting on a chair next to the bed. His fingers brushed across her brow to get the stray hair from her face. “It is to be a long day tomorrow.”

“Ghost keeps licking me,” Celia said, yawning. 

Jon Snow chuckled, scratching behind his wolf’s ear. “It’s because you taste good,” he said. “Trying to decide if he can eat you.”

Celia wrinkled her nose. “Ghost is a good boy.”

“Aye,” Jon Snow said with a sigh. “That he is. I’m half convinced he thinks you’re his pup.”

Celia reaches out and pet Ghost’s maw. He closed his red eyes and leaned into Celia’s touch. She liked Ghost. She liked how safe she felt with him. The other children in the camp were afraid of him, but Celia liked him. Ghost sighed and licked at her hand. 

Jon Snow chuckled again. “It’s time to sleep, little one.”

“Can you sing me a lullaby?” Celia asked. 

“I’m not much for singing, Celia,” Jon Snow said gently. “That’s Sansa.”

“Lady Sansa said you could sing,” Celia said sleepily. “She said you used to sing for Arya.” Celia didn’t know who Arya was, but Lady Sansa had been sad when she spoke of her and a shadow crossed Jon Snow’s features at the sound of the name. 

“Aye, I did, but it still wasn’t very good.”

“Please, Jon Snow?” Celia asked. “I promise I’ll sleep.”

He sighed and closed his eyes.  

A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain

Softly blows over Lullaby Bay,

It fills the sails of boats that are waiting,

Waiting to sail your worries away.

His voice was deep and rough, but the song seemed to rumble in her chest as the notes carried. She hasn’t heard this song before. 

It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain,

And your boat waits down by the quay.

The winds of night sdo softly are sighing,

Soon they will fly your troubles to sea.

Lady Sansa began to hum softly behind Celia and held her hand, rubbing her thumb along the back of it. Occasionally she would whisper a word or two, but perhaps she was still sleeping. 

So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain,

Wave goodbye to cares of the day,

And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain

Sail far away from Lullaby Bay.

Celia’s eyes grew head by as she snuggled into the furs, trying to blink away sleep. 

So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain,

Wave goodbye to cares of the day,

And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain

Sail far away from Lullaby Bay.

Chapter Text

They rode out to meet with Ramsay and his, what Sansa could only assume were, advisors. In their own party, they had Jon, Ser Davis, Tormund, and Lord Glover. Celia was safely back at their camp with Ghost to look after her. The little girl had wanted to come along, but Sansa had put her foot down and refused. She would not have Ramsay Snow—Bolton—anywhere near that girl. She refused to allow her a chance to be under his cruel gaze, even at a distance. Ramsay was accompanied by a small group of soldiers as well as Lord Karstark and Umber. 

“You don’t have to be here,” Jon said gently as the other party arrived. 

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

She would not let him haunt her in her dreams as he had threatened to hunt her before he knew who she was. She would not be a coward and shy away from seeing him. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell and she would not allow this man to scare her into quiet submission. 

“My beloved wife,” the bastard said, his voice calm and almost serene, as though he were to speak with her about the weather. “I’ve missed you terribly.” He turned his attention to Jon. “Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Now, dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night’s Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house. Come, bastard, you don’t have the men, you don’t have the horses, and you don’t have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There’s no need for a battle. Get off your hose and kneel. I’m a man of mercy.”

Sansa lifted her chin, angry that the man before her dare claim the titles that had once belonged to her father, and his father before him. How dare he take the titles given to Torrhen Stark, who had knelt for his people’s sake. 

“You’re right,” Jon said calmly. “There’s no need for a battle.” Sansa glanced to him. “Thousands of men don’t need to die. Only one of us. Let’s end this the old way. You against me.”

Ramsay Bolton chuckled darkly. “I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you, you’re the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. I don’t know if I’d beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what, half that? Not even?”

So he didn’t know how many men had joined them, how many men were properly left in the North. 

“Aye,” Jon said, a smirk in his voice. “You might have the numbers. But will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn’t fight for them?”

Ramsay Bolton laughed, throwing his head back with it. He then pointed to Jon, a sneer upon his lips. “He’s good,” he said, glancing to Sansa. “Very good.” Then he returned his gaze to Jon. “Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you’re too proud to surrender?”

“How do we know you have him?” Sansa asked. 

Ramsay Bolton frowned before nodding to Lord Umber. The older lord pulled a direwolf’s head from his satchel and threw it on the ground between them. Sansa closed her eyes at the sight. 

“Now, if you want to save—”

“You’re going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton,” Sansa said, opening her eyes. He looked at her in slight shock, but his pupils were blown wide and dark with unrestrained want. Sansa fueled her lip in disgust. “Sleep well.”

—

“Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?” Tormund asked Jon as their meeting began to die down. 

Jon shook his head. “No, but I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt.”

Sansa’s lips formed a tight line. 

“We should all get some sleep,” Ser David said, bowing his head. 

“Rest, Jon Snow,” Tormund said, putting his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “We need you sharp tomorrow.”

Sansa waited silently until the leaders within their camp had left the tent. She glanced over the map. “So, you’ve met the enemy, drawn up your battle bland.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “For what they’re worth.”

“You’ve known him for the space of a single conversation, you and your more trusted advisors. You sit around and make your plans on how to defeat a man you don’t know. I lived with him. I know the way his mind works. I know how he likes to hurt people. Did it ever once occur to you that I might have some insight?”

“Sansa, these are delicate matters…”

“You think he’s going to fall into your trap?” Sansa asked. “He won’t. He’s the one who makes traps, he made it into a sport.”

“He’s overconfident,” Jon reasoned. 

“He plays with people. He’s aware of this game much more than you are Jon,” she said stepping closer to him. 

“Aye,” Jon said, standing from where he had once sat. “I know what being a bastard does to you, Sansa. I have faced much worse than Ramsay Bolton.”

“You don’t know him,” Sansa replies, taking hold of his hand in hers. 

“Alright,” he said, exhausted. “Tell me. What should we do after we get Rickon back?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, faults ring slightly. She hated it, hated knowing and yet not knowing. “Rickon is our father’s trueborn son, which makes him a greater threat to Ramsay than you, a bastard, or me, a girl. As long as Rickon loves, Ramsay’s claim to Winterfell will be contested, which means he won’t live long.”

“We can’t give up on our brother,” Jon said, horrified. 

Sansa squeezed his hand tightly. “I don’t want to either, Jon,” she pleaded. “But listen to me, please. He wants you to make a mistake.”

“Of course he does,” Jon snapped. “What should I do differently then?”

Sansa sighed. She was surprised at how little she feared Jon’s slight temper. Regardless of his anger, she knew he would never hurt her and he was just as frustrated as she was about the whole situation. “I don’t know,” she said calmly. “I don’t know anything about battles. Just…” She released a sharp breath. “Don’t do what he wants you to do.”

“Aye,” Jon said sarcastically. “That’s good advice.”

“You think it’s obvious?”

“Well, it is a bit obvious.”

“Ramsay Bolton enjoys playing with people. When he finds out you have a weakness, he will use it. Sometimes it comes at a great cost to him.” Sansa bit her lip. “When he tried to bed me after our wedding…” Jon grew pale at her words. She had spoken to him a little about what had happened, but not enough that he knew everything. “When he tried to bed me, he brought Theon in to watch. Theon… I know you probably hate him for what he did, but the Theon I met in Winterfell is not the Theon of our childhood. He was… he was broken and… Ramsay did things to him, did things that…” She shook her head. “Theon recognized who I was and had tried to get me out before Ramsay or his father realized who I was. But…” She shook her head, that wasn’t the point. “I was just going to be another person Ramsay used to break Theon, but he didn’t count on Theon wanting to protect me was greater than his fear of Ramsay. I have no doubt he’ll do something similar with Rickon, but I think he will have learned with Theon.”

“Battles and lives have been won and saved against greater costs,” Jon said gently, stepping to her, squeezing her hand back. “We will get Rickon back and we will get Winterfell as well.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive. When Father… Joffrey took me to see his head on a spike and I wanted to die then, wanted to die and kill him all at once.” She looked down at their joined hands, they were rougher than she remembered, rougher than her father’s perhaps. That… that she couldn’t remember. “But I lived because there was hope I could see my mother and Robb again, then after... All I wanted to do was go home and then a part of me knew that you would always be here, where I would be safe. But if you don’t win this battle… I can’t lose anyone else Jon.” She looked up at him pleadingly. “I know it is heartless, but Rickon may be lost to us already and I cannot lose you, not when I just got you back.”

Jon touched her cheek with his free hand and pressed his brow to hers. “I won’t ever let him touch you. I’ll protect you, I promise.”

“My lord,” Howland Reed’s voice came from the entrance of the tent and they both turned. 

“Lord Reed,” Jon said, letting Sansa go and settling his hand at the small of her back. 

“I wished to tell you that I had some thoughts of what could be done to protect Rickon Stark from Ramsay’s games.”

Sansa stiffened. “Yes?”

—

Celia sat in front of Sansa as they rode towards the battle with the Knights of the Vale. Lord Baelish rode beside them and Sansa hated every second of it. 

She hated that she might prove to be indebted to the man, but she did not wish to leave anything to chance and she had not spoken to Jon of the possible additional men because she wasn’t even certain if they would ride for her. 

Regardless of how much many of the men respected her lord father, they were not her lords and they had not fought in the War of the Five Kings. 

Sansa paused at the top of the hill and watched as the knights rode down to help the Northmen. Her eyes were slowly drawn to Jon and she knew that he could see her. She glanced at the coming horseman and was relieved to see Ghost running up beside him. A young boy… Sansa blinked away the tears. 

Rickon. 

He looked so much Robb from when they were children. He was almost the same age Sansa was when they last saw him. How long had he been alone? What about Bran? Did he feel the same ache she did when Lady had been killed?

She turned her attention back to the battle, not wanting Littlefinger to see her cry. 

She watched as Jon and Wun Wun, as well as a few other soldiers, rushed towards Winterfell where Ramsay and some of his men were retreating. 

—

Sansa entered the gates of Winterfell, Celia and Rickon clutching at her skirts under her cloak, neither wishing to let go of her. Lord Reed was close behind her, as was Ghost. Some of the men bowed their heads in respect for her as she saw Jon kneeling over Ramsay, his fist coming down repeatedly upon the bastard’s face, making it bloody and broken. 

Jon seemed to sense her watching and he slowed in his assault. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat as he looked up at her, the children clutching closely to her sides. His gaze went to them, the pained and angered look in his eyes softened. 

He forced himself up and did not pay Ramsay a second look. He staggered into Sansa, pressing his dirtied face into her neck and wrapped his arms around the three of them. Sansa lifted one of her hands and stroked his matted hair as he squeezed them tighter. 

“We’re home.”

Chapter Text

It was as though Jon’s blood was singing. It was roaring in his ears and he could feel his heart beat beneath his skin, as though a savage wolf was trying desperately to be release, to consume the monster beneath him, to kill the horrid man who would dare try to hurt his sister, his people.

But seeing Sansa… Seeing her with Celia and Rickon, sweet sweet Rickon, clutching to her skirt… It was as though a rope he was tied to went slack again, as though he was slowly gaining focus. He stumbled towards her and wrapped his arms around the three of them. He buried his nose in her neck and breathed in. She smelled clean, perfect. Like—

“We’re home.”

Her words sank into him as he held them all more tightly, determined to never let go. Sansa strokes his hair, not combing through it, but stroking him as her own breath licked at his skin, warming him until he felt that he might be drowning. 

He glanced down and saw that Celia had her hand on his leather armor, fingers clenched in a fist. Rickon was still holding onto Sansa, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“What should we do with him, Jon Snow?” Tormund’s voice pulled Jon away and he turned to look at the giant man. 

“Have him locked in the dog kennels,” Sansa said, her voice firm. “And if he has any women in there, free them and have someone give them blankets and food.” Her eyes were hard as she looked at the man being lifted from the ground and she curled her hand at the base of Jon’s neck as though to anchor her. “I have no doubt he thought little of their hunger.”

Tormund glanced around Jon, who nodded before turning back to Sansa, exhausted. 

“You need to take a bath,” she said gently. “I think you all do.”

“Aye,” Jon replied. “I think you will as well, for all that I’m leaning on you.” Her dress was no doubt sticky from blood and grime. “Sorry.”

“I have been worse,” she said simply, pressing her lips to his temple. “Let’s go inside. It will do us no good if we all stay out here.”

—

Sansa had made sure all of them washed. She had sent Jon to take care of Rickon while she helped Celia with a bath in another room. 

Rickon has been quiet for most of their time in the wooden tub, allowing Jon to wash him until he was relatively clean. He couldn’t remember his youngest brother ever being really fond of bathing, but Jon also wondered how long it had been since he had a bath. 

Father , his voice was soft and rough all at once as though he had not used the word in a while. Where’s Robb?

Now, Jon was standing at the high table, staring out across the empty hall. This should be Robb or their father standing here. This shouldn’t be him. No matter how much he had wanted this as a child, he knew that this shouldn’t be his. 

Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa. 

And it was true. They had been in the old keep for barely half a day and Sansa already had everything at hand. Soon… soon she would have Winterfell as it was before they had all gone their separate ways. This would be a place the North could turn to as Winter fast approached. This would be the Winterfell of old, where it’s name would be well earned. 

Winter is coming . His father’s voice echoed across his mind, vibrating in his very bones as a chill ran up his spine. 

“When we had feast, my family would sit up here,” Jon said roughly. “The last time though… the last time I sat down there. My father and Lady Stark did not wish to displease the king and his wife by having a bastard sitting amongst them.” He smiled sadly, glancing at Melisandre, who stood watching him carefully. “If we only knew the truth then.”

“You at least have the memory,” the red woman said. “You could have had worse, Jon Snow. You had a family. You had a feast. I doubt many can recall such a happy time left in their lives.”

Jon chuckled. “Aye, you’re right.” He looked out and could still remember that final feast. Of Robb, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. Of Sansa smiling radiantly, all the youth and happiness childhood had given her. By all the gods what he would not do to go back and protect her and Arya where Robb has not. “I was luckier than most.”

Davos entered the great hall then, his face pale and his breath harsh. He stormed towards the table and then stopped abruptly, his gaze murderous as he laid eyes upon Melisandre. He froze for only a moment before tossing something black and mangled towards the woman and she caught it, examining it in her hands before looking up at Davos with shock and a hint of fear. 

“What is that?” Jon asked. 

“Tell him,” Davos said, his voice firm and slow, as though to make sure he was not misunderstood. Jon Looked at Melisandre who opened her mouth to speak and then looked down at the object, fiddling with it as though it was nothing and everything all at once. “Tell him who it belonged to.”

Melisandre strained her neck, as though not wishing to speak as she did so. “The Princess Shireen.”

“Tell him what you did to her,” Davos said firmly, before the red woman could even finish what she had said. When  she did not answer, Davos shouted, the sound bouncing across the empty halls, ringing like a mourning bell. “Tell him!”

She glanced up at him and then back at her hands, opening and closing her mouth as she tried to form words. “We burned her at the stake.”

Jon closed his eyes and thought of the sweet princess who had giggled when he had referred to her as such, the girl who taught Gilly how to read, the girl who smiled brightly. The girl who reminded him of Sansa, of Celia. Innocent. He thought of Mance burning, his screams and cries of helplessness as the flames licked at his skin. He thought of Shireen again. He had heard her cry out once when she fell, unused to the ice. He did not wish to imagine her cries of pain at the thought of her amongst the flames. 

Davos shifted, his face utterly broken, as though there was barely anything keeping him standing. “Why?”

Melisandre looked between them as she spoke, her voice trembling, as though she were trying to come to terms with what she had done as well. “The army was trapped. The horses were dying. It was the only way.”

“You burned a little girl alive!” Davos raged. 

“I only do what my lord commands!” Melisandre pleaded, quickly, her voice trembling. 

“”If he commands you to burn children, your lord is evil!” Davos shouted, ending Melisandre words for only a moment. 

“We are standing here because of him,” she said plainly. “Jon Snow is alive because the lord willed it.”

“I loved that girl like she was my own,” Davos’ voice broke. “She was good. She was kind. And you killed her!”

His voice echoed amongst the stones, another ghost to add to the many who found refuge within Winterfell’s walls. 

“so did her father,” Melisandre tried to reason. “So did her mother.” Jon closed his eyes, not wishing to imagine how far lost a parent must be to let their children die so that they might live. “Her own blood knew it was the only way.”

“The only way for what?” Davos demanded. “They all died anyway! You told everyone Stannis was the one. You had him believing it, all of them fooled. And you lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” Melisandre said firmly. The words hanging precariously in the air. “I was wrong.”

“Aye,” he said. “You were wrong. How many died because you were wrong.” The silence spread through the air like frost, stinging the lungs the longer it took. “I ask your leave to execute this woman for murder. She admits to the crime.”

Jon looked at her. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I’ve been ready to die for many years,” she said plainly. “If the Lord was done with me, so be it, but he’s not. You’ve seen the Night King, Jon Snow. You know the great war is still to come. You know the army of the dead will be upon us soon. And you know I can help you win that war.”

Jon approached her slowly and her eyes grew wide as she did so. “Ride south today,” he said roughly. “If you return to the North, I’ll have you hanged for murder. If you believe that your god has asked you to help in this fight against the Night King, then your punishment is that you shall have no hand in this fight. I cannot trust a person who would murder children to keep her warm. If there are no children to fight for than we have failed already.” Her eyes widened further. “Go.”

Melisandre looked away from him and set the item she had in her hands and Jon saw that it was a charred stag and he felt sick at the sight of it. The red woman left, heading towards the door. 

Davos stood in her way. “If you ever come back this way, I will execute you myself.”

She did not reply and slipped from the room, a red shadow disappearing like a flame that had finally flickered out. 

—

Jon watched as the red woman rode from Winterfell. The air stung his lungs and he felt relief in it. Since he had been… brought back, he felt as though he had to remind himself that he was alive. He had to remind himself he was still breathing. 

He sensed someone approaching and saw Sansa coming towards him. Ghost was not with him which meant he was probably with Celia or Rickon or both. Sansa stood beside him and looked out upon Wintertown. The men were trying to see what they could salvage. 

“I’m having the lord’s chamber prepared for you,” he said, not looking at her. 

However, he could feel her gaze upon him. “Mother and Father’s room?” she asked, her voice oh so careful and hopeful all at once. “You should take it.”

“I’m not a Stark.” Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa.

“You are to me.”

Jon’s breath caught in his throat and turned to look at her. She was smiling radiantly at him. He chuckled and glanced out at the men again. “You’re the Lady of Winterfell,” he said. “Rickon is too young and doesn’t know what he is doing. “You deserve the title. We’re standing here because of you. The Battle was lost until the Knights of the Vale rode in. They came because of you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said softly. “I… I couldn’t trust that Baelish would bring them to fight for us.”

“Did he ask for anything?”

Sansa was quiet for a long moment. “Not yet.”

“I won’t let him hurt you.” He touched her cheek. “I promise.”

“I haven’t been safe in a long time, Jon.”

“We need to trust each other,” he said softly. “We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves.”

“I don’t want to, Jon,” she said quickly. “But I will do anything to protect our family, you have to believe me.”

Jon cupped Sansa’s face in his hands and pressed his lips to her brow. It was like a breath of warm air as he held her in his hands. He pulled away. “I do, Sansa. I won’t let anything happen to you or Rickon or Celia. I’ll do anything to protect you, from Baelish, from Cersei, from the Night King. I swear it.”

Sansa smiled up at him and rested her head upon his chest as she wrapped her arms around him. “Jon.”

“Mm.” He pressed his face in her hair. 

“A raven came from the Citadel. A white raven.” His heart sang. “Winter is here.”

Jon smiled. “Father always promised, didn’t he?”

He could not see it, but he knew she was smiling too. 

—

“You stand accused of murder,” Jon said standing at the high table with Sansa at his side. They stood in the great hall surrounded by the Knights of the Vale, the Northmen, and the Free Folk. Ramsay Bolton was forced to kneel before them, Ghost growling at him from his place before the high table. “You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges, Ramsay Snow?”

“Bolton,” he sneered. “Ramsay Bolton.”

“You were legitimized by the bastard of Cersei and Jaime Lannister, a false king,” Sansa said plainly. “He is as much a king as you are a lord of Winterfell.”

Ramsay sneered at her. 

“Now,” Jon said plainly. “How do you answer these charges?”

“I do not answer to you, bastard,” Ramsay growled. “By right of conquest, Winterfell is mine . By right of marriage Winterfell is mine .”

“If it is by conquest then you have lost it again,” Sansa said, standing. “If it is by marriage, it was forced and unconsummated. You’ve lost, now how do you answer these charges?”

Ramsay lifted his chin. “You’ve already decided. So, what do you plan on doing. Sick your wolf on me?”

“I practice the Old Way,” Jon said. “Lord Reed, fetch me a block.”

Chapter Text

“Did Jon Snow make your bad man pay?” Celia asked. She was snuggled against Lady Sansa in a bed so big that it felt as though it could fit five grown people in it. She had never been in a bed so big. She had never slept atop feathers either. Celia was certain it was how a cloud would feel like. 

“He did,” Lady Sansa said, stroking her hair. 

“Will Jon Snow not sleep here?” It was strange to not have Jon Snow close by, or Ghost. She wanted them close by. She wanted to wake in the middle of the night and see they were still there. 

“He has his own rooms,” was the reply. “He deserves to sleep in a comfy bed that isn’t a rug before a fire with Ghost.”

“Is he with the other boy?” Celia asked. “Rickon?”
“Yes,” Celia liked him. He reminded her of a Free Folk boy, only some of the other people called him lord. He didn’t look like a kneeler though. Not like Lady Sansa or Jon Snow. 

“They are sharing a bed until he is comfortable enough to have his own.” 

“Is Rickon your son?” Celia asked. “Yours and Jon Snow’s?”

“No, sweet girl,” Lady Sansa laughed as though it were a silly question, but then Celia remembered that they were brother and sister even though their second names were different. “He is our little brother. I look like my mother and Jon looks like our father. Rickon is just confused.” 

Celia said nothing to that because she sometimes felt it too. Lady Sansa was just like Celia’s ma, or as near as she could remember her. Jon Snow was like her da too, even Tormund thought so. Celia snuggled closer to Lady Sansa and played with her red hair. It was so pretty and long. Celia’s own hair sometimes felt tangled, but the lady’s hair was smooth like the dress she made her. 

“Can I stay in Winterfell?” Celia asked quietly. 

“Of course,” Lady Sansa said. “Why would you think that you couldn’t?” 

“I’m not a lady… Only ladies live in castles.” Her ma hadn’t lived in a castle. She had lived outside one. 

“You do not need to be a lady to live in a castle,” Lady Sansa said sweetly. She combed her fingers through Celia’s hair and the little girl closed her eyes. “Your place is here until you no longer wish it to be.” 

Celia looked up at her quickly. “I don’t ever want to leave.” 

“Perhaps you will when you wish to if you ever get married one day.”

“Won’t someone steal me?” She was not old enough for anyone to do so. Besides, Tormund wouldn’t let it happen, even if she’s not the strongest of the Free Folk. 

“No one shall steal you if you do not wish them to,” Lady Sansa assured her. “And perhaps you will not marry one of the Free Folk. Perhaps you will marry a little lord or a princeling.” 

“Really?”

“Of course. I will make sure that no one makes you do anything you do not wish to.” She continued to stroke Celia’s hair. “When you’re old enough, I will help make you a match with someone who is worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. My father once promised that to me, now I make that promise to you.”

“Will you marry someone like that too?” Celia asked. 

“One day,” Lady Sansa replied. “One day.” 

Celia yawned and snuggled closer to Lady Sansa. As long as she could stay with Lady Sansa and Jon Snow, she would be happy. 

—

Celia rushes about Winterfell, her fingers grazing across the walls, feeling the warmth stung her fingers ever so slightly. The castle, or keep as Lady Sansa kept correcting her, was much grander than Castle Black and was as though it were straight out of one of her ma’s stories. As much as she could remember. 

Rickon was with Jon Snow and Lady Sansa and Celia had taken the opportunity to explore. Tormund always told her the first thing a person ought to do when coming into a new home or a new camp was explore every inch of it so you had the advantage if anyone were to attack. Celia had no doubt this was why Lady Sansa’s bad man lost against Jon Snow. 

“You must be the wildling child that Jon Snow has taken under his wing. I did not get a good enough look at you before the battle.”

Celia paused and turned around to look at the tall reedy man standing behind her. He was tall, not as tall as Jon Snow or Lady Sansa, but tall. He had a strange beard that didn’t cover his face and only his upper lip and a small area under his bottom one. He was dressed fancy too. Smalltoe. Or something like that. That’s what Lady Sansa has called him when he brought the knights from a place called the Vale. He was a lord too. 

So, Celia gave a wobbly curtsy. “Hello, my lord.” She dares not say anything beyond that. She didn’t want to say the wrong name. “My name is Celia.”

“What a peculiarly Southron name.”

She looked up at him curiously. “My ma was a kneeler,” she said. “My da was of the Free Folk.”

“Even more peculiar,” he said. 

Celia didn’t know why he kept saying that word peculiar , but it didn’t sound like a good thing. It actually sounded like a dangerous thing. His eyes were like a mongoose. His eyes were dark and beady, as though he was trying to decide if she was worth something. What, Celia didn’t know, but she did not trust him. 

“Your uncle is the red haired wildling, is he not?”

“Tormund?” Celia asked. “Yes. He’s my father’s brother.”

“Curious.”

“Celia.”

Relief that Celia didn’t know she needed flooded through her as she raced towards Lady Sansa, wrapping her arms around the lady’s hips. She peeked out at the strange man. 

“She seems to be a rather interesting child,” he said lightly. “I look forward to seeing what a piece she would make.”

Sans wasn’t sure what he meant by piece either. However, the ways that Lady Sansa hugged her, she supposed it wasn’t good. 

—

Kissed by fire. 

Tormund was, her ma was, she was, Lady Sansa was, and Rickon was. 

It was the one thing Celia remembered about her ma besides her stories. She remembered her red hair, her red hair that almost looked like the sun when the fire was bright. She remembered her ma letting her comb her fingers through her hair and grasping onto it during the night. 

She couldn’t remember her ma’s face though. She couldn’t even remember her da besides his darkish hair. Maybe it was brown, maybe it was black, maybe it was a dark red. 

She couldn’t remember. 

It hurt sometimes that she couldn’t remember. Sometimes she would dream of them, faceless and warm, but then they were cold and all she had was her hand closed tightly around some of Lady Sansa’s hair. 

Tormund said that Celia’s ma was every inch a kneeler lady. She was pretty and smart and had a wicked tongue. Her uncle said that her name could give a good tongue lashing that could even make a giant blush. 

Celia wished she could remember her moms that way, but she couldn’t. 

All she could remember was red hair and the warmth of a fire in the cold nights where the silence meant peace. 

—

“No!” Rickon’s screech bounces off the walls as he began to throw things at the old man, maester is what Jon Snow and Lady Sansa called him, and his older siblings. The dogs continued to bark aimlessly in the courtyard. “No!”

“Rickon, please,” Lady Sansa said, trying to approach the boy. 

“No!”

Jon Snow pulled his sister back abruptly as Rickon lashed out, his fist dangerously close to where her face had been. 

“That’s enough, Rickon,” Jon Snow said, trying to keep his voice even. 

“No!”

Celia had never seen the older boy grow so violent. She wasn’t even certain what exactly had set it off. 

“No!” Rickon covered his ears and closed his eyes. “I want Osha!”

Jon Snow pulled Lady Sansa behind him and rushed towards Rickon and held him in his arms securely as the boy began to scream and shout, pounding his fists onto Jon Snow’s arms and even catching him in the face. “Rickon, you need to calm down,” he said. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong. Please.”

Jon Snow’s eyes were shining and Celia thought he might cry. 

“ What’s wrong? ” Celia asked, slipping into the Old Tongue as Lady Sansa slipped into her dresses. She didn’t speak it much in Winterfell, usually just with the others of the Free Folk. Even then, she usually used it with just Wun Wun since that was all he could speak in. She liked the language, liked the way the words stretched across her mouth and the deep sounds that seemed to spring from the earth, especially when Wun Wun had spoken. 

Rickon stopped struggling and stared at her, his blue eyes irritated with tears and his mouth was open in surprise. Celia slowly approached and sat down in front of him and Jon Snow. He was older than Celia, by a few years or so. He was taller than her and lanky. But he looked a bit like Jon Snow and a bit like Lady Sansa too. 

“ What’s wrong? ” she repeated. 

Rickon breathed deeply through his nose, as though he were trying to come back to himself. His gaze darted about her, like a wounded animal trying to figure out if the person approaching them was friend or foe. 

“ The dogs ,” he said firmly. “ Make them stop. ”

Lady Sansa’s bad man had dogs. And that bad man had also had Rickon. Celia chewed her lip and got onto her knees and moved forward just a little bit and held Rickon’s face in her hands. “ The bad man will never hurt you again. Jon Snow and Lady Sansa won’t let it happen. ”

Chapter Text

Sansa walked the halls of Winterfell, the stones cold against her fingers as ice seemed to cling to the walls like dew in the spring. It cracked and hissed as it grew. 

She knew that it was cold and yet she did not feel it. It was as though her body were not her own as she heard the sound of something roaring in the distance and the sound of steel meeting steel.

Sansa looked down and saw three children looking up at her, their eyes wide. Celia held her hand and Rickon clutched at her skirt. Another child, a blur upon her memory was there too, clutching at Celia’s hand. They were frightened. Their eyes were her own reflected back at her. 

Children who had lost their wolves. Children who had lost their fathers and sisters. Children who lost their mothers and brothers. Children who lost their home. Children who had lost their innocence. Children who lost their names. Children who had lost and lost and lost. 

Another roar sounded across the keep, echoing across the stone like the Stranger breathing down their necks as warm air flooded the air like sweetness upon the tongue, hiding sweet poisons beneath. 

Sansa kept moving. 

She pulled the children along, desperate to get to wherever it was she was meant to be. 

Her father, she needed her father. She needed to get to Father. 

The keep began to shake and then it began to burn. Celia screamed as a wall was forced to fall, crumbling away as Sansa wrapped her arms around the children hoping desperately to keep them safe. 

“Run.”

She pushed them away once everything was clear, pushing them to flee. 

“Run!”

They fled and Sansa followed behind them, trying to get as far away from whatever conflict that she could. 

Something grabbed onto her hair and Sansa screamed as she was yanked back. 

“Mama!” a cry came from ahead of her. 

Sansa looked up and saw Cersei standing over her, her eyes as green as wildfire. 

“Hello, little dove.”

Sansa shot up from her bed with a gasp. 

She was in Winterfell. She was in her own bed. Celia was resting peacefully beside her. Sansa rubbed her face knowing that soon Cersei would learn the Starks had taken back the North, if she hadn’t learned of it already. 

Sansa looked down at the sleeping Celia, her face calm and serene and innocent, despite all that she had been through. She tucked some stray hair that was tickling the girls nose and pressed a tender kiss to her temple. 

“I’ll protect you,” she said. “I promise.”

—

Sansa sat underneath the weirwood tree, the solemn face watching her silently. It reminded her of her father, what little she could remember of him. She could not remember his face, save for his smile, which was rare and covered by her and her siblings. 

The snow had fallen and the maester had said another snowfall might come soon. Sansa prayed that it would not be a cold winter for the sake of the North which had weathered so much already, but she knew it was a prayer that would not be answered for the citadel had said this would be one of the worst winters. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” Cane Littlefinger’s voice. “If you’re at prayer.”

Sansa glanced at him and then turned away. Her faith was her own, what little she had of it. Her mother had always felt uncomfortable in the godswood, even though her father insisted that she had every right to be there. In truth, Sansa felt it was because her mother respected the old gods enough not to disturb their place of worship when she, herself, did not place her faith in them. Littlefinger’s disregard for such things was an annoyance. 

“I came here every day when I was a girl,” she said. She would come with her father, desperately trying to please him hoping her father’s gods would forgive her for longing for the South. And yet she still felt them in King’s Landing. Even when her mother’s gods only stared back at her with eyes of stone. “I prayed to be somewhere else. Back then I only ever thought about what I wanted, never about what I had.”

But that was childhood, wasn’t it? You dream of the unknown and the outside and forget about the safety home provided. What she would not do to go back. 

Sansa stood. “I was a stupid girl.”

She began to walk away but Littlefinger stood in front of her. 

“You were a child.”

Sansa looked at him. “What do you want?”

“In the Eyrie, I felt you understood what I wanted. I thought so until you ran away.”

“I wanted to come home.”

“And here you are, home, but still not free.”

Sansa’s gaze flickered towards Winterfell before turning to Littlefinger again. “I am more free here than I have been in a very long time. Whatever you think of my choice in leaving the Vale, I am here. I am alive. I am standing.”

Littlefinger stepped closer. “Every time I am faced with a decision that comes to you, Sansa, I close my eyes and see the same picture. Whenever I consider an action, I ask myself will this action help to make this picture a reality? Pull it out of my mind and into the world? And I only act if the answer is yes. A picture of me on the Iron Throne… and you by my side.”

He leaned towards her and Sansa put her hand on his chest to stop him. 

“It’s a pretty picture, but I will never leave the North again. I will never go to King’s Landing.” Sansa walked around Littlefinger and made her way back to Winterfell. 

“News of the battle is spreading quickly through the Seven Kingdoms. News that I have declared for House Stark as well.”

Sansa paused. “You’ve declared for other houses before, Lord Baelish. It’s never stopped you from serving yourself.”

“The past is gone for good,” Littlefinger continued. “You can sit here mourning its departure or you can prepare for the future. You, my love, are the future of House Stark. Who should the North rally behind? A trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark born here at Winterfell, a mad little boy more beast than child, or a motherless bastard born in the south?”

Sansa took a deep breath. She would not allow another southerner to tear her family apart. She would not allow it. 

—

Sansa watched as Celia and Rickon babbled in the old tongue. 

Maester Wolkan said that it was good for the boy to have someone to talk to. Rickon rarely spoke but seemed to find his tongue whenever he spoke to Celia. 

While Sansa wished that her little brother would speak to her and Jon more, she was simply happy that Rickon was speaking and enjoying the presence of someone he did not know well. 

Celia appeared to enjoy talking to him as well. 

“They are going to speak of who is to lead the North today, my lady,” Maester Wolkan said as they watched the children play. It was no game that Sansa had ever seen and wondered if it were perhaps a game from beyond the Wall. 

“It is a decision that needs to be made,” Sansa said with a slight sigh. 

“If I may be so bold, my lady?”

“You can speak freely.”

“Although Lord Rickon is the eldest son remaining of the late Eddard and Catelyn Stark, I do not believe he is ready to lead anyone, my lady. Much less now that winter is here.”

Sansa nodded. “Your concern is duly noted and I am certain the lords have already thought of this as well.”

“My lady,” the maester bowed his head and they continued to watch the children play, innocent of all that was around them. 

—

Sansa sat besides Jon at the high table in the great hall. It was so full of people that it reminded Sansa of when she would sneak in to watch her mother and father preside over the Northern lords and their questions. 

The hall wasn’t just full of Northerners though. There were representatives of the Bale and the Free Folk. Sansa glanced to the side and saw Littlefinger leaning against the wall, watching as the men in the hall argued. 

“You can’t expect the Knights of the Vale to side with wilding invaders,” a Valeman huffed angrily. 

“We didn’t invade,” Tormund shouted, his voice firm, as though he were reprimanding a child. “We were invited.”

“Not by me,” was the reply. 

Sansa stood. “The free folk, the northerners, and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely,” she said, commanding their attention and commanding their silence, if only for a moment. “We fought together and we won. My father used to say that we find our true friends upon the battlefield. I may not have taken part in the battle, but I watched you. You all have played a part in our victory and those who come after us shall remember that day for generations to come.”

Many of the men banged the tables and stomped their feet in agreement. However a man stood. He wore no digit so Sansa could not tell from which house he hailed or served. 

“The Bolton’s are defeated,” he said. “The war is over and winter has come. If the maester’s are right, it will be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms.”

“The war is not over,” Jon said, standing as well. “And I promise you, the true enemy won’t wait out the storm. He brings the storm.”

“What do you mean?” one of the lords shouted from his place. 

“Beyond the wall there is an army that cares not of the cold or politics or alliances. There is an army being built slowly, an army that has driven the free folk from their homes. You all know the legends and I stand before you to tell you that they are all true.”

“Lies!” shouted a man. “Lies fed to you by the wildlings so they can take our land and steal our women!”

“My brother is known to be as honorable as our father,” Sansa said firmly. “If he were here, my father would agree that this army is real. Jon would not lie to you, he would not create an enemy out of thin air when we know the dangers of the south may seek to take whatever independence we have won back.”

Lyanna Mormont stood. “If the enemy Jon Snow speaks of is true, we must not be without a leader. We must not be without a king. Robb Stark led us into battle against the South. We need someone to lead us into battle against the enemy of the North.”

Sansa glanced at Jon and found that he was looking at her too. 

“As the oldest child of Ned Stark,” Lord Royce said. “It is obvious that Lady Sansa should be given the title of queen.”

“Lord Rickon lives,” said Lord Glover. “By right and law he would be Robb Stark’s heir. It is he who should be king.”

“He is a child,” Lord Manderly replied. “While he is the rightful heir to Robb Stark, he is a child and one who has been left alone away from proper society for too long.”

“Jon Snow is the eldest son of Lord Stark,” said Lady Lyanna. “I don’t care if he is a bastard. Ned Stark’s blood runs through his veins. He led us into battle, into victory. If I were to name a king, it would be him. From this day until his last.”

The men began to shout in agreement, but Jon held up his hand to silence them. 

“I am honored that you think of me with such regard. However, Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa, and Robb’s crown rightfully belongs to my brother, Rickon. I hold my father and his wife, Lady Catelyn, in too high a regard to take the rightful place of their children. I agree that my brother is too young and inexperienced when it comes to ruling. The North knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. If you wish me to lead you into battle against the Others then I will do so.”

Sansa nodded. It was the best option. The only option, really. “Until my brother, Rickon Stark reaches his eighteenth nameday, he shall be king in name, but I petition that our elder brother, Jon Snow, serve as king regent until then. And in this long winter I say that we swear our allegiance to Jon Snow, the King of the North.”

The men in the hall drew their swords and joined her. “The King in the North!” they cried. “The King in the North!”

Sansa looked at Jon and he looked at her in worry. She put her hand atop his and squeezed it, not looking at Littlefinger although she knew he longed for her gaze. This was the only way to protect Rickon. This was the only way to protect herself.

Jon would protect them. 

He promised. 

Chapter Text

Jon stood at the high table, Rickon and Sansa on one side and Davos on the other. The Onion Knight was placed as a sort of Hand to the King, even though no such position had been held in the North before. Jon and Sansa had discussed it at length and had decided to give the man the position at least until Rickon came of age and another night show himself to be worthy. Similarly, Lady Brienne had been appointed as the royal guard, mainly looking after Sansa and Rickon, alongside Podrick and Tormund when he was not doing anything. Sansa had wanted to form a temporary small council, but they had not decided who to appoint quite yet. 

The Northern lords, the Free Folk, and the Knights of the Vale sat at the other tables of the great hall, waiting for his words. He felt strange, speaking out like this, wearing a fur cloak that was too much like his father’s. A part of him knew that the only reason the men trusted him was because of his face, because he looked like his father, because he was a man. Yet, he understood that this was the best way to protect Sansa and Rickon. And protect them he would. 

“I want every northern maester to scour their records for any mention of dragonglass,” Jon said firmly. “Dragonglass kills white walkers. It’s more valuable to us than gold right now. We need to find it, we need to mine it, we need to make weapons from it.” Jon took a deep breath. He glanced at Sansa, who nodded slightly, her gaze still outwards towards their men. Some might not be happy with this position. “Everyone aged ten to sixty will drill today with spears, pikes, bows and arrows.”

“It’s about time we taught these boys of summer how to fight!” Lord Glover shouted and the Northern lords laughed in agreement. 

“It won’t just be the boys,” Jon said. Everyone quieted and looked at him in surprise. “We can’t defend the North if only half the population is fighting.”

Lord Glover stood. “You expect me to put a spear in my granddaughter’s hand?”

Lyanna Mormont stood, a scowl upon her lips.  “I don’t plan on knitting by the fire while the men fight for me,” she said firmly, haughtily almost. “I might be small, Lord Glover, and I might be a girl, but I’m every bit as much a Northerner as you.”

It was Sansa who stood then. “While we intend to have everyone train, Lady Lyanna, not everyone shall train at once. We cannot overload those who will be running the drills so that we have multiple people who do not get adequate attention. A fool with a sword might only give more soldiers to the dead. There will be shifts of people training. You will all be separated into four groups and rotate your training with three other tasks. Our main focus is to train us all in not only how to attack, but to defend our homes and families. The second task will be sewing and, as you put it, my lady, knitting by the fire. We need to make sure that everyone is warm and able to stay warm. The cold can kill just as easily as the sword can. Men will be expected to help in these duties as well. If the women are also to fight, then the men cannot expect us to take time out of our own training to fix their shirt when they can do it themselves. The next task is to form leather around the armor of the Knights of the Vale. The Northmen and the Free Folk have protection that is meant for the cold, but the Valemen do not. Again, a person freezing to death does us no good. The last task is to prepare Winterfell to protect as many as we possibly can. We need to put back what the Bolton’s have destroyed and continue the work already begun. We need to expand as well. When the Bolton’s took Winterfell, and even before then with the Ironborn, many of those in Wintertown fled. We are going to take down those houses and use them to expand the holdings of Winterfell so that more might find refuge inside. We all have parts to play and I know that not everyone will be good at every task, but everyone shall help. For the children under ten, they shall remain in the sewing room and allowed to play under the watchful gaze of those who are sewing.” Sansa took a breath and Jon smiled at her confidence. “Are there any questions?”

The men grumbled and groaned, but at least they were not willing to fight this, not when they heard the sound logic. Sansa smiled at him and nodded so that he might continue. 

“While we prepare Winterfell for the coming storm and those who will be within our walls, we need to shore up our defenses. The only thing standing between us and the army of the dead is the Wall and the Wall hasn’t been properly manned in Centuries. I humbly ask that some of the Free Folk go there and help the men of the Night Watch in making sure that it doesn’t fall.” He looked to Tormund who simply raised an eyebrow. “If we're going to survive this winter together…”

The wildling man grunted and stood. “You want us to man the castles for you?”

The men of the North and Vale began to murmur uncomfortably. 

“The last time we saw the Night King was at Hardhome. The closest castle is Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

“Then that’s where I’ll go?” Tormund said firmly. He looked to the other Free Folk and grinned and sat down. “Looks like we’re all crows now.”

A smile flickered onto Jon’s lips before he grew more serious. “If they breach the Wall, the first two castles in their path are Last Harry and Karhold.”

Lord Yohn Royce stood. “The Umbers and Karstarks betrayed the North. Their castles should be torn down with not a stone left standing.”

“The castles committed no crimes,” Sansa said from her seat. She put her hand on Rickon’s as the boy flinched at the mention of the traitorous houses. “We need every fortress we have for the war to come, with both the threat from the North and the threat from the South. We will not waste energy tearing down keeps when it is better spent elsewhere.”

Lord Royce sat down as the men shouted in agreement. 

“The Umbers and the Karstarks have fought beside the Starks for centuries. They’ve kept faith for generation after generation.”

“And then they broke faith,” Sansa said, looking at him before turning to their men. “However, even though it has been years, I remember what it was like to be considered the daughter and sister of traitors. Even when my father was innocent of all treason, I remember the burn of their hatred. We are not Lannisters. However, we will not treat disloyalty lightly.”

Jon took a deep breath. “Ned Umber and Alys Karstark. Step forward as representatives and the last members of your house.” They were children, although Lady Karstark was only a year or two younger than Sansa. It was made obvious when they stood and approached the high table. “For centuries, our families fought side by side in the battlefield. I ask you to pledge your loyalty once again to House Stark, and to your king, Rickon Stark, to serve as his bannermen and come to our aid whenever called upon.”

Both unsheathed their family’s swords, both unpracticed and uncertain in the drawing, but knew well enough to place the tip on the ground and bent the knee. 

Jon looked to his youngest brother who looked at them and then Sansa. She smiled at him tenderly and nodded. Rickon hesitantly nodded. “Stand.”

Jon smiled at him and then watched as the two did as their king commanded. “Yesterday’s wars don’t matter anymore. The North needs to hand together, all the living North. Will you stand beside us, Ned Umber and Alys Karstark, now and always?”

“Now and always,” the two replied firmly as the men began to cheer. 

—

Jon walked along the outer halls of Winterfell as men and women began to train below. Sansa follows beside him, looking as regal as her lady mother. 

“You are my sister, Sansa,” he said tentatively. “But I am the regent. I… I do not wish to overstep myself.”

Sansa huffed, the air smoking from between her lips. “Will you start wearing a crown?”

Jon grimaced at the thought. No. No, he would never wear a crown. Robb’s crown had been lost and even if it had been found, he would not take it from Rickon, or Sansa. “I fear I am making mistakes already.”

“You’re not,” she replied firmly. “You’re listening to your council, what little you have, and you are not letting others dictate your decisions because you wish to be well liked.”

“What if they think I am being undermined?”

“Do they expect you to not question your decisions? Do they expect me to be quiet?”

“Of course not, Sansa, but—“

“Joffrey never let anyone question his authority,” she said firmly. “Do you think he was a good king?”

Jon stopped walking and Sansa walked past him until she realized he was not moving and she turned to look at him. “Do you think I’m Joffrey?”

Sansa sighed and smiled at him gently. “You’re as far from Joffrey as anyone I have ever met.”

“Thank you.” Jon smiled before looking down at the people training below. 

“You’re good at this, you know.”

He glanced at her. “At what?”

“Ruling.”

He huffed. “No.”

“You are,” she said before stepping closer to him. He could feel her warmth despite the separation between them. “You are. They respect you, they really do, but you have to—“ Jon chuckled. “Why are you laughing?”

He shook his head and continued to walk, Sansa following him once more. “What did Father used to say? Everything before the word but is horse shit.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. “He never said that to me.”

“No,” Jon laughed. “No, he never cursed in front of his girls.”

“Yet Arya learned the words anyway.”

Jon smiled, but the thought of their youngest sister made a gaping hole open in his chest. 

“It’s because he was trying to protect us. He never wanted us to see how dirty the world really is, but Father couldn’t protect me.” She took Jon’s hand between her own. He looked down at her gloved hands and, for a moment, wished they weren’t before he looked back up at Sansa. “I know you’re trying your best to protect me Jon, me and Rickon. But I want to protect you too.” She wheezed his hand tightly. “You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb. I love them, I miss them but they made stupid mistakes, and they both lost their heads for it. As regent, you have so much power, but there will be those who will try to get you to use it for their own gain.”

“And how should I be smarter?” He smiled at her and lifted his free hand to tuck some hair behind her ear. “By listening to you.”

Her lips parted into a gentle smile. “Would that be so terrible?”

Steps began to come towards them and Sansa let go of his hands when they turned to see Maester Wolkan approach. 

“A raven from King’s Landing, your grace,” he said, handing a bound note to Jon. He bowed his head and left. 

Jon opened the note and read. “ Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Mingdoms— “

“She’s not the regent?” Sansa asked, worry laced in her voice. “Does that mean Tommen and Margaery…” 

Jon stopped reading and looked at her. He did not know Margaery other than she had been a friend of sorts to Sansa in King’s Landing. He didn’t know much of Tommen either, other than he had been a pleasant boy, more so than his older brother, when he had been in Winterfell all those years ago. 

“What does she want?” Sansa asked softly. 

“Come to King’s Landing,” he said. “Bend the knee or suffer the fate of all traitors.”

“Sometimes I forget,” she said weakly. “It’s because I want to, I suppose, but sometime I want to forget that she is still there, that she can still hurt me.”

Jon cupped her face with his hands. “I won’t let her hurt you. Brienne will keep you safe.”

“We have the Wall between us and the Night King. There’s nothing between us and Cersei.”

“Winter is here,” he said firmly. “They will never make it this far North.”

Sansa rested her cheek against his hand and pressed her own over his. “She thinks I killed Joffrey. I’m her enemy and she’ll never stop until I’m dead.”

Jon pressed a hasty kiss to her cheek, his lips on the corner of her mouth instead. He pulled away and she looked at him with wide blue eyes that he might drown in. “I will protect you. I promise.”

—

Jon helped teach Celia and Rickon in the training yard himself. It was not that he didn’t trust anyone else to do it, he simply wanted to be the one to do so. They were both his responsibility. Celia was a tad too young to be training, but he wanted her to know how to defend herself just in case. 

Rickon was quick on his feet and he guessed the wildling woman who had been his companion had taught him some things. 

Overall, he felt that they both understood how to defend themselves. He would have a separate training with Rickon to help him learn how to attack, but for now, the two were doing well. He bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of their heads, Celia giggling when he kissed her red hair. 

He smiled down at both of them and wondered if this was how his father felt when he was with Jon and Robb in their youth. He wondered if this was what it would be like if he had children of his own.

—

“You need to rest, Sansa,” Jon said softly, putting his hand on her back as she bent over her desk, going over the food stores. 

“I’m fine Jon,” she said, looking up at him. 

“You need to go to bed.”

“Jon…”

“No excuses.”

Sansa sighed. “I’m so tired I feel like I can’t walk.”

Jon chuckled and bent down. “Put your arms around my shoulders.”

“You aren’t going to carry me, Jon,” she said sternly. 

“It’s not that far from your bed and I doubt you are that heavy. I have carried Celia and Rickon both at the same time. I’m sure I can carry you.”

Sansa rolled her eyes but did as he asked. Jon picked her up carefully and took her to the Lord’s chambers. One day they would be Rickon’s but he still slept with Jon. Celia was already asleep when Jon pulled back the furs on Sansa’s side of the bed. 

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa yawned as he tucked her in. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Truly, Jon,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

He smiled down at her and pressed a kiss to her brow, his heart thundering in his chest as he did. 

Chapter Text

Celia giggled as Rickon chased after her. He was looking more and more like a kneeler by the day. His red curls were chopped shorter and closer to his head, but not so close that he looked bald. He wore a grey shirt made of the soft material Lady Sansa used for her and Celia’s dresses and had a circlet of bronze around his head as well. He was the king, after all. 

“Celia!” Rickon shouted, trying to grasp at her as Ghost danced about the trees watching them. She could feel his fingers brush along her sleeve as he almost caught her. 

Celia laughed, the cold air stinging her cheeks as the snow fell about them, biting at her skin like death. She glanced back at Rickon and could see he was getting annoyed, his blue eyes turning fierce. 

The dress was harder to run in than her old trousers, but Lady Sansa had made her pants to wear underneath her dress so that she was always decent as she put it. 

Rickon finally caught up to her, tackling her into the snow, laughing as he did so. Ghost was on them in an instant, licking at their snowy faces, his warm breath fanning across their skin like flames. 

The two children giggled as they stood up and brushed themselves off. Rickon was almost a head taller than Celia, but he was older than her too, just four years, but that seemed like forever to Celia. Rickon brushed some of the snow from Celia’s hair before looking to the sky. 

Most of the trees had lost their leaves long ago. Lady Sansa had shown her pictures of some of the trees far in the south. Their leaves were green and were upon the branches almost year round. But these trees were bare, waiting for spring to come. 

“This is the godswood,” Rickon said softly. 

It was dark and gloomy, the place they had found themselves, their laughter echoing across the trees like wind. The forest was old, older than anything Celia had ever seen. There were tall trees of many shapes and sizes, some even had needles where their leaves should have been. At the center of it all there was a pool of dark water and an ancient looking weirwood standing large and broad. The tree was as white as bone, with dark red leaves the color of blood. The face carved upon it was stern, like a father’s face, with deep eyes dyed red by dried sap. 

“It’s pretty,” Celia whispered, unsure of what other word to use. There was nothing else she could say. It was pretty beyond words. 

“My father took me here sometimes,” he said, placing his hand on the face. He was like Celia, in a way, he couldn’t really remember what his parents looked like. Then, his brow furrowed. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“Shhh,” he hushed. Then after a few moments, he stumbled away from the tree. “Bran?”

Celia looked at the tree curiously, but only heard the whisper of the wind. 

Rickon…

Celia… 

—

“This is for you,” Jon Snow said, kneeling in front of her. It was a small dagger, pain save for the color of the blade, dark as night.  

“Why doesn’t it look like your sword?”

“This is dragonglass,” he chuckled. “Tormund found it and told me to give it to you now that you’re starting to learn how to defend yourself.” Celia looked at it carefully as Jon Snow spoke, confused on why he gave it to her. “It belonged to your da. He would have wanted you to have this.”

Celia looked up at him, her eyes wide. She looked down at the dagger more carefully. She couldn’t really remember him, just what Tormund told her and what she could almost remember her ma saying. 

She vaguely remembered a laugh, a deep rumbling laugh and a scrape of a beard against her skin as he spoke to her in the Old Tongue. 

M'annsachd.

The word came into her head, but the voice who said it merged with her own. 

She couldn’t remember her da. Couldn’t remember anything about him. The person her ma or Tormund talked about was a stranger, a story she was told at night to help her sleep. 

“I want you to practice protecting yourself with this, alright?” Jon Snow asked, bringing Celia from her thoughts. 

“Can I protect Lady Sansa too?” she asked. 

Jon Snow chuckled and ruffled her hair slightly. “I’m sure Sansa would want you to focus on protecting yourself, but I think it is always good to hope to protect others. There’s something my father used to say when I was a boy.”

“Winter is coming?” she asked. 

“That,” he laughed. “But he also had to tell us that when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives . You are a part of that pack, Celia and it is my job and Lady Sansa’s job to protect you and Rickon. You are a part of our pack and just children. Worry about yourselves and we will do our best to protect you. That’s all you need to worry about. Okay?”

“Can I still try?” Celia asked nervously. She hadn’t been able to protect her da and ma. She wanted to protect Jon Snow, Lady Sansa, Rickon, Lady Brienne, Tormund, and Ser Davos too.

Jon Snow smiled gently at her. “You can, but you always need to listen to what Lady Sansa and I tell you,” he said. “Even if you don’t understand why we’re telling you this, you need to listen to us. Alright?” Celia nodded and Jon Snow showed her carefully how to tie her dagger to her waist. “There we go, a little shieldmaiden in training.”

Celia beamed up at him and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. 

Jon Snow held her close and kissed the top of her head, his beard scratching at her temple. 

—

Celia sat next to Lady Sansa in the sewing circle, but the lady occasionally stood up to help make sure that some of the men who were being trained were getting their stitches right. 

“That’s not right,” Rickon said, his voice laced with annoyance. Celia glanced at him and saw that he was talking to Lady Lyanna Mormont. The bear girl scowled. “It isn’t right.”

“I’m doing exactly what your sister said. It’s not that hard.”

Rickon scowled back and her and Celia peered over and looked at the lady’s needlework. She was sewing together two pieces of leather. 

“It’s wrong,” she said. 

“See!” Rickon exclaimed. 

“How is it wrong?” Lady Lyanna demanded. “It’s just tying two pieces of leather together!”

Rickon snorted and shook his head. 

“The cold can get in,” Celia replied. “You would freeze.”

“Celia’s right,” Lady Sansa said, kneeling down next to the young lady. “Leather needs to overlap when you see the two pieces together like this so that none of the cold or wind might rush through the stitching. We don’t want anyone to freeze.” She put her hand atop Lady Lyanna’s. “A cold soldier can do nothing if they do. This is to keep everyone warm and we can’t treat it as though it is a worthless chore. If we do, then it is like you are saying you don’t care if some of our people die of frostbite.” Lady Sansa pulled out a scrap of fabric from her pocket. “Your stitching should look like this. Copy this as you’re stitching and you should do just fine.”

Lady Lyanna began to grumble but took the fabric from Lady Sansa and began to study it. The older lady smiled and then turned her attention to Celia. She knelt down beside her and put her hand on Celia’s back as she looked over her stitching. 

“You’re doing a good job,” she said gently. 

Celia perked up, happily. “I want to make a shirt for Tormund,” she said. 

Lady Sansa laughed. “That shall be a very large leather shirt,” she replied. “Perhaps you might want to start on something a little smaller. Maybe one for Rickon or for one of the other children your size? How about tonight, before we go to bed. I’ll begin to help you make a large enough shirt for Tormund. How does that sound?”

Celia nodded and Lady Sansa smiled and kissed the top of her head before going to Rickon. 

Celia turned her attention back to her sewing, weaving the cord through the leather so it would stay nice and tight together. Maybe, one day, she could make a dress for Lady Sansa too. Lady Sansa wasn’t much for fighting and Jon Snow said she wouldn’t fight and neither would Rickon since they were the future of the Starks. Celia didn’t quite understand that, but she would protect them while Jon Snow was out fighting. 

—

Celia and Rickon were walking around Winterfell, heading to the godswood again. Rickon held her hand tightly. She was still getting used to how big the castle was, but he seemed to remember whenever everything was. 

“It is ridiculous that Jon Snow has yet to accept or fully listen to any of the petitions for Lady Stark’s hand.” A voice came from around the corner and both children stopped. 

Carefully, the two peered around the corner and saw a handful of Vale knights standing around each other, most likely on their break from whatever training they had received last. 

“Lady Sansa has been through a lot and he no doubt wishes to have her opinion on these matters.”

“But it is winter and House Stark needs alliances and heirs. It is not as though King Rickon can do much, only spending time with that wildling girl.”

Rickon squeezed Celia’s hand tightly and she glanced at him. He was glaring at the knights like Tormund sometimes did when kneelers were talking down to the Free Folk. 

“It is not our place to speak to House Stark as though they are children.”

“Regardless of Lady Sansa and Jon Snow being of age, they are children. Lady Sansa has barely spent time in the North in recent years and Jon Snow has been away from the conflict in the Night Watch. They need to learn to listen to their advisors.”

“Come on,” Rickon whispered, pulling her along. He walked through the hall with the knights, his chin lifted proudly. He squeezed her hand and Celia tried to do the same, following his example. She felt more confident with him there. She didn’t think she would be able to do it by herself. 

Chapter Text

Sansa watched as Rickon and Celia were practicing archery. Lady Lyanna was snapping at both of them for goofing off, but the two seemed happy to simply be themselves even in this setting. 

One of the free folk men was teaching them and Sansa thought that, perhaps, he was relegated to Celia in some way because of how she seemed rather comfortable around him, despite Celia’s natural inclination to distrust men. 

“Do you really think it’s Tyrion?” Sansa asked, not turning her gaze away from the children. Jon and Ser Davos stood beside her going over a missive supposedly sent by Sansa’s once-husband. He was apparently on Dragonstone serving as Hand to a Targaryen princess proclaiming herself queen. “It could be someone trying to lure us into a trap.”

Jon handed her the scroll. “Read the last bit.”

Sansa took it and shifted her gaze from the children. “ All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes. What does that mean?”

“It’s something he said to me the night of the feast when Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell.” He put his hand at the small of her back, knowing that the memory made her tremble. She was so innocent back then. What she would not do to go back? “You know him better than any of us,” Jon said plainly. “What do you think?”

Sansa had to think for a moment. “Tyrion…” She sighed. “He’s not like the other Lannisters. He treated me as more of a person than the others. With him as Hand, there were not many more beatings.” Even less when they had married. But then Robb was dead and she had no more reasons to be punished. “He is not like them, but he is still not a good man. For all that he has done to our family, Jaime Lannister sent Brienne to me as well as half of our father’s sword. Tyrion… if I had shown him any interest, if I had not made my discomfort known, if I had been an adult when we wed, I doubt he would have been kind to me. I heard his sellsword Bronn of the Blackwater say so.” Jon’s fingers curled slightly into her back and Sansa closed her eyes, trying to remain strong and logical. She looked back to the scroll. “ The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny.”

Sansa wanted to scoff. Aside from blowing up the sept, Cersei had barely done anything truly horrible in her time as queen. She had sent word demanding that they bend the knee, but it was not as though she were foolish enough to march North when Winter had arrived. 

“He sounds like a charmer,” Ser Davos said. “Of course I don’t care for the man, he’s the reason, after all, that some of my sons are dead. And I’m sure his casual mention of a Dothraki horde, a legion of Unsullied and three dragons is simply a way to show what a great ally he and his queen would be.”

“She’s a queen claimant,” Sansa said plainly, Just as Stannis and Renly Baratheon were. They might have had crowns and allies, but they did not have right to their ancestral seats or the throne they were claiming. She can claim to be queen, but the Targaryens lost the right to the throne when Jaime Lannister killed Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon killed his heir Rhaegar. If she wants the throne, she would have to win it by right if conquest.”

“Your grace,” Davos began. 

“Yes?”

Sansa turned to glance at the older man. He had seen much. While his council was never perfect, for no council could truly be, it was the best they could have at the moment. 

“You said fire kills wights. It might not kill the Night King or the rest of the Others. However, taking away a huge chunk of their forces would better our chances in winning. And, your grace, what breathed fire?”

“You’re not suggesting Jon meet with her?” Sansa asked, her heart pounding in her chest, a growl rumbled slightly in her chest at the thought. No. She had just gotten everyone that she could have hoped for back. She wouldn’t let him go. Sansa squeezed Jon’s arm gently. 

“No,” Ser Davos said firmly. “Far too dangerous.”

“But,” Jon promoted. 

“If the Army of the Dead make it passed the Wall, do we have enough men to fight them?”

Jon looked over at the training yard, down to Rickon and Celia. 

“Jon,” Sansa said in surprise, shocked that he was even contemplating it. 

“It’s something we need to think about. But not now. Just for a few moments longer we are at peace.” 

—

“There’s dragonglass at Dragonstone,” Jon said almost as soon as she shut the door to his solar 

They needed dragonglass. They both knew it. 

“And how do you know for certain?”

He handed her a scroll and she took it from him, looking it over carefully. “Do you trust this Sam person?”

“He was one of my greatest friends in the Watch. He also killed one of the Others, which you wouldn’t expect, looking at him. However, he wouldn’t send this if he wasn’t a hundred percent certain that this is true.”

Sansa’s lips formed a hard line. “So, what do you plan on doing?”

“I am Rickon’s regent, but I know that there are those who might worry about a bastard usurping his trueborn brother’s place.”

“Jon—“

“However, we can’t know for certain if Tyrion and his queen are aware of Rickon being alive. We can’t be certain of that.”

Sansa thought for a moment. “They might, but it depends on whether or not they have Lord Varys on their side. He had a way of knowing almost everything that was going on in the Red Keep. However, his allegiances are… shaky at best. If he is there, if you do go, you need to be wary of him.”

Jon nodded. 

“But Jon… If you leave, there would be no one save Rickon who could protect me from Littlefinger. You could also be used as a pawn if the Targaryen forces decide to take you prisoner. You… Jon, you are too valuable to us, to me.”

“I would be careful.” He took her hand in his. “I would make sure that you were not left defenseless, Sans.”

Sans. He had called her that when they were children, when they were small, when she was mad that her name was much longer than Jon or Robb’s. 

“You have to be more than careful Jon, I told you, you have to be smarter than Robb or Father.”

“And I will be. I told you we have many enemies and I will do what I can to protect you from them and do what I can to allow you to protect me.”

“We can’t let them put us against one another Jon, we can’t be used as weak points.”

“Then let us not be usable.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“When I was made to live with the Free Folk, be one of them and have them trust me, to let me know their plans, I had to let them think they could use me while also learning about them from the inside.” He squeezed her hand. 

Sansa thought she understood what he hoped to do, but it was always better to make sure. “What do you want us to do?”

—

The great hall was full of the nobles of the North and the Vale and the leaders of the free folk. Jon stood at the center of the room, holding out the letter from his friend. 

“This message was sent to me by Samwell Tarly,” he said, his voice even, but firm across the stone walls of the room. “He was my brother at the Night Watch. A man I trust as much as anyone in this world. He has discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of dragonglass.” The lords began to murmur amongst themselves as Jon handed the scroll to Lord Glover. He held up the second note. “I received this a few days ago from Dragonstone. It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister.” This got an even greater reaction. There was no love for the Lannisters and the Knights of the Vale still did not care for the man. Sansa remained stoic yet intrigued. She was to pretend this was the first time she was hearing any of this. “He is now Hand of the Queen to the claimant Daenerys Targaryen. She intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. She has a powerful army and, if this message is to be believed, three dragons.” This got even more whispers. 

Rickon squeezed Sansa’s hand and Celia held onto Sansa’s skit. 

“Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone to meet with Daenerys and I’m going to accept.”

Even though Sansa knew this was going to happen already, she still felt her heart thunder at the thought of it as the roar of outrage came from those who knew and remembered the Targaryen woman’s father. 

Jon held up his hand. “We need this dragonglass, my lords,” he said fiercely. “We know that dragonglass can destroy both the Others and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons.” In that, at least, they agreed. “But, more importantly, we need allies. The Night King’s army grows larger by the day and we can’t defeat them on our own. We don’t have the numbers. Daenerys has her own army and she has dragonfire. I need to try and persuade her to fight with us. Ser Davos and a small party of us shall ride for White Harbor tomorrow and then sail for Dragonstone.”

Sansa squeezed Rickon’s hand before standing. “Have you forgotten what happened to our grandfather? The Mad King invited him to King’s Landing and roasted him alive.”

“I know that,” he replied flatly, annoyance lacing his voice ever so slightly. 

“She is here to reclaim the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingoms. The North is one of those seven kingdoms. This isn’t an invitation. It’s a trap.”

“It could be,” Jon replied. “But I don’t believe Tyrion would do that. You know him. He’s a good man.”

“You knew him when he was drunk and traveling, I knew him better than that passing moment so long ago.”

Lord Royce stood up. “Your grace,” he began. “With respect I must agree with Lady Sansa. I remember the Mad King all too well. A Targaryen cannot be trusted, nor could a Lannister who might use his previous illegal marriage to justify a stronghold in the North.”

There were shouts of agreement. 

“We called your brother king,” Lord Glover said, standing. “And then he rode south and lost his kingdom.”

“Winter is here, your grace,” Lady Lyanna said, standing as well. “We need the regent King in the North in the North.”

Everyone pounded the table in agreement. 

“You all named me regent in my brother’s stead until he becomes of age. I never asked for this honor, but I accepted it because the North is my home. It’s part of me and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds.” He took a breath. “ it the odds are against us. Many of you have yet to see the Others. We can never hope to defeat them as we are now. We need allies, powerful allies. I know the risk,” he admitted. “But I have to take it.”

“Then send an emissary,” Sansa pleaded. She knew she looked panicked and she felt it. Tomorrow, Jon would be leaving her tomorrow. “Don’t go yourself.”

“Daenerys claims herself as a queen,” Jon answered. “Only a king can convince her to help us. Rickon is far too young for such things. As his older brother and his trusted regent, it has to be me.”

“You’re abandoning your people ,” Sansa said fiercely. “You’re abandoning your home .”

“I’m leaving both in good hands.”

“Whose?” Sansa demanded. 

“Yours.”

The word was like an arrow in her heart that caused a stutter. To be trusted so much, to be thought so highly of. It was as though, for a brief moment, everything Cersei, Sandor, or Baelish had ever said to her, disparaging her intelligence, had never happened. It was as though she were home, truly home with Father and Mother again. 

“You are my sister and Rickon’s. You are the blood of Winterfell. Until I return, you are regent. The North is yours.”

—

Celia and Rickon had demanded that they all sleep together on the last night before Jon left. They all understood that he would be leaving and the children hung on his arms as they readied for bed, begging for him to stay with them, to all sleep together. 

“Like wolves!” Rickon had shouted. 

They had to be careful about it, had to not give anyone any indication of what was happening. 

However, they made it into Sansa’s bed without rousing any suspicion. 

Rickon and Celia cling onto each other between Jon and Sansa, each reaching for the person on the other side of the other. Celia reached for Jon’s tunic and Rickon held onto Sansa’s sleeve. The two curled around the children, protectively. 

“Goodnight, Sans,” Jon whispered, his voice a little rough. 

“Goodnight,” she echoed back, heat rising to her cheeks. “Jon.”

Chapter Text

Jon woke up first. 

The morning light was trickling in through the curtains. It wasn’t quite morning yet, the light too filtered and fluttering. Even so, it made Sansa’s hair glow like amber against the white sheets of the bed. Celia was curled into Sansa’s arms, her face pressed against Jon’s sister, so that he could only see her red braid that looked like copper. 

Jon was pushed towards the edge of the bed because Rickon was sprawled out on his back, his hand resting beneath Celia’s cheek. Jon smiled at his little brother. Rickon had the occasional nightmare, even with Jon there to be with him. He had been worried about leaving him alone, but with Sansa and Celia with him, Jon was certain Rickon would be okay. 

He didn’t want to go to Dragonstone, didn’t want to leave Sansa or the children in Winterfell with only Brienne and Podrick to protect them. Lord Royce would look after them, Jon hoped so at least, but that didn’t mean he wanted to leave them so unguarded. 

However, they needed dragonglass and, should the Targaryen woman not be like her father or brother, then perhaps they might be allies, perhaps she might willingly help the North and not try to question their independence.

But Jon had very little hope in that. 

Jon had been around three kings in his time and two queens. They didn’t care about the North, the closest perhaps being Mance, but even then, he would not have trusted the Free Folk under Mance to be anywhere near Sansa. They did not care about Winterfell. They did not care about Sansa. 

Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa. 

Jon would need to be smarter than his father and smarter than Robb. Smarter than Mance or Ygritte or Stannis. He needed to be smarter. He had his family to worry about. 

If this dragon queen posed any threat, he would have to be extra careful. He had to make sure that he played his cards right, played her right, because if he didn’t then his people, Sansa specifically, would lose all the freedom they had tried so hard to regain. 

“Good morning…” Jon glanced up and found Sansa’s blue eyes in him, a sleepy smile upon her lips. “Are you comfortable?”

“As I can be,” he chuckled, glancing down at Rickon. 

Sansa reached over the children carefully and took his hand in hers. “I don’t want you to go.”

Jon carefully kissed her knuckles. “I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

—

Jon stood before his father’s stature. It didn’t look like him, but, then again, not many people who were good in the art of sculpting knew what his father’s face looked like. Even so, it got his father’s presence right. It felt commanding and yet it drew Jon in. It felt as though his legacy had cast a shadow upon him and now all he could do is pray to all the gods that he was able to live up to it, that he could protect his father’s remaining trueborn daughter and son. 

These are your siblings, Jon, Robb , their father would say whenever one of the  younger children were born. It is your duty to protect them. 

“I delivered his bones myself,” the slithering voice of Lord Baelish came from behind Jon and he stiffened. He glanced back at the weasley man , keeping his features blank. The man approached him and then stood beside Jon, staring up at the statue. He shouldn’t be there. “I presented them to Lady Catelyn as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister. It seems like a lifetime ago. Do give Lord Tyrion my best when you see him.”

“I doubt there will be many words exchanged between us,” Jon said plainly. “Not if the Targaryen girl has any forethought. The history between the Starks and the Lannisters is far more recent than the conflict between the Targaryens and the Starks. The deaths by the hand of the lions is much more recent.”

Lord Baelish sighed. “I was sorry when your father died. He and I had our differences, but he loved Cat very much. So did I.” He glanced at Jon, but he refused to spare even a glance. “She wasn’t fond of you, was she? Well, it appears she vastly underestimated you. Your father and Robb are gone, yet here you stand, the king regent is the North, the last hope against the coming storm.”

Jon turned to look at him and said what he truly thought, not actually caring about his petty speeches. “You don’t belong down here.”

“Forgive me,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “We have never talked properly. I wanted to remedy that.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Not even thank you?” he asked, his voice bordering a sneer. “If it weren’t for me, you would have been slaughtered on the battlefield.”

Jon scoffed and began to walk away. “The Knights of the Vale came for Sansa, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. They did not come for you.”

“You have many enemies, my king,” Lord Baelish said, stopping Jon in his tracks. “But I swear to you I’m not one of them. You and I, perhaps, even could say we have similar goals. I would never let anyone hurt Sansa. I love her, just as as I loved her mother.”

He felt something snap. 

Jon turned around quickly, grabbing Baelish by the throat and slammed him against the wall. The man began to choke, scratching at his hands. 

“Touch my sister,” he growled. “And I’ll kill you myself.”

He let Lord Baelish go quickly and stormed from the crypt, not waiting for any answer. 

—

Jon straightened himself out as he left the crypt. Ghost was sitting just outside, mouth open and tongue hanging out. Jon chuckled and rubbed the direwolf’s head. He had become spoiled since Celia had come into his life, even more so when Sansa had. 

His fur had become softer and he smelled slightly of pine instead of ice and dirt. Yes, Ghost had truly become spoiled, but so had Jon. He couldn’t imagine being away from his family for who knew how long. He had to come back quickly to help his people prepare for the coming war, but he also needed dragonglass so that his people could defend themselves. 

Ghost nudged his nose against Jon’s hip and he chuckled. He bend down and scratched behind the direwolf’s ears. 

“Take care of them,” he said softly. “Watch over them for me.” He couldn’t be here, but Ghost could. Jon stood and looked back at the crypts, hearing the faint footsteps of Lord Baelish coming from behind. “Keep him away from Sansa.”

Jon left then. He needed to finish packing. 

—

Davos was already on his own horse S Jon finally made his way to the courtyard. 

Celia and Rickon rushed to him, wrapping their arms around his hips. The sweet girl had tears in her eyes while his brother was so obviously trying to be the sting one. Jon knelt down and hugged them both, gently kissing away Celia’s tears and ruffling Rickon’s hair. 

“I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Celia cried softly against his neck as she clung to his cloak. 

“I’ll come back,” he said, more firmly this time. “I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone.” Jon pulled back and looked at both of them, a hand on each of their shoulders. “You two need to protect each other and look after Sansa. Be good and don’t get into too much trouble. Can you do that for me?” Both nodded and Jon smiled. As he stood, he kissed the top of both of their heads. “I’ll be back,” he said again. “I promise.”

Jon smiled at them as he went to his horse and mounted. He glanced back at the balcony over the courtyard and saw Sansa watching him, her red hair a stark contrast against the grey stone of Winterfell, her pale skin like snow or the bark of a weirwood tree. He had hoped she would see him off, but had worried that, perhaps, it would not fit with the image they were supposed to be portraying. 

He smiled slightly and lifted his hand to her. Her lips trembled into a smile of her own and she raised a small hand to him in farewell. 

Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa. 

I’ll protect you, I promise. 

He bowed his head to her and turned away before he lost his nerve, before he decided to stay. He pressed his heel into his horse’s side and rode out of Winterfell swearing in all those who were gone that he would keep their family safe. 

Chapter Text

Jon Snow had said that he would be back before Celia even noticed he was gone. But she did notice. She did notice he was gone. 

It felt as though a little bit of warmth had left Winterfell, as though. It felt colder and the snow seemed to bite more harshly without Jon Snow there to wipe away the flakes from her lashes. 

She stood at the wall of the keep, looking out upon the road from which Jon Snow and Ser Davos had left. She had hoped that he would be back by now. 

Celia knew that he was going to meet a queen very far in the south, but no one told her how far south it was. They said the place was called Dragonstone, but Celia didn’t know where that was. Her ma had never talked about a place called Dragonstone. But because of the name, she could only guess it was where the dragons lived. 

“You shouldn’t be out here, Celia,” came Lady Sansa’s voice. Celia turned and saw the lady climbing up the stairs and to her. Ghost followed behind her, his pink tongue hanging from his maw as steam rose from his breath like smoke. “You will catch a chill up here. You should come in and warm yourself by the fire.”

“Jon Snow said he would be back,” Celia said, a pout coming to her lips. Ghost padded to her and licked her cheek. She wrapped her arms around the direwolf’s neck and pressed her face into his fur. 

Lady Sansa stroked her hair. “He will be gone for a few months, sweetling. He still has a long way to go. Come inside.”

“He said he would be back,” Celia insisted, not lifting her head from Ghost’s snowy fur. 

Lady Sansa sighed gently and knelt down next to Celia and made her turn to look at her. “He will be back,” she promised. “But it will take a little while for him to return. You just need to wait patiently and he will be so very happy to see you when he comes back, I swear it.”

“I want him to come back now.”

Lady Sansa smiled and stood, pressing a kiss to the top of Celia’s head. “I do too, sweetling, but we’re going to have to wait.” She took Celia’s hand in her own. “Let’s go inside and get warm. Jon would not wish for us to catch a chill, would he?”

“No,” Celia replied, glumly. 

Lady Sansa laughed again as she walked them both down the stairs and back into the keep, Ghost following carefully behind. 

—

Celia didn’t know how to write in the common tongue Maester Wolkan was writing in, so she wrote it in the old one, what runes she did know anyway. Rickon sat beside her and he seemed to remember his letters better than Celia knew them. They looked so boring compared to the runes. However, either way, the entire lesson was rather boring. 

It was about the history of the North and it sounded so different from the stories her ma had told her. It didn’t help that Celia felt fidgety. She wanted to go learn about shooting arrows or sewing. However, Rickon was made to take lessons so he could be a better king and Lady Sansa encouraged Celia to sit with him. 

Rickon nudged Celia’s foot with his own and she glanced at him where he tapped his finger on his scroll. 

Celia looked to where he was pointing and found a crude drawing of Maester Wolkan. She chewed her lip to stifle a giggle and looked down at her own scroll and began to draw Littletoe, drawing his mustache like a worm. Rickon didn’t attempt to even hide his chuckle. It turned into a laugh and the maester looked back at them with a highly disapproving look, but that only got Celia to begin laughing as well. 

Maester Wolkan sighed. “You two can be dismissed and go off to the training grounds.”

Rickon howled with excitement and Celia grinned. He grabbed her hand and they began to race out of the room and down the hall, passing Lady Sansa along the way as she entered to speak with the old maester. 

“Wait!” Celia let go of his hand and rushed back to the lesson room. She had forgotten the knife that Jon Snow had given her.

“I worry sometimes,” Lady Sansa said, her voice coming from the front of the room. “That Rickon won’t be ready when it is time for him to take the throne. He is just… He is so wild sometimes and I worry that the lords will not respect him because he is too much like the Free Folk.”

“You need not worry, my lady,” Maester Wolkan said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “The king has been through so much and we should see his behavior as being relatively normal for a boy his age. I remember Dominic Bolton, he was much like the king at that age and, my lady, I feel that with all that is going on in the world, it’s perfectly acceptable for him to act like a child.” The old man looked sad for a moment. “I am sure you and Lord Snow know what it is like to have your childhood so violently ripped from your fingers. Allow the king to be a boy in these moments of privacy.” He smiled then and glanced at Celia who had the knife in her hand, blushing. “And Lady Celia seems to be the perfect companion for him to have in these times.”

Lady Sansa then looked at her, surprised that Celia was there, but then smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose you’re right.”

—

“My king.”

Rickon squeezed Celia’s hand tightly and turned to look at the weasley lord standing behind them. Podrick was with them as well, shifting uncomfortably as the man, Littletoe, approached. 

The man bowed and smiled. It was also though it had been painted on like a doll, thin lips hidden beneath a mustache that seemed to hide a hundred secrets. “I have been wanting to speak with you for a long time, your grace,” he said. “However, you have been so very busy and your brother, Jon Snow appeared to enjoy keeping you away from your vassals.”

Celia narrowed her eyes. “No he doesn’t.” 

The man’s eyes turned to glance at her and a shudder ran down Celia’s spine. She did not like him looking at her. It reminded her of the bad men. She wrapped her arms around Rickon’s, hoping he would protect her.

“Jon is doing what he thinks is best. He’s a good king for until I become big enough to take the throne myself.” 

“You are certainly young,” the lord agreed. “However, there have been younger kings than you. You brother, Brandon, was left lord of Winterfell when your brother, King Robb was away. Surely you are old enough to do this all by yourself, for what reason would your bastard brother need to be your regent, especially since he has abandoned you and left the position to your sister, Sansa. Surely she would have been a better choice.” 

“That is Lady Sansa to you, Lord Baelish,” Rickon said darkly, a growl seeming to vibrate through his chest. 

“I have known Lady Sansa for a long time, your grace,” the man replied. “I kept her safe in King’s Landing and I kept her safe in the Eyrie. You could say that House Stark owes me a great deal.” 

“And what is it that you think you are owed?” Rickon asked. Celia could see the hair on the back of his neck raise like a world ready to fight, like Ghost when he had taken care of some of the bad men. 

“Your sister, I feel, would be safer in the Eyrie, where the army of the dead are less likely to reach her. She is your heir after all, even if her title for the moment is regent and Lady of Winterfell. Allow me to take her to the Eyrie. Allow me to protect her in a way only a man can.” 

“Jon Snow is protecting her,” Celia said, standing up straight, although still holding onto Rickon. “He is protecting all of us.” 

The man’s lips twitched. “As a brother, perhaps,” came the reply. “But a husband can do more for a woman’s protection. Do you not think so, your grace? After all, your Uncle Edmure could not protect your mother. Your father, for all his faults, would have never let that horrid fate befall her.” 

Celia’s grip on Rickon tightened as she felt him tense, ready to strike at his prey at any time. “The pack survives together, Littlefinger,” Rickon growled. “And I do not trust anyone outside the pack to look after us.”

“Your grace—“

“I suggest you leave, Lord Baelish,” Podrick said flatly. “I am to take the king and Celia to the glass gardens for their lessons. We would not wish to inform Lady Sansa on why they are late for these lessons. Would we?” 

Littlefinger’s lips formed a tight, thin line. “No,” he replied. “We would not.”

—

“Can you tell me a story?” Celia asked as she curled into Lady Sansa for bed that night. Rickon had said he wished to try and sleep in his own bed that night so that he might see how it goes. However, he wasn’t alone, Ghost had followed after him, making sure that he wouldn’t truly be by himself. 

“What sort of story do you want to hear?” Lady Sansa asked. 

“A dragon story,” Celia replied. “But not one about a dragon.” 

Lady Sansa laughed, holding Celia to her and stroking her hair as she thought for a moment. “Oh,” she said. “I know the perfect one.” 

Celia perked up and snuggled closer to Lady Sansa to listen. 

“There was once a girl who came from the long-vanished kings of the First Men,” Lady Sansa began. “She lived in a ruin castle called Oldstones which was once the seat of the ancient house of Mudd. People called her Jenny and she was a beautiful woman who almost seemed to spring from the earth itself, as thought the songs of the Children had brought her into being so that she would be found by a prince of dragonflies.” Celia reached out and played with the dragonfly charm on Lady Sansa’s necklace, liking the story already. “Duncan Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, met Jenny while he was traveling through the Riverlands on his father’s business. He fell in love with her so fast and so quickly that he married her without his father’s permission, breaking his betrothal to another woman.” 

“Betrothal?” Celia asked. 

Lady Sansa chuckled. “It is the period before you get married, but know who you are going to marry.” 

“Oh.” 

“Anyway,” Lady Sansa said, kissing the crown of Celia’s head. “The king, Duncan’s father, tried to have the marriage undone, but Duncan refused to give Jenny up and chose instead to leave his titles and right to the Iron Throne. He then became known as the Prince of Dragonflies and he and Jenny were very happy.”

“What happened after?” Celia asked. 

“There was sadness afterwards,” Lady Sansa admitted, twirling a strand of Celia’s hair around her fingers. “However, there was happiness there and even if there was sadness, one must never forget the happy moments.” 

“What happened to Jenny?” Celia asked. 

“She danced with her ghosts.” 

Chapter Text

Even though Sansa comforted Celia and Rickon over Jon’s journey south, she missed him too. 

Winterfell did not feel the same without him. 

It felt wrong to be in Winterfell and not have Jon there. He had been parts of her earliest memories, her earliest thoughts that she could recall of Winterfell. It was not home without him and Sansa felt as though she were adrift at sea without him. The cold made her more irritated and she could not fathom that he would be gone for so long. 

If she were not so busy, Sansa would wait for Jon’s return along the battlements of Winterfell. She would wait to see if a Raven had arrived from him, waiting to hear if he was well, if he was safe. 

She wondered, briefly, if this is how her mother had felt when her father had gone to fight against the Greyjoys. She wondered if her mother felt a similar ache in her chest that Sansa did. 

There was no one to ask. She would check the room he shared with Rickon often, the room that had been his and Robb’s when they were children. She would almost expect him to be there, younger, unscathed, and still full of the strained optimism that only he possessed. 

She would sometimes expect Robb there too, or their father after he had returned them to their rooms after teaching them the ways of the sword. 

She felt it about all of Winterfell really, especially since they had done the rebuilding. When she had been in the kennels with Ramsay, she had barely any time at all to take it all in, to really look at her childhood home, but now she could only think of the ghosts that haunted the halls. Her uncles and aunt, her grandfather and her parents, her siblings and the servants. 

Winterfell was so full of ghosts and Sansa forgot that was so whenever Jon had been near. But now he was gone, south to meet with a foreign queen with dragons, the daughter of the man who had burned and killed their uncle and grandfather, the sister of the man who had kidnapped and raped their aunt. 

She went to the godswood often to pray to him and sometimes go to the mess that was her mother’s sept. They were nearly done refinishing it, bringing it back to its proper condition. She prayed to the old gods and the new, even when she did not expect them to hear. It still felt nice to feel as though she were doing something. 

Sansa looked out at the courtyard and could see some of the free folk was getting ready to help man the Wall. Sansa made her way down the steps, hoping to offer them whatever assistance she could. 

—

“Are you certain you have everything you need, Tormund?” Sansa asked carefully as Celia held onto her uncle’s leg tightly. 

“Aye,” the large man said, stroking his niece’s hair. “We have everything we need to make it to that bloody wall. My people know the others better than your crows, and we will send word if we see any movement.”

“I am sorry that Jon is not here to see you off,” she said. “I know he would have wanted to show you his approval.”

“No need to fear, Red. Your wild king is one of us in a way and he’s made sure we know we are the allies of Winterfell and House Stark.”

Sansa smiled and glanced at her little brother and saw him speaking with another man of the free folk. He was coming into his own, although some of his actions were clumsy, like a child playing dress up in their father’s clothes. Podrick had told her about her brother confronting Littlefinger and she felt infinitely grateful for his words but also worried that Baelish might turn his focus on Rickon and make sure that he might not get in the way. 

“Don’t be so worried, Red,” Tormind said, gaining her attention again. “He’s kissed by fire. It means he’s lucky.”

Sansa smiled at him. “I suppose I’m lucky too then?” 

“Of course you are. Like weirwood trees we kissed by fire are. Jon Snow will come back sooner than you think. And besides, he left his wolf with you. He’ll come back.”

Sansa continued to smile. “Stay safe Tormund Giantsbain.”

He grinned at her. “You as well, Red Wolf.” He bent down, lifted her up and pressed a kiss to Celia’s cheek. “Behave for the king and princess now, my little princess,” he said, kissing her cheek again. Celia wrapped her arms around Tormunds neck and he patted her back gently. He didn’t promise to come back and Celia wondered if that was something the Free Folk had learned never to promise.

“Come back safe,” she said as Tormund set Celia down. 

He bowed his head. “Of course.”

—

Men and women were working in the courtyard, rolling cars of hay and water. A blacksmith was working in his forge hammering away and shouting orders to the people he was training. Sansa walked with Rickon and Celia in hand a s Littlefinger, Yohn Royce and Maester Wolkan walked alongside her on the balcony heading for the stairs. 

“How much do we have?” Sansa asked, looking at the grain that had been salvaged from all the glass gardens they could. 

“Four thousand bushels, my lady,” the maester said 

“And that means?”

“For the current occupants of the castle, it’s enough food for a year,” Yohn Royce answered. “Perhaps more.”

Sansa frowned, thinking. “What’s the longest winter in the past hundred years?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” Maester Wolkan said. “I’ll check Maester Luwin’s records. He kept a copy of every raven scroll.”

Rickon squeezed her hand at the mention of the old maester and Sansa squeezed his hand back. They began to walk down the stairs and Sansa held onto both of the children’s hands firmly, not wanting them to slip if someone ice had grown along the stops. Once they reached the bottom she began to speak again. 

“You’re telling me we don’t have enough food, especially not if all the armies of the North came back to Winterfell to defend it.”

The maester bowed his head. “No, my lady,‘odd likely not.”

“We must prepare for that eventuality. Every direction the threat comes from, this is the best place to be. We need to start building up our grain stores with regular shipments from every keep in the North. If we don't use it by winter's end we'll give it back to them, but if the entire North has to flee to Winterfell there won't be enough time to bring wagon loads of grain with them. And begin to expand the glass gardens. We must grow what we can when we can.”

“Very wise, my lady,” Yohn Royce offered. 

Sansa nodded and glanced at the maester. “You’ll see to it?”

Maester Wolkan bowed his head and left. Sansa continued on through the courtyard and watched as the smiths were hammering in breastplates. 

“Are  they covering them with leather?”

“No, my lady,” answered the Valeman.

“Shouldn’t they? It would save them better from the real cold once it descends upon us.”

“They should indeed,” Yohn Royce said. “Pardon me, my lady.” He began to walk towards the blacksmith. “You there, why isn’t there leather on these?”

Sansa continued to move forward with the children and Baelish followed behind her. Sansa glanced at Brienne who was looking at her. Sansa bowed her head to let her know she was fine. 

“Command suits you,” Littlefinger said, his voice low. “The Northerners are all facing north worries about the threat beyond the Wall.”

“So they should be.”

“I know Cersei better than anyone here,” he continued. “If you turn your back on her—“

“You don’t know Cersei better than anyone here,” Sansa said. “If you did, you would have guessed how killing Joffrey was foolish and you would have known that bringing the Tyrell’s would only bring danger to myself and everyone else around her. L”

“I only meant to say—“

“That woman who murdered my mother, father, and brother is dangerous,” Sansa asked, turning to look at him. “Thank you for your wise counsel, but I assure you I am no bystander to all this.”

“One of two things will happen,” Baelish persisted. “Either the dead will defeat the living, in which all our troubles come to an end, or life will win out. And what then?” He walked a little more quickly so that he stood before Sansa. She saw Ghost bare his teeth silently and Rickon moved so he was slightly in front of her. “Don't fight in the north or the south. Fight every battle everywhere always in your mind. Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend, every possible series of events is happening all at once. Live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you've seen before.”

Sansa opened her mouth to speak when a guard approached them. “Your grace, Lady Sansa,” the man said, his face as white as a sheet. “At the gate.”

Sansa continued to hold the children’s hands as she led them away from Littlefinger and went towards the gate where people had gathered around. Sansa narrowed her eyes as the crowd parted to reveal Bran in a cart. 

She would know her brother anywhere. He looked so much like Robb it hurt. It hurt so much. 

“Hello, Sansa,” he said softly. 

Tears came to Sansa’s eyes as Rickon let go of her hand. “Bran!”

Their little brother climbed onto the cart and wrapped his arms around his neck. Bran stroked Rickon’s back as Sansa tried to hold back the happy tears that began to stream down her cheeks. She went to her brother quickly and hugged him tightly. 

—

Rickon and Celia were in their lessons as Sansa and Bran sat next to the weirwood tree in the godswood. 

“I wish Jon was here,” she said. It felt as though this were the first time she was allowed to say it aloud, the first time she was able to admit it openly. 

“He will come back,” Bran replied, his voice calm. “He has much to do for the coming battle.”

Sansa chewed her lip. “You are Father’s last living trueborn son.”

“I can never be king,” he said. “I can never be Lord of Winterfell. I can never be lord of anything. I’m the three-eyed raven.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Bran’s eyes grew distant and lonely. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try,” Sansa said. “Please, for me. I want to understand.”

He smiled sadly. He looked so much like Father in those moments, how he was in King’s Landing, how little she could remember him there. She tried never to picture him there, in the place he had died, but those were her most recent memories of him. 

“It means I can see everything,” he said. “Everything that’s ever happened to everyone. Everything that’s happening right now. It’s all pieces, fragments. I need to learn to see better. I was supposed to stay,” he said. “But you needed me. The pack survives, Sansa, I couldn’t leave you.” He looked at her earnestly. “When the king night comes, I need to be ready.”

“How do you know how to do it?” Sansa asked earnestly. 

“The one before me taught me. He was the three-eyed raven for so long… I don’t want to be like that Sansa.”

His eyes grew a little glassy and Sansa stood in worry, going to her brother, touching his shoulder hesitantly. “Bran—“

“I’m sorry for all that’s happened to you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry that Robb didn’t come for you. He should have come for you. I’m sorry he didn’t come for you, that he let his pride go for another woman, but not for his own sister.”

Sansa took a sharp breath and breathed out, shuddering in the cold. “It’s okay, Bran,” she said. “I understand.”

He shook his head. “Jon’s smarter,” her brother assured her. “He’s going to be smarter.”

Chapter Text

The waves crashed over the dark rocks of the island as Jon and his men dragged their small boat to shore. They had left their larger one in the water, rowing to shore so that they might have a refuge away from the Targaryen woman if need be. 

Jon recognized Tyrion immediately. He had grown a beard since Jon had last seen him and his face was warm and lined from planning. Some dark skinned men dressed lightly and in leather were there as well and Jon could only guess that they were some of the Dothraki. They reminded him a little of the Free Folk in how they were built and, if he remembered any of his lessons about the world beyond Westeros, they had a similar culture. 

There was a young girl as well. She was perhaps a year or three older than Celia, but she was shaped like a summer reed. She had a darker complexion than the Dothraki men, but her hair was like a lion’s mane and her beets were the color of gold. She was dressed simply, in black with threads of red spilling through the trim, as though to add embellishment. 

“The bastard of Winterfell,” Tyrion said, drawing Jon from his thoughts. 

Jon bowed his head. “The dwarf of Casterly Rock.”

They were serious for only a moment, but then both smiled and shook hands. He had to play it as though Sansa had told him nothing, had not told him how the Imp had touched her in their wedding night, even when it was unconsummated. He had to act as though this was the same man he had last seen at the Wall. He had to hope that some of that man was there, or else there might be no reason in this upcoming meeting. 

“I believe we last saw each other on the top of the Wall,” Lord Tyrion said. 

“You were pissing off the edge if I remember right,” he said lowly. “You picked up some scars along the way.”

“As did you it seems,” lord Tyrion says and Jon grimaced, “it’s been a long road, but we’re both still here.” He then turned to Ser Davos. “I’m Tyrion Lannister,” he said, extending his hand. 

However, Ser Davos did not mirror the action. “Davos Seaworth.”

 “Ah,” Lord Tyrion said, retracting his hand. “The Onion Knight. We fought on opposite sides at the Battle of Blackwater.”

“Aye,” Ser Davos said. “My son’s had been quite the seamen. But very few are able to survive contact with wildfire.”

Lord Tyrion pursed his lips but turned to the little girl a t his side. She was taller than him by a foot or so. “This is Missandei of Naath. She is the queen’s closest friend and translator.”

Why on earth would a grown woman’s closest friend be a little girl? Did she not have ladies she could depend on? She knew Sansa was gathering a few so that many of the women who had lost men in the previous wars would be able to find a group to depend upon. Did this dragon queen have no other that she called friend?

“Welcome to Dragonstone,” the girl said. She was so gently spoken that Jon had to smile. “Our queen knows this is a long journey and she appreciates the effort you have made on her behalf. If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons?”

Jon frowned and glanced at Ser Davos and his companions and them to Lord Tyrion. 

“Does your queen not trust us?” he asked the Imp. 

“It is a precaution, you understand,” was the reply. “No harm shall come to you that you should need them.”

“And are we to be offered bread and salt?” Jon demanded lightly. “My men aren’t heavily armed, your queen’s are. We have come for diplomatic reasons. Even my father did not ask Robert Baratheon to give up his weapons. Even the Freys did not and they killed my brother and Lady Stark still. Forgive me if I do not trust your word, as it was your family who orchestrated the Red Wedding. We will keep our weapons and we shall be given bread and salt. Even if your queen is represented by you, surely a representative of House Stark doing so would be enough to make your queen believe we are not hostile.”

Lord Tyrion’s expression darkened but he spoke to the girl Missandei who spoke in a foreign language to the Dothraki who looked at each other for a moment before picking up the small boat Jon had come on and began to carry it away. 

Ah, so they would not be allowed to leave unless someone on this dragon queen’s side allowed it. 

“Please,” Missandei said in common. “This way.”

—

They made their way to the Dragonstone keep along a narrow stone pathway built into the cliffs. 

“And Sansa,” Lord Tyrion said. “I hear she is alive and well.”

Luckily the Imp was not looking at him, for Jon’s teeth began to grind. “She is.”

“Does she miss me terribly?” This time, Lord Tyrion did look back at him and saw Jon’s glare. “A sham marriage and unconsummated.”

“I didn’t ask,” Jon replied flatly. What was this queen thinking. He stiffened at a thought. If this queen dared to try and reinstate that marriage he would refuse it and call for a trial by combat to end such a marriage. He didn’t care that Sansa had asked him to be more careful. He would not let Sansa remain married to this man, not when most saw it as a sham anyway. 

The Imp coughed. “Anyway, she’s much smarter than she lets on.”

“People have always underestimated her,” was Jon’s reply. 

Lord Tyrion nodded. “At some point I want to hear how a Knight’s Watch recruit became King in the North.”

Jon glanced at Ser Davos. So they didn’t know about Rickon. The Onion Knight nodded. They wouldn’t correct them until they needed to. “As long as you tell me how a Lannister became Hand to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“A long and bloody tale,” Lord Tyrion replied. “To be honest, I was drunk for most of it.”

Jon did not find that funny at all, not when he was bringing a woman he was mostly drunk advising to Westeros, a woman whose family words were fire and blood when the Seven Kingdoms was like kindling ready to be lit. 

“The North think I’m a fool for coming here,” Jon told him. 

“Of course they do,” Lord Tyrion chuckled. “If I was your Hand, I would have advised against it. General rule of thumb, Stark men don’t fare well when they travel south.”

“I am not a Stark,” Jon replied. “And perhaps you should be wondering why I am down here if you believe Sansa is smarter than she has previously let on.”

A roar echoed overhead and Jon and his men fell to the ground, pressing themselves into the stone steps. A black dragon flew over them, large and menacing. It flew up to the keep where a cream and a green dragon flew about. Jon looked at Davos in concern. He could only guess that the dragons did not have the connection with the queen as he had with Ghost. But if she did, then that was open hostility. 

Lord Tyrion helped Jon stand and he saw that Missandei was a little pale, but her gaze was downcast. 

“I’d say you get used to them,” Lord Tyrion said. “But you never really do.”

“With that display,” Jon said sternly. “I demand your queen offer us bread and salt herself. We are not here to declare war, we are here because you claimed your queen wished to talk. If this is how your queen treats and threatens potential allies who, at the moment, have no reason to think ill of her, I would hate to see how those who might offend her are treated. Your queen is a foreign one. I suggest you advise her how her Targaryen ways might be met by those who remember her father and remember Joffrey.”

Lord Tyrion looked grim. “Come,” he said at last. “Their mother is waiting for you.”

—

When Jon and his men entered the throne room, Missandei went to the throne at the end of the hall. The woman, who he could only guess was Daenerys Targaryen, was a peculiar looking woman. She was pretty, he supposed, but she looked like a ghost upon her throne, and her black dress, severe in its cut and styling, only made her look like a threat. By no means did Jon expect her to be in dresses of silk, especially since she supposedly rode dragons, but he had not expected her to dress as though she were not like them. Even in her clothes she looked like a foreign ruler. She did not even dress like those that served her. No, she represented no people that Jon knew dressed like that. 

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” Missandei said, her voice loud against the quiet stone. Jon thought she would stop there, but she did not. “Rightful heir to the Iron Throne, rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Unburnt, The Breaker of Chains.”

Jon wanted to laugh at the titles. What did it matter that she was the Khaleesi save for the men army she had brought was foreign? He did not even know what a khaleesi was. And Breaker of Chains? There were no chains to break in Westeros. 

He glanced at Ser Davos, who coughed. “This is Jon Snow. Regent to the North.”

Lord Tyrion smirked, but Jon doubted that he caught that Ser Davos had not called him king. If he had, he said nothing. 

“Thank you for traveling so far, my lord,” the queen spoke at last. Her accent was decidedly Westerosi and southern, but there was something about the way she said her vows that made it apparent that she was not from there at all. “I hope the seas were not too rough.”

“The winds were kind, your grace,” Jon replied. 

“Apologies,” Ser Davos said. “I have a thick Flea Bottom accent, I know. But Jon Snow is the king regent, your grace. He is not a lord.”

“Forgive me…”

“This is my Hand,” Jon said. “Ser Davos Seaworth. Your hand killed his sons.”

The queen looked at the Imp sharply but then turned back to Jon and asked Davos, giving them a simpering smile, as though she were used to men paying little attention to her words when she graced them with her notice. She reminded Jon of Queen Cersei or Prince Joffrey when they had been in Winterfell. “Forgive me, Ser Davos,” she said. “I never did receive a formal education.” Jon wanted to scoff. And so she was admitting to know knowing about politics or the kingdoms she had come to conquer. “But I could have sword the last King in the North was Torrhen Stark, who bent the knee to my ancestor Aegon Targaryen in exchange for his life and the lives of the Northmen. Torrhen Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. But do I have my facts wrong?”

“I wasn’t there, your grace,” Ser Davos replied. “I cannot tell you how or why Torrhen Stark bent the knee to your ancestors, but I would like to give you advice, your grace. A lesson in your history, if you would allow me to, as alive to hear of it.”

Her smile froze upon her lips but she nodded her head to him. 

“The last King in the North was Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. He was elected by the Northmen after your Hand’s nephew unlawfully executed his father. The North is protective of the memory of King Robb and his mother, your grace, who were murdered on the orders and chin of House Lannister. I would suggest respecting that lesson should you wish to find allies in the North.”

The dragon queen all but purses her lips. Jon watched as Lord Tyrion and Missandei looked at their queen nervously. Ah, so she had a temper. 

“Even so,” she said. “He rebelled against House Lannister and Baratheon, not House Targaryen, which means that an oath is still an oath. It is an oath that has been carried down for generations in perpetuity. And what does perpetuity mean, Lord Tyrion?”

“Forever,” replied the Imp. 

“Forever,” the woman repeated. “So I assume, my lord , that you’re here to bend the knee?”

“I am not.”

“Oh?” Her smile froze upon her lips and her violet eyes grew distant as though she were trying to control her anger. She did not hide it well. “Well, that is unfortunate. You’ve travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?”

“You claim to not be well educated, your grace,” Jon said flatly. “Your brother kidnapped and possibly raped my aunt, took her from her family and all that knew her and left her to die in a tower. Your father burned by grandfather alive when he wished to seek justice and have his daughter returned to him, despite the ruin that might have befallen her. Your father watched as my uncle strangled himself to death on the flicker of hope that he might be allowed to save his father. Your father called for the head of my own. If your father had his wish, only one Stark would have been left, a boy barely fifteen. It was not my family that broke faith with House Targaryen. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to protect his family and his people. Your father nearly destroyed an entire noble house, he nearly destroyed House Stark and my father rose in rebellion alongside Robert Baratheon, not just because of what your brother did to my aunt or what your father did to my grandfather and uncle, they did it because your father was ready to kill them because they sought to have their smdaughter, sister, and betrothed returned to them.”

Daenerys Targaryen’s lip twitched int a brief snarl and a roar came from outside. “My father was an evil man,” she said. “On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family. And I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father. Our two houses were allies for centuries. Those were the best centuries the kingdom's ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity with the Targaryens sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honor the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee and I will name you Warden of the North. Together we will save this country from those who would destroy it.”

“I shall not hold you for your father’s crimes if you do not hold me to the vows my ancestor made to yours. House Stark ruled for thousands of years and did what was best for their people. The Targaryens had rebellion after rebellion. I am certain there are books about it in the library of this keep. Perhaps you might spend time reading and learning about the country you wish to conquer instead of assuming there would be none to defy you for legitimate reasons.”

“Why are you here, Jon Snow?” Queen Daenerys demanded slowly, firmly, angrily. 

“Because I need your help, and you need mine.”

The woman smirked, the smugness was ridiculous and only made her look foolish. She was too open in her disdain and her superiority. “Did you see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?”

“I did.”

“And did you see the Dothraki, all of who have sworn to kill for me?”

“I had wondered why we had been offered no bread and salt, despite being invited here to speak, when nothing in Lord Tyrion’s letter said anything about bending the knee. I suppose you are better than the Freys. They at least pretended to have some civility.”

The dragon queen scowled. “You believe I need your help?” she asked, ignoring his words. “I do not need your help.”

“Not to defeat Cersei,” Ser Davos said. “You could storm King’s Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hells, we almost took it and we didn’t have dragons.”

“Almost,” Tyrion reiterated. 

Jon truly wanted to smack the little man. It was as though he cared not that the man whose sons had died was standing before him. 

“You haven’t stormed King’s Landing. Why not?” Jon asked. “The only reason I can see is that you don’t want to kill thousands of innocent people. It’s the fastest way to win the war, but you won’t do it. Which means you want the people of Westeros to like you, which, at the very least, makes you better than Cersei.”

“That doesn’t explain why I need your help,” the queen said firmly. 

“Because right now, you and I and Cersei and everyone else, we’re children playing at a game screaming that the rules aren’t fair.”

The queen turned to Lord Tyrion. “You told me you liked this man.”

“I do.”

“In the time since he’s met me he’s refused to call me queen, he’s refused to bend the knee, and now he’s calling me a child.”

“I believe he’s calling all of us children,” Lord Tyrion replied. “Figure of speech.”

“Your grace,” Jon said. “I have given you your proper title even though you do not grant me mine. I simply do not call you my queen for you are not. But that is not the point. Titles are pointless when everyone you know will die before winter is over if we don’t defeat the enemy to the North.”

“As far as I can see, you are the enemy to the North,” she replied. 

“I am not your enemy,” Jon said. “The dead are the enemy.”

The queen huffed a laugh. “The dead?” she asked skeptically and looked to Lord Tyrion. “Is that another figure of speech?”

The Imp opened his mouth to reply, but Jon spoke before he could. “The army of the dead is on the move.”

“The army of the dead?” Lord Tyrion repeated. 

“You don’t know me well, my lord, but you knew my father and the principles he taught his sons. Do you think I am a liar or a madman?”

“No,” Lord Tyrion replied. “I don’t think you’re either of those things.”

“The army of the dead is real,” Jon insisted. “The white walkers are real. The Night King is real. I’ve seen them. If they get past the Wall, and we’re squabbling amongst ourselves…” he stepped forward, but the Dothraki guards halted him. “We’re finished.”

The dragon queen looked at him for a long moment before standing and began to descend the stairs towards Jon. “I was born at Dragonstone,” she said. “Not that I can remember it. We fled, my brother and I, before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now of course. I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don't remember all of their names. I have been sold like a broodmare. I have been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea. Any sea.” She stopped before Jon so that they stood nearly face to face. “They did so for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And I will.”

Jon shook his head. Were not some of those things true of Cersei? Were not some of those things true for Sansa? For so many women across Westeros. But she wouldn’t care about that, she would not care about what Sansa had been through. What Rickon had been through. What Celia had been through. What he had been through. It would not matter to her. Jon had half a mind to think that she would have thanked the Bolton’s and the Freys for killing Robb and Lady Catelyn. “You’ll be ruling over a graveyard if we don’t defeat the Night King,” he said instead. 

Lord Tyrion stepped beside Daenerys Targaryen and spoke to Jon plainly. “The war against my sister has already begun. You can’t expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting… waterbed you saw beyond the Wall.”

“You don’t believe him,” Ser Davos said. “I understand that. It sounds like nonsense.” Jon took a deep breath and sighed, but nodded. “But if destiny has brought Daenerys Targaryen back to our shores, it has also made Jon Snow King Regent in the North. You were the first to bring Dothraki to Westeros. He was the first to make allies with Wildlings and northmen. He was named Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He was named King in the North. Not because of his birthright. He has no birthright. He's a damn bastard. All those hard son's of bitches chose him as their leader because they believe in him.” The queen turned her gaze from Ser Davos to look at him now, something glittered in her violet eyes and he did not like it. “All those things you don't believe in, he faced those things. He fought those things for the good of his people. He risked his life for his people. He took a knife in the heart for his people. He gave his own—“

“Davos,” he warned. The knight bowed his head, but Jon not miss the look Daenerys Targaryen and Lord Tyrion shared. 

“If we don't put aside our enmities and band together we will die,” Ser Davos continued. “And then it doesn't matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne.”

“If it doesn’t matter, you might as well kneel,” Lord Tyrion said. “Swear your allegiance to Queen Daenerys. Help her to defeat my sister and together our armies will protect the north.”

Jon laughed. “You do not know the North, Lord Tyrion. You have been gone for so long I do not think you remember what the south has done to the North. There is barely any time for formalities. While we stand here debating—“

“It takes no time to bend the knee. Pledge your sword to her cause.”

“And why would I do that?” Jon demanded. He looked to the Targaryen woman. “I mean no offense, your grace, but I do not know you. As far as I can tell, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father’s name. And my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King. Your family lost it due to conquest and therefore you must win it by conquest. The lords and ladies of the North placed their trust in me to lead them through the war against the dead and I will continue to do so as well as I can. I had hoped perhaps that you would fight for the people you claim to be here to save, oh breaker of chains, but I wonder now, seeing who comprises your armies, if you only broke their chains so that they would fight for you, not because you cared.”

The queen lifted her chin. “By declaring yourself King in the North, you and your people are in open rebellion.”

“And what are you going to do?” Jon asked. “You have not offered myself or my men bread and salt. You have given no promises to let us leave unharmed. You can kill us here, where we stand. But you will be seen by all to be no better than your father. The North will see that you are no better than Cersei or Joffrey. The North will not bend to you. We have only won our home back. If you feel any connection to this place despite having no memories here, if you feel any relief in safety in reclaiming your house’s ancestral seat, then you can only have an ounce of understanding of what it is like for the Starks to regain our home after so long being torn away from it. We will not give our home up so easily as our ancestors did.”

A bald man enters the throne room and approached the queen and began to whisper in her ear. Her expression hardened. “You must forgive my manners,” she said. “You will both be tired after your long journey. We'll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms.”

She began to speak to her guards and they stepped forward to take Jon and Ser Davos and their men out. 

“Am I your prisoner?” Jon asked firmly. 

She had already begun to walk away. She paused and looked back at him. “Not yet.”

Chapter Text

Lady Sansa brushed out Celia’s hair, humming softly to herself. She did not recognize the song and would have asked what it was if it did not seem like Lady Sansa was distracted. 

Celia knew that the lady missed Jon Snow. There were moments where Lady Sansa’s gaze seemed distant, as though she were trying to reconcile that Jon Snow was not there, that they would go down and break their fast and he would be there to kiss her hand or kiss the top of Celia’s head. 

She missed Jon Snow. 

She wondered if she missed her da like this whenever he was gone. Celia had never missed Tormund like this. She had never felt such a gaping hole tap at her chest when she woke up and remembered that Tormund was gone to fight the crows or go with Mance. 

This missing was different. It was like how she missed her ma sometimes. It must have been how she missed her da, even though she couldn’t remember him at all. A presence that she knew she was meant to have, but doesn’t recall ever having. 

But she knew Jon Snow and she missed him. She missed him and she wanted him to come back. She hoped that she would come back. 

Lady Sansa missed him too and Celia knew that Jon Snow loved Lady Sansa, so of course he would come back. He would come back and everything would be fine. 

Lady Sansa began to braid Celia’s hair like her own. Celia loved it when the lady braided her hair. It made Celia feel like she was a Stark.

“The North remembers,” she said in a deep voice.

Lady Sansa paused. “Did you just mimic Jon?”

Celia’s cheeks turned red as Lady Sansa began to laugh and soon Celia began to laugh as well, the sadness rushing away from them like a flurry of snow.

—

Celia had wanted to see Lord Bran. He was Rickon’s older brother and she wanted to see him since he had properly settled back in Winterfell. 

However, the two children had to be taken by Lady Meera Reed. She was Lord Reed’s daughter, the one who had the idea of how to rescue Rickon. She reminded Celia a little of Lady Lyanna and Lady Brienne. She was a strong person and she seemed to be really smart and Celia wanted to stick close to her. 

Lady Meera had both Celia and Rickon by the hand and she led them to Lord Bran’s room, but stopped when she saw the door was open. She lifted her hand and motioned for them both to be quiet and the children nodded. Lady Meera moved quietly, like a hunter, and made her way closer to the door and the all leaned against the wall as to not make too much noise and to keep them from leaning forward to look in. 

“The other dagger,” came the voice of Littletoe… Littlefinger. “The one that took her life, I would have stopped the dagger with my own heart if I could have. I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most. But I am here for her now. To do what he would have done, to protect her children. Anything I can do for you, Brandon, you need only ask.”

Lord Bran , Celia opened her mouth to correct him, but Lady Meera covered her mouth to keep her from speaking. Celia didn’t know who Brandon was, but this was certainly Lord Bran’s room.

“Do you know who this belonged to?” Came Lord Bran’s voice.

“No,” replied the weasel. “That very question was what started the War of the Five Kings. In a way, that dagger made you what you are today. Forced from your home, driven out into the wilds beyond the Wall. I imagine you’ve seen things most men wouldn’t believe.” They were both quiet for a moment, but Celia heard whispering fabric and wondered what they were doing. “To go through all that and make your way home again only to find such chaos in the world, I can only imagine—“

“Chaos is a ladder, Lord Baelish,” came Lord Bran’s voice. “And I am wondering when you will fall.”

Lady Meera then pulled Celia and Rickon forward. 

Littlefinger looked up at the three of them, his eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Lord Stark,” he said standing. 

“I’m not Lord Stark,” Lord Bran said. “There is my brother King Rickon, my brother King Regent Jon Snow, and my sister Lady Sansa of Winterfell.”

Littlefinger bowed and walked passed Celia, Rickon, and Lady Meera.

“What’s that?” Rickon asked, pointing to Lord Bran’s chair. 

“Maester Wolkan built it for me so I can move around more easily. He said he found it in Maester Luwin’s old documents.” Sadness flittered across his features and Rickon shifted uncomfortably at the name. “It appears he knew I would always grow up to need one.” Lord Bran paused. “You’re thinking about leaving.” 

“I am not,” Lady Meera replied. Celia and Rickon looked up at her. 

“Not?” Lord Bran repeated. 

“You may think you do not need me anymore, Bran, but you do.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“My father is here, Bran,” he said. “You’re here. I am staying here.” 

“I do not need you to.” 

“I’m staying.” 

“You’re safer,” Lord Bran’s voice raised loudly that Celia and Rickon jumped slightly in surprise. “You’re safer if you return home.”

Lady Meera let go of Celia and Rickon’s hands. “My place is with you and no matter how hard you try to push me away, I will be with you. I made my choice. Jojen made his choice. Summer made his choice. Hodor made his choice in a way. I will not let you deny me mine. I’m staying with you. Jojen says you are the only one that matters. Not dragons or lions or even wolves. You matter and I’m going to protect you. There is nothing you can say that will change my mind.” 

Lord Bran looked to Lady Meera for a long time and then sighed. His gaze then turned to Celia and Rickon. “If you must look after me, look after them too,” he said. “They will be important for what comes before and after.” 

—

One of the Knights of the Vale was heading the training with some of the children in Winterfell. Rickon was in another group with Lady Brienne. Celia hated it, but both the knight and Lady Brienne said it was better for them to learn separately so they could know what to do in case they ever got separated. 

Celia thought it was stupid. She was never going to get separated from Rickon, or Lady Sansa for that matter. 

But, she didn’t want to be rude as that would make Lady Sansa disappointed, so she didn’t argue too much with the person teaching her and some of the other children. 

However, Celia didn’t like the knight training her. He was blond haired and blue eyed. He introduced himself as Ser Hairy and Celia thought it was a stupid name. He didn’t have any hair on his face at all. He wasn’t hairy. 

He was also one of the knights who had talked about Lady Sansa getting married to one of them. The very thought made her scowl, however no one seemed to notice her discontent. 

Ser Hairy motioned for her to come forward and to pretend that he was one of the Others. 

“How would you attack me if I was one of the undead?”

Celia thought about it for a moment. She gripped the knife Jon Snow had given her and then she rushed forward as Ser Hairy readied himself. He was safely padded and covered in leather except for one place. She aimed a kick just so and it got Ser Hairy gasping and on his knees. 

At that, Celia ran away, rushing to Rickon and Lady Brienne as a couple of the other Knights of the Vale shouted and followed after her. Celia rushed to Rickon and hid behind his back, under his cloak as the Knights of the Vale continued to shout at her. Lady Brienne demanded to know what was going on and the knights told her what Celia had done. 

Rickon glanced under his arm to look back at Celia. 

“It’s the one that wanted to marry Lady Sansa,” she whispered. 

Rickon’s mouth twisted into a frown. “She took him down,” he said. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that. Maybe it can work on the Others too. Ask one of the Free Folk.” 

All the men were mad, but Lady Brienne sighed. “I shall teach her properly,” she said. “Return to your own lessons.” Lady Brienne then appraised Celia under Rickon’s cloak. “However, I will be speaking to Lady Sansa about this.”

—

Lady Sansa had been disappointed, but she had smiled once Lady Brienne had left. 

Rickon and Celia curled around Ghost and fell asleep near the fire as she did some of the things she needed to do as acting regent of the North. 

Celia hoped that Jon Snow returned soon. 

Chapter Text

Come back!

She could still hear it sometimes, the screams. She can remember the chaos of the fighting pit, the smell of burning flesh. She could still remember the men in the copper masks and their swords coated with the blood of the Unsullied and Dothraki. 

Come back!

She remembered Marselen wrapping his arms around her body to keep her safe as she raised her arms up into the air. 

Come back!

She remembered her voice barely reaching over the sound of the fire, of the burning, of the screams, as the queen flew higher and higher into the air as the world around Missandei begin to burn. 

Come back!

She remembered being left behind, left far behind until the queen was but a speck in the distant sky. 

She remembered the chaos left to them. She remembered what happened after. 

Missandei remembered the smell of charred flesh, of raspy breaths fanning against the cool air of the evening as the action became too painful to bear. She remembered holding the prince’s and as he cried out for his father and sister and mother. She remembered praying to his gods so that he would be alright. 

Come back!

She remembered waiting for the queen to come back, waiting on the balcony for the queen to appear on her dragon, ready to come for all of them, ready to save them. Who were they without their mhysa ?

She remembered the queen letting go of her hand and rushing to Drogon, rushing to him, away from Missandei, away from her people. Away, far away. 

Come back!

A roar echoed across the halls of Dragonstone and Missandei was shaken awake by the sound of it. 

She curled into herself. 

The queen no longer asked for Missandei at night so she didn’t feel so alone. Missandei felt alone. She felt so very alone at night in a land she did not feel safe in. 

If Marselen were still on Dragonstone, Missandei would have gone to him, gone crawling to the place where the Unsullied slept and curled into her brother’s chest and listened as he sang to her softly. Everyone cared for the queen, but Marselen was the one who cared for Missandei. 

But her only brother was gone, he had gone to see what this land that their queen had brought them to was like. He sailed with Yara Greyjoy and her brother. They sailed. 

Missandei curled closer into herself under her covers and tried to go back to sleep. 

She was afraid, however, to drift. If she drifted again, she would go back to that memory, of the queen letting go of her hand and slipping from her reach and flying far away, leaving Missandei and the rest behind. 

Come back!

Another rumbling roar echoed across the sky like thunder and Missandei curled into a small ball and covered her ears. She did not like it. She did not like it at all. 

—

The queen had just finished her bath and got ready for the day and that left Missandei, Irri, and Jhiqui to clean up the chamber. It was cold and Missandei had learned that if they did not clean the room right away, then the water might freeze and it would be even harder to clean. 

Irri and Jhiqui did as they always did and talked. Talked often about things that Missandei did not care to hear about. It was usually about men, one of the Unsullied or one of the Dothraki. Never about Missandei’s brother. She was the only one allowed to talk about her brother. She liked that Irri and Jhiqui didn’t take an interest in her brother. She liked having her brother care about only her and the queen. 

“What did you think of the Northmen when you saw them, Missandei?” Irri asked. 

“I heard they are wild, like the Dothraki,” Jhiqui added. “I heard that they turn into wolves when they are angry and that they have ice stuck to their bears.”

Missandei shrugged. Everyone was different, even if they came from the same place. The Unsullied were all different in one way or another. The Dothraki were all different too. 

“Ser Jorah was from the North,” Missandei says instead. 

“Then they shall be as loyal as him,” Irri decided. 

“I heard that Ser Jorah was forced to leave there,” Jhiqui whispered, as though it were some great secret. “I heard that he was told to leave because he sold slaves.”

Missandei narrowed her eyes. That did not sound right. It was true that Ser Jorah was a little gruff, but he did not ever speak out against the queen over freeing the slaves. And the queen would not have kept Ser Jorah for so long if he sold slaves. 

“Ser Jorah is loyal to the queen,” Missandei said. “He came for her.”

Irri snorted but nodd. It was the movement all adults did when they did not wish to argue with her. “Then I am sure his fellow Northemen will love the queen as he did.”

Missandei frowned. “This one does not think that they cared for the queen much,” she said. “One called himself a king and they did not come to bend the knee as the Sand Snakes and the Ironborn did.”

The women glanced at one another. They smirked knowingly at one another and Missandei did not like when they did that either. She did not like when they treated her like a child that would not understand what they were talking about. Missandei knew a lot about the world, a lot more than they cared to know. 

“What does the Northern king look like?” Irri asked. 

Missandei thought for a moment. “He has a long plain face with dark hair and a beard.”

Jhiqui huffed. “He must not be that handsome. I’m sure that he will come to know our auee/

Beauty and graces. So few can deny her anything.”

“If he does not fall at her feet soon then he must be one of those men who enjoy the company of others of his sex.” Irri said with a knowing grin. 

Missandei narrowed her eyes. That could not be the only reason, surely. There were plenty of other men who did not like the queen. The masters had not liked her and they had wives and children. 

“This one wonders if he is married.”

“I’m sure that Lord Tyrion would have said something, or Lord Varys, if that were true.” Jhiqui assured her. “I’m sure the Northern king will come to see and love the queen’s beauty. It’s only a matter of time. Whether he is married or not.”

Missandei said nothing. There was no reason to. Irri and Jhiqui had already made up their minds. 

—

Missandei stood at the walkways of the keep looking out over the docks. The queen was speaking privately with Lord Tyrion and did not need her there. 

Her brother and the Unsullied that had gone with Yara and Theon Greyjoy were not back yet. Even so, she looked out at the sea, waiting to see if there was even a smudge on the horizon. Marselen would come back soon. He was the only brother she had left. He was the only one who remembered everything else, who remembered Naath more clearly than she did. He remembered the butterflies and the crystal blue water. She wonders what would have happened if she had not been so frightened of slavers. She wonders what it would have been like to go back to Naath. 

But the queen had only asked if she would go. Marselen had not been asked. She had lost Mossador, she would not lose Marselen. Could not lose him. The masters had taken so much, the harpy as well. She would not leave Marselen. 

She heard footsteps and turned to see the king of the Northmen coming up the walkway. He was prone to walking, the king. He was not a king though, not a king like the queen was. This king was crowned because he was a man and because of his name. He had not fought or suffered as the queen had. 

He was gloomy too where Missandei’s queen was bright. 

The Northman stopped and looked at her. “You are Missandei of Naath, are you not?”

She nodded, unsure why he was making sure that was who she was. It was not as though there were other little girls who served the queen or looked like Missandei. 

“Why do you stare out to the sea?” he asked. “That is not the direction of Naath. Do you look for something towards Westeros?”

Missandei frowned. Surely she was not supposed to talk of such things. She glanced to Lord Tyrion who was by the Northman’s side. The Hand of the Queen nodded. She supposed it was alright to say a few things, not something drastic, but a few. 

“This one is waiting for her brother to come back on his ship,” she replied. 

The Northman nodded and looked out at the sea. “It is normal for a child to miss their siblings. I miss my own.” His brow lowered, his eyes narrowed as he looked out upon the horizon. “I wonder if they are looking for my return as much as you are looking for the return of your brother.”

“You have siblings?”

The Northman nodded. “I have a little girl waiting for me as well.” A small smile came upon his lips. “She’s waiting for me with my sister.” His grey eyes then turned to Missandei. The light caught them differently and, for some odd reasons, they reminded Missandei of the queen’s. “She’s a little younger than you.” He touched her cheek and wiped away a tear that had strayed from her eyes due to the wind. “I may not be your brother, but I know what it is like to have little girls wait for me to come home. Rest well and do not fret too much. There is nothing that breaks a heart more than seeing how much you have been missed and how much loneliness you were not able to stop.”

He straightened and then bowed his head. Missandei did the same and watched as he left with Lord Tyrion. 

She hoped that he did not make the queen angry. 

—

Missandei did not like Westeros. She did not like the darkness of the island or the dreariness of the skies. She did not like the cold or how the wind stung her cheeks whenever she walked outside. She was waiting for the queen, Irri and Jhiqui walking with her talking and giggling together about something Missandei didn’t care to pay attention to. They were friends with each other, but she did not like them much. She did not like that they did not see the queen as the breaker of chains. 

Missandei watched as the queen flew on the back of Drogon. She watched as the queen was a shadow upon the sky. 

Missandei’s heart trembled in her chest whenever she saw the queen flying. She was afraid that, one day, she might fly far away again. She was afraid that the queen would leave her behind. 

But no, the queen said that Missandei was important, that she needed Missandei. She needed Missandei as Ser Barristan had needed her. The queen would not leave her. 

Chapter Text

Sansa sat at her father’s desk, reviewing documents and statistics. She had never been good with numbers, but she did well enough to act as the lady of the keep and her brother’s regent. 

Two guards knocked at the door and, when she allowed them to enter, they looked concerned. “What is it?”

“There was a woman at the front gate, she wanted to come in, but we didn’t recognize her and her accent wasn’t quite northern.” The first guard appeared concerned, as though he had seen a ghost of some sort. 

“And?” Sansa asked. 

“We told her to wait,” said the other. “We were standing right next to her.”

“When we turned around, she had gone, my lady,” the first continued. “She gave no name or anything.”

“She came asking for a Ser Rodrick and Maester Luwin.”

Sansa paused and gave her full attention to the two men. They were only a little older than she was and they were of the Vale. They had not grown up in Winterfell. 

“Don’t trouble yourself over it, my lady,” the first guard said. “We’ll find her.”

A smile spread upon her lips. “You don’t have to. I know where she is.”

—

She was looking up at their father’s statue in the crypt when Sansa approached her. She turned when she heard Sansa’s footsteps and she looked so different. Her face was long and she was tanned. Her Stark Grey eyes reminded Sansa a little of their Uncle Benjen, but she could see bits of their father in her, bits of Jon. 

“Do I have to call you Lady Stark now?” she asked as Sansa stopped in front of her.

She was a little taller than Sansa now and it made her heart ache. They had been separated for so long. Instead of answering, Sansa stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Arya’s neck and pulled her close. Arya’s arms wrapped around her as well and they stood there for a long moment before pulling away. 

“You shouldn’t have run from the guards,” Sansa admonished. 

“I didn’t run,” her sister replied. “You just need better guards.” Sansa merely smiled at her. “It suits you, Lady Stark. Jon left you in charge?”

“Until he returns,” Sansa replied. “I hope he comes back soon. I remember how happy he was to see me. When he sees you, his heart will probably stop. You were always his favorite sister.” For some reason that fact did not bother her. 

Arya smiled and then turned to look at their father’s statue. “It doesn’t look like him,” she said softly. “It should have been carved by someone who knew his face.”

“Everyone who knew his face was dead.”

“We’re not,” Arya said. “Perhaps we can have it remade.”

“When it is all over,” Sansa agreed. 

At that, Arya turned to her. “They say you killed Joffrey. Did you?”

“I wish I had,” she said. She can still remember the way his face had colored, the way he was gasping, Cersei’s screams. “It was someone else. I was just the person they blamed.”

Arya nodded. “I was angry when I heard someone else had done it,” she said. “However long my list got, he was always first.”

“Your list?”

“Of people I’m going to kill.”

Sansa laughed and Arya joined her after a short moment. It was then that Sansa could tell her sister had not been joking. “Who did you get back to Winterfell?”

“It’s a long story,” Arya said. “I imagine yours is too.”

“Yes, but it isn’t a very pleasant one.”

“Mine neither,” Arya said. “But our stories aren’t over yet.”

Sansa smiled. “No, they’re not.” They hugged. “Arya,” she said gently. “Bran and Rickon are home too.”

Arya squeezed her just a little more tightly and Sansa smiled gently into her hair.

—

She took Arya to Bran first as Rickon was in his studies with Maester Wolkan and she did not wish to disturb his progress anymore than he was disrupting it himself. 

Bran was sitting next to the weirwood tree and Meera was standing nearby, leaning against the bark. Lord Reed occasionally came as well, but he was spending most of his time teaching the people how to fight and, more specifically, how to evade. 

“You came home,” Bran said, looking at Arya carefully. 

Arya’s breath seemed to shudder in the air beside them and Sansa watched as she went to their brother and hugged him tightly. Bran touched her back and Arya let go, stepping away for a moment to get a full look at him. 

“I saw you at the crossroads,” he said plainly. 

“You saw me?” she asked. 

“I see quite a lot now,” Bran replied. 

“He has… visions now,” Sansa explained. Even she did not fully understand it all and she could tell that going into detail did not help Bran at all. He was worried, Meera had informed her, of saying something he shouldn’t. 

“I thought you might go to King’s Landing,” he said, looking at Arya with slightly distant eyes. 

“So did I,” Arya admitted. 

Sansa narrowed her eyes slightly. “Why would you go back there?”

“Cersei is in her list of names,” Bran replied. 

“Who else is on your list?” Sansa asked. 

Arya shook her head. “Most of them are dead already.”

Bran then produced a dagger. He unsheathed it and Sansa recognized it as Valyrian steel. She had seen Jon’s sword often enough to know the difference in the clarity of the blade, especially in the sunlight reflected on the snow. 

“Where did you get this?” Arya demanded.

“Littlefinger gave it to me.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes as Arya turned to her. “Littlefinger,” she said. “He’s here?”

Sansa took a deep breath. “He has declared for House Stark,” she said, not wishing to go into a deeper reason out in the open, not when Littlefinger had made it apparent that he cared not for the sacred nature of the godswood. “Why would he give you a dagger?”

“He thought I’d want it,” he replied. 

“Why?”

“Because it was meant to kill me.”

The very thought of what could have happened made Sansa’s heart stuttered in her chest. She never wanted to think of losing anyone in their pack again. Never. “The cutthroat after your fall?”

“Why would a cutthroat have a Valyrian dagger?”

“Someone very wealthy wanted me dead,” Bran replied. “But it does not matter. The person who ordered it is already dead and the instigator will be soon as well.”

Sansa chewed her lip. “Littlefinger wouldn’t but you anything unless he thought he was getting something back.”

“It doesn’t matter, Sansa,” he said, looking up at her. “Trust me. Besides, I don’t want it.” He resheathed the dagger and held it out to Arya.

She took it carefully. “Are you sure? It’s Valyrian steel.”

“It’s wasted on a cripple,” he replied. “Besides, you’ll need it to help Jon. He can’t do it alone.”

“Do what alone?” Sansa asked.

“The lone wolf dies, Sansa,” Bran said. “But the pack survives.”

—

Rickon didn’t recognize Arya and Sansa could see the hurt in Arya’s eyes flicker quickly. 

“I know who you are,” he said hesitantly. He held into Celia’s hand for comfort and Sansa was glad he didn’t feel alone or that he had to always act trying around the wildling girl. “I just don’t… I don’t remember you.”

Arya nodded slowly. “You were really young when I last saw you,” she said. “And so was I. Maybe we can get to know one another better as time goes on.”

Rickon nodded silently, but he looked Arya over as though trying desperately to remember who she was to him outside of a woman with a name held close to his heart. 

“And who are you?” Arya asked, turning her attention to the girl beside their brother. 

Celia curtsied, still holding Rickon’s hand. “Celia.”

Arya smiled. “You don’t have to curtsy to me.”

“But your Rickon, Lady Sansa, Lord Bran, and Jon Snow’s sister and I’m meeting you for the first time.”

Arya chuckled. “And where are you from?”

“Beyond the Wall,” she said. “Jon Snow protected us from the Others and brought us to Castle Black and Ghost protected me when the bad men came and hurt Jon Snow.”

Arya’s gaze narrowed and she turned to Sansa. 

“There’s something you need to know about Jon,” she said. “But later.” She looked to Rickon and Celia. “You two need to get back to your lessons. I’ll see you two for our last meal of the day.”

Rickon and Celia nodded and left for their lessons with Brienne. 

Arya looked at her. “What happened to Jon?”

Chapter Text

Daenerys looked over the Painted Table with the map of Westeros laid upon it. Aegon the Conqueror had made this map, had planned out his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, bringing Westeros peace and stability, something that had not been possible. 

Daenerys remembered a flicker of a memory, of a time when Viserys still held their mother’s crown tightly in his grasp. He had told her of the Painted Table, of their mother letting him play with the different pieces to make the progress of their brother Rhaegar and the rest of their loyalist troops. 

And now, here Daenerys stood, coming up with her own strategy to take back what was rightfully hers, which had belonged to her the moment she had been born in this very keep. 

Light shone from the sliver of windows of the four directions. North. South. East. West. They seemed to converge on King’s Landing, taunting her, reminding her of her goal, of her birthright. Her birthright that her Hand was distracting her from. 

“Dragonglass?” she repeated. 

“Yes,” the Imp replied plainly. “Volcanic glass, obsidian. He says you have a tremendous amount of it here.”

It sometimes annoyed her, the way he spoke around things, as though being direct was far too simple for a man of his intellect. 

“Why are we talking about glass?” she demanded. She motioned towards the Southron window. “We just lost two of our allies.”

“Which is why I was speaking to Jon Snow,” he replied in the laid back way he always did. “A potential ally.”

Daenerys sighed. “And what does this proclaimed King of the North want with dragonglass?”

The title was ridiculous. Pretentious. He was a bastard for one thing. He had been a bastard since birth. And there was the way he had spoken to her upon their first meeting. It had her seething. She knew it would not do well for her to burn him alive, not yet, he might still prove useful, even if he is the bastard son of the usurper dog. She would be better than Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon. 

“Apparently it can be turned into weapons that kill the undead and their foot soldiers, or stop them, destroy them.” He paused. “I’m unsure of the proper wording.”

Daenerys put her hand on her hip and tried to think as she walked across the length of the Painted Table. These Others, the undead. They sounded like nothing but fantasy, a reason given to say why the North would not bend to her, why they would not help her gain her rightful inheritance as the last Targaryen. She walked towards her Hand. He was often filled with sweet words and he would not lie to her. No, he would not. He thought too highly of her to lie for her sake. He would tell her the truth. After all, this was getting in the way of his own revenge. “And what do you think of this Army of the Dead and White Walkers and Night Kings?”

“I’d very much like to believe that Jon Snow is wrong,” Tyrion replied, looking towards the North. “But a wise man once said that you should never believe a thing simply because you want to believe it.”

Daenerys could see the logic in that, but she gave a slight pause. “Which wise man said this?”

“I don’t remember,” he said, not looking her in the eyes. 

Daenerys did not move her gaze from him. “Are you trying to present your own statements as ancient wisdom?”

“I would never do that.” However, when she did not alleviate her gaze he continued. “To you.”

Daenerys’ lips formed a tight line and she moved away from the Imp. As a child she had once thought she was never meant for anything but to be Viserys’ queen, a little doll for her brother to dress and dictate as he liked, but no. No, she had been made for greater things. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains. She was all these things. The men of Westeros most likely doubted that she deserved any of these titles, a woman. A beautiful woman. Men often only saw the surface. They did not see what laid beneath it. And that is what made men foolish. It was what led to the destruction of her house, for the love of a beautiful woman. Daenerys scoffed. She doubted the Northern lady was a true Valyrian beauty. And yet she had been the reason for the fall of Daenerys’ house. Now, she would make it rise. Out of the ashes she would bring Westeros to its knees and remind the men who held the wheel that she was the one who would stop their petty games. 

“The reason I believe Jon Snow,” Tyrion continued. “Is because he is here. All his advisors, especially his sister, my wife, the Lady Sansa, would have told him not to come. I would have told him not to come, yet he is here anyway.” Daenerys tilted her head, absorbing his words and stared into the fire. “You don’t have to believe him. Let him mine the dragonglass. If he’s wrong, it’s worthless. You didn’t even know it was here. It’s nothing to you. Give him something by giving him nothing.” Daenerys turned her head as the Imp approached. “Take a step toward a more productive relationship with a possible ally. Keep him occupied while we focus on the task at hand. Casterly Rock.” 

Then, Daenerys remembered something. Jon Snow’s companion, the uncultured man with the strange accent. “What was it that the man, Ser Davos, said?” she said, pondering aloud. “About taking a knife in the heart for his people.” The wording had been strange. It had been as though Jon Snow wanted it to be secret. It felt important, but Daenerys couldn’t place her finger on it. If the Red Priestess had still been on Dragonstone, she would have asked her. “Did you notice that?”
“You must allow them their flights of fancy,” Tyrion said, shaking his head and dismissing the thought. “It’s dreary in the North and they are a culture of their own. It no doubt doesn’t mean anything literal.”

Daenerys wasn’t certain of that. She was not certain of that at all, but she let that thought pass and turned to the fire, debating on if she should give Jon Snow anything if he did not bend the knee. 

—

Daenerys looked at two of her dragons as they flew over the ocean and the mountains in the distance. Drogon was asleep on one of those mountains, letting his brothers play without him, no doubt watching them if he were not napping, yet Daenerys sensed that he was. Her connection to Drogon was stronger than the rest. But it only made sense, Daenerys was his rider and he was named for her first husband. 

The thought of Drogo squeezed at her heart, but the pain was not as it had been when she first lost him, or the second. She was a woman still, after all, and still mourned her losses. But she did not let them hold her down as they did for most women. She did not let it destroy her as it did some men. 

“Amazing thing to see,” Jon Snow said from behind her, coming down the path to the corner of it that Daenerys stood upon. 

She continued watching her children fly. “I named them after my brothers, Viserys and Rhaegar. They are both gone now. One before I was born and the other in Essos.” She could still hear his screams sometimes. Still hear his whispers in the back of her mind in her dreams. I loved you. She turned to look at him, keeping her hand on the wall. “You lost two brothers as well?”

Jon Snow looked at her, glanced down and then back to the dragons. Varys had spoken of the North’s silence, of their solemn nature. She did not let it bother her, at least not outwardly. 

“People thought dragons were gone forever, but here they are,” she said, watching her children spin in the sky. Her children, these ones particularly, were more carefree than Drogon. They were not connected to their mother as he was. They did not know her worries or struggles, and yet they were as miraculous as their brother. She returned her gaze to the man before her. “Perhaps we should all be examining what we think we know.” 

Jon Snow stepped closer to the wall of the path, bowing his head slightly and stared out at the sea, possibly towards his ship. “You’ve been talking to Tyrion.” 

Daenerys turned her back to her children and faced Dragonstone. This was the place she had been born, the place her mother died. She wondered what her mother would think of her now, knowing that her last child, a daughter, was the one who would bring justice to her husband, to their house. “He is my Hand.”
“He enjoys talking.” 

“We all enjoy what we’re good at.” 

“I don’t,” Jon Snow replied as easily as though it were breathing.

She turned to look at him, his profile. He had a long face, not handsome like Daario or Drogo. There was something noble about it though, as though he were meant to be a leader. So rarely were heroes described by their beauty, rather their character. She could see, in some way, why the North would want him as their king over the trueborn daughter of the usurper dog. He looked like him, at least that is what Tyrion and Varys told her. “You know I’m not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne.” 

Anger flashed in his features and Daenerys felt something stir inside her, but she was not certain what. He looked at her with annoyance. “I never expected that you would.” 

“And I haven’t changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to the throne,” she said sternly. 

“I haven’t either, he replied flatly. 

Daenerys turned away from him and back to Dragonstone. He, in turn, looked North. He was not good at hiding his emotions. It would make him easy to read, which did not make for a good king. “I will allow you to mine the dragonglass,” she told him “And forge weapons from it.” Daenerys turned to look at him and he returned her gaze in shock. Good, let him think her generous. “Any resources or men you need, I will provide.” 

“Thank you.” 

Danerys turned back to the ocean, dismissing him. 

“Do you believe me then?” he asked. “About the NIght King and the Army of the Dead?” 

She did not look at him, instead watching her dragons fly. Drogon had joined them. “You better get to work, Jon Snow.” 

She listened as he walked away and Daenerys glanced at him, watching as he walked up the steps towards the castle, his cloak blowing carefully in the wind.

—

“We need to find Euron Greyjoy’s fleet and sink it,” Daenerys said as she and her advisors stood around the Painted Table. Missandei stood beside her, gazing at the map in interest. She had served Ser Barristan well when Daenerys had been gone. She had been there too when the old knight had died. She would be forever grateful for the girl in that regard, for being there for him when Daenerys could not. 

“Your grace,” Lord Varys said. “He’s already destroyed a good portion of our fleet. To send our remaining ships after him--” 

“I am not speaking about our ships,” she said, looking to Varys with purpose. He looked at her in concern and then looked at her Hand.

“But you’ll have to go yourself,” the Imp said cautiously. “Euron’s ships could be anywhere, he might already be close to King’s Landing. Even if he isn’t,  you’d be flying around the open seas alone for who knows how long.” 

“I wouldn’t be alone,” she said in annoyance. Even after all she had accomplished, they still doubted her. “I’d have Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. What can anyone do to them?” 

Missandei’s hand was then in her own and Daenerys looked down to see the young girl looking up at her in worry, squeezing her hand tightly. “They can still do something, your grace,” she said. “It only takes one arrow.” 

Daenerys squeezed the girl’s hand back. She would be fine. Nothing Euron Greyjoy or Cersei Lannister had could be used to harm her. 

“It’s too great a risk,” Tyrion said, pulling her attention away from Missandei, who dropped her hand. “You’re too important.” 

Daenerys breathed through her nose and looked down at the map of Westeros. “What about Casterly Rock?”

“The Unsullied will be there,” Lord Varys stated. “Their ships had broken from Yara Greyjoy’s ship. We should hear back from them soon.” 

“What will they face?” Daenerys asked for Missandei’s sake.

“A difficult situation,” Lord Varys replied. “They know we’re coming.”

“Yes,” the Imp said. “Cersei believes my sole purpose in life is to destroy House Lannister. She will be ready.” 

—

Daenerys walked along the path with Missandei outside of Dragonstone. Irri and Jhiqui were on Daenerys’ other side but the two were giggling to each other in Dothraki and glancing back at the guards behind them. Daenerys occasionally found them to be annoying, but they had been loyal to her from the beginning. They had been the first slaves she had freed. Daenerys couldn’t bear to be parted from them. 

“Your grace,” Missandei said as they walked. “Is there still no word from the Unsullied?”

“We shall hear from them soon,” Daenerys assured the girl. “Once the Rock is taken we will have the Westerlands and the Reach. We have Dorne already and the North does not appear to be anything to worry about. The Riverlands are in shambles and the Vale has been neutral since the beginning of the War of the Five Kings, or so Tyrion says. Once we have the Rock, your brother will return.” 

“Your grace,” came the northern accent of Jon Snow. He was not dressed in his cloak, but as he had been when he first arrived on Dragonstone. 

“ He is not so plain ,” Jhiqui giggled to Daenerys.

A smirk crossed her lips as she looked to her handmaidens and then looked to one of her guards who stepped forward. She spoke in Dothraki, “ It’s alright. ” She walked down the stairs with Missandei, who was then stopped by Irri, who held a finger to her lips, smirking, winking at Daenerys. “Let Missandei come,” she said. “You may all be dismissed. Jon Snow has no weapons, after all.” 

 Daenerys followed behind Jon Snow when she reached the bottom of the stairs with Missandei. He led her along the beach until they reached a cave where Ser Davos was waiting with a lit torch. Jon Snow took the torch from Ser Davos and began to walk into the cave. Daenerys and Missandei followed behind him with Ser Davos behind them. 

“I wanted you to see it before we start hacking it to bits,” the Northman said as he led them deeper into the cave.

The path opened into a cavern and stone twinkled against the firelight, like stars against the night. If Daenerys had not come from the morning air herself and had not known she was in a cave, she would have thought the sun had disappeared and the stars had graced themselves with their presence. It was a breathtaking sight. 

“So this is it,” Jon Snow said. “All we’ll ever need.” He paused as Daenerys continued to take it all in. “There’s something else I want to show you, your grace.” 

Daenerys followed him further into the cave. Jon Snow gave her the torch so she might see better herself and led her further in until they came upon a painted mural on the walls of the dragonglass. There were circles inside circles, shaped like solemn eyes. There were swirling patterns like a whirlpool etched upon the stone with paint or some sort of chalk or a mix of both. There were so many other patterns too that Daenerys could not put into words. 

Jon Snow placed his hand upon the wall. “The Children of the Forest made these.” 

“When?” 

“A very long time ago.” 

“They were right here,” she whispered in awe. “Standing where we’re standing. Before there were Targaryens or Starks or Lannisters. Maybe even before there were men.” 

“No,” Jon Snow replied. Daenerys looked at him in surprise at his certainty. She followed him deeper into the cave and saw a painting of human figures along those of tinier human-like ones. “They were here together, the Children and the First Men.” 

“Doing what?” Daenerys asked. “Fighting each other?”

Jon Snow motioned towards a wall and Daenerys shone the torch to it and her breath caught in her throat as the light flickered across the image. It was as though it were a nightmare. Harsh skeletal-like figures with hollowed eyes. 

“They fought together against their common enemy. Despite their differences, despite their suspicions, together.” Daenerys looked at him as he continued. “We need to do the same if we’re going to survive.” It was then that Daenerys saw that the eyes were not hollow. They were blue, a brilliant cold blue. “Because the enemy is real. It’s always been real.” 

Daenerys looked back at Jon Snow. “And you say you can’t defeat them without my armies and my dragons?” 

“The North defeated them once before,” Jon Snow replied. “But that was when we had the Children of the Forest, who are no more. It was when we had not suffered nearly a decade of loss. With you and your armies and your dragons, Westeros might have a fighting chance.” 

Daenerys stepped closer to him, the firelight catching in his eyes, turning them into a strange color, casting long shadows upon his face that made him appear far different than he usually did.  “I will fight for you,” she said. “I will fight for the North when you bend the knee.” 

He looked almost disappointed, but not surprised. “My people won’t accept a southron ruler, not after all they’ve suffered. It is not just because it is you. They do not want anyone.” 

Daenerys stepped closer towards him. He was almost handsome in this light. “They will if their king does,” she told him in a hushed voice. “They chose you to protect them. Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?” 

“It is not my pride, your grace,” he said. “They follow me because they respect me, believe me. That will all be gone if I kneel. Your grace, my word and my knee will not give you the North.” 

“Then we are at an impasse,” Daenerys said, all magic from the scribbles and stone gone. 

“It appears we are.”

Chapter Text

He felt bad that he couldn’t remember her, couldn’t remember the sister Jon and Sansa did. While they had looked like his parents, like some vague shadow of a memory buried deep inside, it felt like Arya had been faceless, a girl who was like a boy running around the keep, ghosts of her laughter mingling in with Robb, who he also barely remembered either blank faces against blank walls. 

There had been tapestries there once as well. 

Arya had told him that it was okay that he didn’t remember. He had been a baby when they last saw each other, but Rickon didn’t like that excuse. 

He didn’t like that he didn’t remember his mother and father, Robb. He could barely remember Jon and Sansa without the memories blending with his parents and causing him to grow more and more confused. 

He remembered Bran, remembered being under Winterfell. He remembered the direwolves. He remembered Jojen and Meera Reed, even if the memory was not so clear. 

But he couldn’t show weakness. He was the king, even if he didn’t really feel like it. He was supposed to take care of Sansa and Celia, like Jon asked him to. And Bran and Arya now too. 

He had to be a strong and good king to protect his sisters and brother and Celia. It’s what Jon would want him to do and he would like to believe it’s what his parents would want from him as well. 

He had to be strong so that he could protect the people he cared about. He would just have to do his best and try to make sure that everyone was as safe as they possibly could be. 

“Are you okay?” Celia asked softly. 

Rickon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He hadn’t been crying at least. “Yeah.”

Celia squeezed his hand tightly. “We have to go practice with Lady Brienne,” she said. 

“Okay, we don’t want to have her waiting.”

They had allowed Celia and him to practice together since the kicking incident. The maester even said that it might be good for him to feel like he has someone to protect. Rickon didn’t quite get what that meant. He had people to protect. He had a kingdom to protect too. 

But he wasn’t going to argue against it. Having Celia close by made him feel more grounded in the present. Sometimes he would feel lost, like the blank memories were trying to push themselves forward. It was dizzying, but with Celia there, he knew when he was. 

And sometimes that made all the difference. 

—

When they made their way down to the training yard, Lady Brienne was already working with Podrick, although it seemed to be more of a demonstration for those watching. The lady knight kicked Podrick’s foot out from under him and he fell face first into the dirt. Celia winced beside him. That had to have hurt. 

“Don’t lunge,” the knight said sternly. 

Podrick pushed himself back up and picked up his sword and attacked again. Brienne blocked his blows and kicked his foot out again. 

“Don’t go where your enemy leads you,” she said to the crowd. 

Someone moved and Rickon glanced to see Arya begin to approach Lady Brienne. 

“Up,” the lady knight continued. She struck at Podrick, who blocked her quickly, however she hit him in the stomach with the hilt of her sword and Podrick landed on the ground hard. 

“And don’t—“

“Don’t fight someone like her in the first place,” Arya finished. 

Lady Brienne looked to Arya as Podrick picked up his sword and went to greet Rickon and Celia. 

“Nice sword,” Arya continued. 

“Nice dagger,” Lady Brienne replied. 

Arya unsheathed her dagger and flipped it between her fingers before giving it to Brienne to look at. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve trained,” Arya said. 

“I shall find a more ready knight to help with you, my lady,” Lady Brienne replied. 

“They haven’t beat the Hound, you did. I want to train with you.”

“I am demonstrating for the people right now, my lady. Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps it would be wise to show them what real fighting looks like.”

Lady Brienne glanced at Rickon and he realized that other people were looking at him too, even Celia. “I suppose it would be fine,” she said, uncertain of what else to say. 

Arya drew her sword, a thin one that almost looked like a needle. 

“You can’t use that, my lady,” Lady Brienne said. “It’s too small.”

“I won’t cut you,” Arya replied. “Don’t worry.”

The two women raised their swords ready to spar. Lady Brienne was the first to strike, but Arya sidestepped quickly and partied the attack. Lady Brienne moved again, in such a way to let the others watching properly see what Arya was doing. Arya continued to sidestep and dodge multiple strikes from Lady Brienne. Rickon’s sister then struck Lady Brienne’s hand causing her to lose her two-handed grip on her sword. The lady knight began to circle Arya, who held her sword behind her back, waiting. 

Lady Brienne struck Arya, who blocked it easily and spun to his Lady Brienne in the knee, causing the knight’s sword to strike the ground. Lady Brienne kicked Arya in the stomach and sent Rickon’s sister to the ground, but Arya moved quickly back up. Arya dropped her sword in the ensuing struggle. Before Lady Brienne was able to demonstrate a finishing blow, Arya had drawn her dagger and had it near Lady Brienne’s neck. 

The fight was over. 

“Who taught you to do that?” Lady Brienne asked. 

A smirk crossed Arya’s lips. “No one.”

Rickon narrowed his eyes. He felt like his sister was telling the truth, and yet he felt like it was almost a lie. 

—

“Rickon, let’s go practice your swordplay,” Arya said sitting on the floor next to him as he and Celia and their group began patching together leather for the armor. 

“I can’t,” he replied. “I’m busy.”

“You are a king, Rickon,” Arya replied. “You need to focus on the sword.”

“Lady Brienne will keep teaching me during my break, I need to help with this first.”

“The others can handle this,” Arya insisted. “What’s important is you learning how to defend yourself.”

“I need to help make sure that the fighters and the people can stay warm.”

“And it’s a good way to practice sewing a person,” Celia added cheerfully. 

Rickon’s lips twitched. “Sorry, Arya. Not right now. Later.”

—

Rickon was worried. They hadn’t heard from Jon in a while, just a raven informing them that he was almost at Dragonstone and then nothing. 

Bran told them that Jon was okay, that he was doing what was necessary and that he wasn’t betraying the heart of the North, but Rickon wasn’t even certain what that meant. 

He could see that Sansa was worried, Arya was anxious, Bran was calm, and Celia was nervous. 

Celia worried about him most of all. She said she was afraid of bad men hurting him. 

Rickon made sure she knew that Jon would be okay. Made sure that she knew Jon would come back soon. It reminded him of missing his mother. It reminded him of being smaller in Winterfell, small and waiting, wanting for his mother. 

“Jon will be back,” he told her. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

There was a chill in the air that had not been there before. There had been a moment where the queen might see reason, that she might see that this was more than just a game of thrones. For a person who claimed to be a sort of champion for the small folk, she cared little for how this war, both of flesh and of ice, might affect them, affect her people. She claimed to want the North as well, but has done nothing to prove that she is any different from her father. 

At the news of the taking of the Reach, the Dragon Queen had begun a brisk walk back to Dragonstone with her advisors following behind her. 

Missandei was trying to keep up with her and looked to be near tears as she could not walk fast enough. Jon offered her his hand so that she might not feel that she was being left behind. 

“You’ll want to discuss this amongst yourselves,” Davos began, trying to get them out of there quickly. “Perhaps—“

“You will stay,” Queen Daenerys said flatly, not looking back at them. Jon rolled his eyes and glanced at Davos who shook his head. “All my allies are gone. They’ve been taken from me while I’ve been here on this island.”

“We still have the largest army,” Tyrion tried to reason. 

“Sho won’t be able to eat because Cersei has taken all the food from the Reach,” she replied. Her voice trembled and it reminded Jon of a child who has had a toy taken from them only to realize in that moment that it was their favorite toy, even if they had not previously cared for it. 

“Call the Unsullied back,” Tyrion continued. “We still have enough ships to carry the Dothraki to the mainland. Commit to the blockade of King's Landing. We have a plan. It's still the right plan—“

She stopped walking abruptly and turned to her Hand, her violet eyes wide in anger. “The right plan ?” she demanded. Her voice was shrill and impassioned. Jon could read her like an open book. “Your strategy has lost us Dorne, the Iron Islands and the Reach.”

Jon let go of Missandei’s hand but she could feel her fingers clasp around the leather of his tunic. 

“If I’ve underestimated our enemies—“

“ Our enemies?” the queen scoffed. “Your family, you mean.” One of the dragons screeched overhead. “Perhaps you don’t want to hurt them after all.”

Jon glanced at the ocean as the queen did, watching the three dragons flying above the water, spinning. They could almost look like birds from that distance, but Jon knew the damage such creatures could do. It was why he was even there after all. 

“Enough with the clever plans,” Queen Daenerys said, turning to look back at Tyrion. “I have three large dragons. I’m going to fly them to the Red Keep.”

“We’ve discussed this,” the Imp said carefully and Jon stiffened. 

It seemed the second things didn't go the Dragon Queen’s way, she was quick to imprison him and apparently quick to use her dragons. So much so that this is something her advisors had spoken to her at length on, apparently. This woman was dangerous. This woman was a danger to all of Westeros. 

“My enemies are in the Red Keep,” she snarled. “What kind of a queen am I if I'm not willing to risk my life to fight them?”

“A smart one,” Lord Tyrion replied calmly. Bringing dragons to the Red Keep would be no fight. It would be a massacre. 

The dragon queen then looked to Jon. “What do you think I should do?”

The very fact that she would ask him, her prisoner, this question and even acknowledge his council over her Hand or Lord Varys was ridiculous. She did not even care for his words when it came to his home’s independence. What could she possibly care for his opinion? “I would never presume to—“

“I’m at war,” she said, approaching him. “I’m losing. What do you think I should do?”

“I am your prisoner, your grace,” he said plainly. “Call me as you wish, but that is what I am to you. You do not believe me when it comes to the undead, not enough to see that the fight is North not south.” He shook his head and looked out to the ocean. “I have never been this far south before. Stark men, even though that is not what I am, have never fared well in the South. My uncle and grandfather were killed by your father. My father was killed by King Joffrey. My brother was killed at a wedding on the orders of your Hand’s father.” He looked back at the Dragon Queen. “They were killed by kings and lords who did not care about the rules, about the agreements made between men of honor. These men broke guest rights, they broke the trust between a king and his lords. You claim that you are not your father, your grace, but fire catches. Even if you only meant to hurt Queen Cersei. Even if you only meant to destroy the Red Keep… the servants there are innocent, your grace. They have committed no crimes other than being born in King’s Landing. Fire does not discriminate from guilty or innocent. People will die if you use your dragons, your grace. And if you use your dragons, you are telling all of Westeros that you are here to do what your father and Aegon the Conqueror did not: burn Westeros to the ground. The people are tired of fighting, your grace, and you will earn no love from them if you are seen being just like the Mad King, Joffrey Baratheon, or Tywin Lannister.”

She pursed her lips and then looked out to the ocean, at her dragons. Jon could only hope that she contemplated what he said. 

—

Jon and Davos walked along the paths outside Dragonstone. The queen had left on Drogon to meet with the Unsullied at Casterly Rock and take them and the Dothraki to the Reach so they might get some grain back and perhaps regain the keep that had sworn itself to her. 

However, Jon wasn’t sure if it was ever hers to begin with. Sansa had spoken very briefly about the Tyrells. The only one alive from the main family was a Tyrell by marriage and a widow besides. She had no right to Highgarden, it would have gone to a cousin of another, not the old Queen of Thorns. It was not her right to promise anything to Daenerys Targaryen. 

“What do you think of her?” Davos asked. “The queen?”

“She isn’t as smart as she thinks she is. I have half a mind to think most of how she got her was luck rather than believing in herself. And she obviously hasn’t learned anything about Westeros because she ignores any and all reason for why the Seven Kingdoms might distrust her and her house.”

“Her advisors too. I don’t like them. I heard Ser Barristan Selmy once served her. The man was a good knight, but he was loyal to King Aerys. Many said that he should have been killed for fighting on the side of the Targaryens. I heard Ser Jorah Mormont served her as well. He ran from prosecution for selling Northmen into slavery didn’t he?”

“He did. I remember my father riding out to take his head. Jeor Mormon was so ashamed that he sent himself to the Night Watch.”

Davos nodded. “LLord Tyrion is a man like his father. He’s ruthless, even if he pretends to be above it all. Lady Sansa believes it was Lady Olenna who killed Joffrey and was ready and willing to let your sister take the fall because she could not give the Tyrells the North. And, from what I remember Stannis saying, Lord Varys is very much like Lord Baelish, for better or for worse. And Dorne is barely an ally, perhaps one of convenience. But even then, from what I know of Prince Doran, he would not like the way the dragon queen behaves.”

Jon and Davos made it to the corner of the path they were on. Missandei was standing against the wall, leaving against it, looking towards where the Dragon Queen had gone. 

“Missandei,” Jon said gently. 

She bowed her head respectfully. “Ser Davos,” she said. “Lord Snow.”

“King Snow,” Davos corrected, although Jon could hear the humor in his voice as that wouldn’t be Jon’s title. Lord or King Regent, perhaps. “No,” Davos continued and looked to Jon. “That doesn’t sound right. King Jon?”

He simply shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Might this one ask you a question?” Missandei asked carefully looking at Jon curiously. 

“Of course.”

“Your name is Jon Snow, but your father’s name was Ned Stark.”

“I’m a bastard,” Jon explained. “My parents weren’t married. The name Snow is given to all bastards born in the North. Different kingdoms have different names for those born outside of marriage.”

“Is the custom different in Naath?” Davos asked. 

“This one does not remember,” she replied. “But there are no marriages in Naath so there are no bastards.”

Jon nodded. “You were once a slave, correct?”

Missandei nodded. 

“Did any of your masters have children with other slaves or with servants with women they were not married to?”

Missandei nodded again. 

“Were the children treated differently and not given the masters names?”

“Yes.”

“It is like that here,” Jon continued. “Except the women were not slaves, although they might occasionally be servants or other women. I don’t know who my mother is, but my father, Lord Stark, brought me to Winterfell so I might be raised with my half-siblings.”

Missandei seemed to ponder what he told her and then she nodded. 

“If I may,” Davos said gently. “How did a slave girl come to serve under Queen Daenerys Targaryen?”

“She bought this one from her master and set this one free.”

Jon worries about how the girl talked, about how she spoke of herself, as though she were barely a person. Surely the Dragon Queen had noticed that. This was not some sort of language barrier or translation. This was a speech pattern the girl was choosing. 

“That was good of her,” Davos said. “Of course you are serving her now, aren’t you!”

“This one serves my queen because this one wants to serve her. Because this one believes in her.”

“And if you wanted to sail home to Naath tomorrow?” Jon asked. 

“Then she would give this one a ship for this one and her brother to go home.”

“You believe that?” Jon asked. 

“This one knows it,” Missandei replied, lifting her chin up proudly. “All those who came with her from Essos believe in her. She is not the queen because she’s the daughter of some king unknown to others. She’s the queen the people chose.”

She truly believes these things. And perhaps Daenerys Targaryen had been a good queen in Essos, but her campaign in Westeros was different. “She comes here for a throne only because it belonged to her father,” Jon told her plainly. “While she might have allies here, I have come, and am proof, that the North and perhaps the Riverlands and the Vale, do not wish for her to be queen. We have no masters and no slaves. Missandei,” he said gently. “Why is your queen here if not for her birthright? Why does she wish to take away my people’s choice in who their king or queen is?” Before Missandei could reply, Jon caught sight of a ship sailing towards the port. Missandei turned when she saw his gaze shift. Jon narrowed his eyes. “Is that a Greyjoy ship?”

—

Jon approached the shoreline as Theon Greyjoy and other Ironborn dragged their landing boat onto the beach, wading through the surf. Behind Jon were Davos, Missandei, and the Dothraki guards. 

He recognized Theon in an instant, but the man had changed since Jon had last seen him, the cocky wars who always thought he was better than him. He was thinner, his dark hair greying. His eyes had permanent dark circles beneath them. 

Theon froze when he saw Jon and recognized him. He wondered if he thought he was standing before Ned Stark’s ghost. He wondered what was going through his mind. Jon began to walk towards him on instinct, but stopped just before the surf could wet his feet. 

“Jon,” Theon said, his voice strained. “I didn’t know you were here.” He stepped towards Jon hesitantly. “S–Sansa… is she alright?”

At the mention of his sister’s name, Jon grabbed a hold of Theon by the collar and dragged him closer so that they might be face to face. “What you did for her,” he said, his voice trembling. “Is the only reason I’m not killing you.”

He glanced at Davos, who was watching the exchange with interest as Theon would not meet his gaze. Jon pushed Theon away, his anger still burning deep in his stomach. 

“We heard your uncle attacked your fleet,” Davos said. “We thought you were dead.”

“I should be,” Theon replied and Jon had never heard such pain in the man’s voice. 

“Your sister?” Davos asked. 

“Euron has her,” Theon replied. “I came to ask the queen to help get her back.”

“The queen is gone,” Jon said flatly. 

“Gone?” Theon asked. “Where did she go?”

Chapter Text

Celia held Rickon’s hand as she proudly walked him through the Free Folk’s settlement. She was off to see her cousin, Munda, and her husband, Longspear. She missed her cousins when she was in Winterfell, but she liked being with Lady Sansa and Rickon and Jon Snow. Even so, she missed her Free Folk family and Lady Sansa said she could take Rickon as well. 

“Osha was a wildling,” he told her as they walked through the camp. “She talked fondly of them.”

Celia didn’t know Rickon’s Osha, but he spoke highly of her. She had been his protector, after all, when the bad men took over Winterfell. He didn’t like talking about her much and Celia knew that it meant that she had died. She had died before Jon Snow and Lady Sansa won back Winterfell from the bad men. 

“Maybe we can find her clan,” Celia said as they finally reached Munda’s tent. “Munda!” she called out. 

Tormund always said that she needed to shout out the name of the person she wanted before entering the tent because she was a little girl and adults did things that little girls should not see, so she had to warn them when she was entering. However, Munda opened the flap and smiled at Celia, bending down slightly to pepper her face with kisses. She couldn’t kneel anymore because her belly was rounding with child. 

“Hello, my little one,” Munda said. She had been a big sister and mother to Celia at times, even though she was not much older than Lady Sansa. “I see you have brought the kneeler king with you.”

Rickon puffed out his chest. “I’m no kneeler.”

Munda chuckled. “I suppose not. You are one of us, in a way. Stolen, but brought back.” She shook her head. “Come inside, come inside. Don’t need you two getting your noses bitten off by the chill.”

Longspear smiled at Celia and bent down to pick her up into his arms and kissed her cheek. She had not known Longspear for much time, but he was a fun cousin to have now. He was nice and he sometimes whittle small things for her. He was a good sinning too and Celia was hoping that Lady Sansa might let him come to sing for the people in Winterfell. 

He set her down and they all settled about the small fire and prepared to eat as Longspear wove a tale of giants and monsters and the Free Folk. Celia leaned against Rickon’s shoulder after she finished eating, listening to the stories and letting the songs echo against her heart. 

—

Celia tried to keep her breathing under control so she wouldn’t sigh too noticeably. But today’s lessons were boring. It was just about history and Celia knew that kneelers got a lot of things wrong about the Free Folk in their history so she didn’t understand how the other history could be right either. She supposed some of the more recent stuff was correct since people alive lived through it. But the older stuff. How could they possibly know what happened thousands of years ago? Books didn’t live that long so how could they know?

Even so, Celia tried to pay attention. She wanted Lady Sansa to be proud of her and sometimes she felt that Lord Bran was going to test her on if she paid attention or not. He hadn’t done it yet, but Celia felt he was going to some day, so she had to be prepared. 

Lady Sansa said it was important to learn history because it was how people would move forward, but Celia wished she could learn history through songs. She felt that would make them much easier to remember. 

She glanced at Rickon who was paying attention and Celia knew that it meant she needed to pay attention too and so she did. 

—

There was something very odd about Ghost. Sometimes he went about the keep and the wolfswood like he typically would and would often sit with Sansa as she looked over the books, his large head at her feet or in her lap. 

But sometimes Ghost would get a strange look in his eyes. It was as though he were not himself and suddenly ever more watchful. 

She wondered if Jon Snow was a skinchanger. She wondered, sometimes, if Jon Snow was watching them. 

The thought made her want to cry. It was not fair that Jon Snow could see her but she couldn’t see him. She wanted Jon Snow to come back. He had been gone for so long and it wasn’t fair that he was gone. 

She hated the dragon queen, whenever she was. She wanted Jon Snow to come back. 

Lady Sansa came into her room to find Celia with her arms wrapped around Ghost’s neck. The wolf was licking at her shoulder, or trying to, at least. 

“Jon will come back,” Lady Sansa said, sitting on the floor beside her, rubbing comforting circles into Celia’s back. “He will come back and be so very happy to see you.”

Celia sniffed and let the hot tears slide down her nose into Ghost’s fur. 

“That’s it,” Lady Sansa said. “It’s okay to cry. It’s okay.”

—

Celia was not sure what to think of Lady Sansa and Rickon’s sister, Lady Arya. 

She looked a little like Jon Snow. Some of the people of Winterfell said that she had the coloring of the last Lord Stark and the coloring of a Northman. Celia wasn’t quite sure what that meant and thought that they should be happy that their king and Lady Sansa and Lord Bran were kissed by fire. 

However, Lady Arya was so very different from her siblings, not just in her appearance. She was hiding something. But this was Lady Sansa and Jon Snow’s sister. So she was going to trust her. 

Chapter Text

Missandei thought long and hard about what Lord Snow had said to her. He had asked her a lot of questions and told her a lot of things that Missandei had not thought about before. And doc she had a lot to think about, especially because the queen was not there for her to serve. Irri and Jhiqui also prefered keeping to themselves or flirting with the Dothraki queensguard, something Missandei didn’t have any interest in. 

Lord Snow looked skeptical when Missandei said the queen would allow her and Marselen leave for Naath if they wished to. But they did not wish to, not yet. Not until the world was free of slaves. That was something the queen could accomplish. She could bring people their freedom. It was something Missandei believed in. 

But then Lord Snow told her that his people had already fought for their freedom and won.

She had heard Lord Tyrion saying something similar. He had said that the Starks had been taken from their home, much like the queen had, and had fought against the men that had killed their mother and brother and then Lord Snow had been crowned king. They had done what the queen hoped to do. 

The queen was going to take back the Iron Throne from those that had taken it from her family, who had tried to murder her. She was going to claim what was hers just as the Starks had. However, the North was part of the Seven Kingdoms. Missandei was not sure about what the politics of that might be. 

If the North had already freed itself and they did not wish to be ruled by the queen, what did that mean?

Perhaps it is because they had not known about the queen yet. They had not known that there was another option, that there was a woman who was not like the Southron rulers before her, like the ones that had betrayed them. Once they saw the queen and once they saw what a good one she was, they would bend the knee. They would see that she was a good person and that she cared about them, just as she cared for Missandei and for the Unsullied and the Dothraki. They would come to see her for who she is and bend their knees in awe of such a queen. 

—

“What do you think of the queen?” Missandei asked as she sat on one of the chairs with her knees tucked under her chin. She was watching Irri and Jhiqui dress for their time with two of the bloodriders. The queen didn’t really like when they did it, so since she was gone they went on plenty of those brief outings. Missandei didn’t see any problems with it so she didn’t think she needed to tell the queen, unless it got in the way of the bloodriders remaining with them. 

“What do you mean, little Missandei?” Irri asked, tossing her black hair over her shoulder. “Are we supposed to have certain thoughts about her?”

“She is perhaps thinking of things the Northern king has said,” Jhiqui said with a smirk, wrapping a sash more tightly around her waist to show off her curves. “Perhaps he has said something that has our little Missandei worried.”

“He doesn’t seem to like the queen,” Missandei admitted. 

“What man enjoys being weaker than a woman?” Irri asked. “The answer is none do, little Missandei. You shall come to understand it when you’re older.”

“The key to having a man under your thumb is to show that you are someone who needs to be protected,” Jhiqui told her. “But the queen must never show such weakness and so she must show the Northman her other attributes such as her beauty and wit.”

Irri giggled. “Of course, she could never marry a king. For people will think he is the ruler of Westeros and not her. And so, he must lay his crown at her feet.”

“He doesn’t wear a crown,” Missandei said. 

“Perhaps he does not wear one here, but he probably has one,” Jhiqui answered. “Every king does.”

Missandei tried to imagine Lord Snow in a crown and she could not imagine it. She felt it would look odd. 

“You still haven’t answered what you think of the queen.”

“What thoughts do you wish to hear, Missandei?” Jhiqui asked. “We have very few.”

“Do you think that if you asked the queen to let you sail back to Meereen, or wherever, do you think she would let you go?”

Irri and Jhiqui just laughed and continued to look at themselves in the mirror to get ready, never answering Missandei’s question. 

—

The Red Woman glided along the hallway towards Missandei. 

She did not like the Red Woman, did not like the look in her eyes or the way she spoke or how the queen listened to her. 

Missandei heard that the Red Woman would be leaving soon and Missandei could not wait to see her gone. She couldn’t wait to watch the Red Woman leave. 

She wanted her gone, she wanted her to be far away from the queen and hoped that she never returned. 

—

“Missandei.”

She turned to look up and see Lord Varys coming towards her. She gave him her best short curtsy and he smiled at her kindly. “Hello, my lord.”

“My lady,” he said. “I wondered if there was something you might do for me. It is on behalf of the queen, I promise.”

“Of course,” Missandei nodded. She would do anything to help the queen. 

“Good,” he said with a curt nod. “The queen has a great many things to think about and she has a kind heart. I always fear that, one day, someone might take advantage of her kindness.”

“This one does not want anyone to hurt the queen,” Missandei said firmly. 

“Of course not,” Lord Varys said. “This Lord Snow, this King in the North is completely unknown to us. While Lord Tyrion knows a little about him from when he was a very young man and knows of his sister when she was a girl, we do not know them.” He paused. “My lady, I wish for you to watch Lord Snow and see what he does and listen to what he says. He appears to have taken an interest in you, perhaps because you are a similar age to his late younger sister when he last saw her. Perhaps if you endear yourself to him, he might let his plans be known. Perhaps this threat in the North is a trap. We do not want our queen to be caught in a trap.”

Missandei nodded. “This one will watch him and make sure he does not plan on hurting the queen.”

Lord Varys smiled. “Thank you, Lady Missandei. I knew that I could count on you.”

Chapter Text

Sansa sat amongst the lords in the great hall. She had ideas of why they had requested to meet her in such a way, but she allowed it. Littlefinger was still there and he needed to believe there was some tension between her and Jon or else he would not act. It would only be when he thought that she had no one else to turn to that he would show his true colors and she could place him in the right trap. 

“The King in the North’s regent should stay in the North,” Lord Glover said plainly. “We chose the king because he is Lord Eddard Stark’s oldest trueborn son, but we should have chosen you as regent, my lady, for you are Lord Eddard’s eldest child. We should not have placed a bastard in such a position.”

The men began to murmur their agreements and Sansa kept her expression firm. The Northmen were as fickle as the lords of the south and the Tyrells, fluttering from one king to another, whichever way the wind blew the. She understood their concern, Sansa felt it too. Jon had not written in so long and she could only guess that it was either not safe to write if the dragon queen was not allowing for his letters to be sent. If that were the case, she wondered if any of her letters had been read. 

“The Knights of the Vale came here for you, Lady Stark,” Yohn Royce said gently, in his grandfatherly way. 

Sansa smiled at him gently. “You are very kind, my lords,” she said. “But Jon is my brother’s regent and he’s doing what he thinks is best and I trust him to put the North first.”

The lords began to speak amongst themselves and Sansa saw Littlefinger watching her carefully. She returned her gaze to the lords. 

“Jon is a military man,” she said. “Whatever is happening down south, he is doing it for our sake. He is the one that helped defeat Ramsay Snow and it is because of him that Rickon, your king, is alive. I am not like Cersei Lannister where I will not allow you to air your grievances, but you must remember that Jon has gone to see a foreign queen and that he must navigate her own understanding of Westeros. He will return to us when he can, but we must wait.”

“And what if the coming winter will not wait?” Lord Glover demanded.

“The pack survives, my lord, and we will survive.”

—

Sansa and Arya were walking down the hall towards Sansa’s chambers. It was a tiring day and no matter how much she had to placate the lords, Sansa still worried about Jon. He was the first of her pack that had returned to her and she had been so close to never getting him back at all. 

She was worried about Jon and yet she was angry all the same, angry that she was forced to speak out against him, even slightly, angry that she had to hear the lords speak against him too. 

“I warned Jon this would happen,” she told her sister in a moment of weakness. “He can’t leave the North and expect it to just sit and wait for him like Ghost.” Perhaps he had been too far disconnected from the North in his time at the Wall and beyond it. 

“He didn’t,” Arya said firmly “he trusted you to hold it for him.”

Sansa sighed, her anger deflating slightly. “He’s not making it easy. The Northern lords are proud. Jon should have brought the son of a lord with him south.” She wished she had thought of that sooner. 

“These are mother and father’s chambers,” Arya said once they reached Sansa’s door.

“And?” She was tired. She was so very tired. She had barely any time for herself and soon Celia would come to the room and the poor girl might cry again and Sansa had to be strong for her. 

“Nothing.”

Sansa closed her eyes and turned to her sister. 

“What?”

“You are an adult, Arya,” Sansa said firmly. “If you have something to say, say it. Do not hide behind words and sly glances.”

Arya’s lips formed a thin line as Sansa opened the door to her room. Ghost was sleeping at the fire and he looked up, his massive head and red eyes looking at them both curiously. “You always liked nice things. It made you feel better than everyone.”

Sansa set down some papers that she planned to work on while Celia slept. “I liked nice things because I was a little girl who had dreams of knights and songs. Mother was much the same when I was a child. If you are angry with me, then just say it instead of trying to insult me. We are not children anymore.”

Arya scowled. “They were insulting Jon and you just sat there and listened.”

“I listened to their complaints,” Sansa said plainly. “It is what Father did as well as Mother when Father left for the Greyjoy Rebellion. It is my responsibility as the Lady of Winterfell and Rickon’s acting regent.”

“Their opinions matter to you?”

“Glover has five hundred men and Lord Royce has two thousand with possibly more on the way. If we offend them, Jon could lose his army and we would be even more dependent on the dragon queen.”

“They would lose their heads before they betrayed us.”

“Robb took Lord Karstark’s head from his body because the lord did something he shouldn’t have done and Robb lost the Karstark forces because of it. We will never know if they would have made a difference had they been there for the Red Wedding.” Sansa sighed. “Arya, Winterfell didn’t just fall into our hands. We took it back, and the Mormont’s and the Hornwoods and the Glovers and the Free Folk and the Vale, all of us working together. I’m sure cutting off heads is very satisfying, but it’s not the way you get people to work together. Joffrey took Father’s head and the North banded together to go against him. King Stannis Baratheon let his daughter be murdered and his men abandoned him. Death is not the answer. We need to work together so that when Jon comes back everything is ready for him.”

“And if Jon doesn’t come back, you’ll need their support so you can work together to give you what you want.”

“How could you possibly think such a horrible thing?” 

“Because I know you, Sansa. And I remember Mycah, even if you don’t.”

Sansa’s lips formed a thin line. “I remember Lady dying because you sent Nymeria away. I remember Father having to kill her because I lied and acted as though I couldn’t remember you hurting the crown prince, a man who gleefully had me beaten for simply bearing the name Stark.”

Arya simply glared at her and Sansa knew that she had not heard a single thing she said. She had always been like this, even since they were children. Whenever Arya got angry, truly angry, it was like her ears stopped working. 

“I have work I need to do,” Sansa said calmly. “Please leave.”

Arya gave a mock bow before leaving. “My lady.”

—

Sansa had decided to take a nap instead of working. 

She shouldn’t have done that. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to fall asleep because she was back in the throne room of the Red Keep. 

She was on her knees before Joffrey, his face shifting with Tyrion’s and Cersei’s. Her stomach twisted painfully as she cried helplessly. The unseeing eyes of the heads of her parents and Robb and Septa Mordane surrounded her as Sansa began to beg. The crossbow was leveled at her head and Sansa felt the tears slide down her cheeks. 

“Let her go!” came Jon’s thunderous voice. “Let her go!”

“If we want your precious brother to hear us,” Joffrey/Cersei/Tyrion’s voice came. “We are going to have to scream louder!”

“Sansa!”

She jolted awake, cold sweat running down her brow. 

“I am safe,” she whispered. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. And they cannot hurt me.”

—

Sansa tucked Celia and Rickon both into bed. Her little brother wanted to stick close to Celia. The little girl said it was for her sake but Sansa wondered if it was the other way around. 

It didn’t matter and so Sansa tucked the children in and pressed a gentle kiss to their brows before blowing out the candles near their bed. 

She began to work at her desk with Ghost coming over to rest at her feet, his head on her lap. She occasionally scratched at his ears. 

“I miss Jon,” she would say softly and Ghost would lick her knee gently, as though he understood. 

Chapter Text

Daenerys watched the fight at a distance. Her Hand had insisted that she watch from the ground, as though she were Cersei, as though she were a coward or just a pretty face, as though she were not a queen and a breaker of chains. 

They were going to win. That much was apparent. No Westerosi army could endure her khalasar, especially when they were astride her horses. Yes, Tyrion was decent at strategy when he wanted to be, when he wanted to impress her. The moment the first drop of blood was spilled her Dothraki horde would become a frenzy of muscle and steel. Daenerys could still hear Jorah’s voice in her ear. 

There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him.

She was the Mother of Dragons. She was their Khaleesi. She was their mhysa. She was the mother of beasts and these men were of her blood. She could feel the call to battle just as any man. She could sense Drogon behind her, shifting, coiling, knowing that blood would soon be spilled. 

He wanted to fight. 

And why should he not? Why shouldn’t she? This was her victory. This victory was not her Dothraki’s. It was not belong to the Unsullied that had joined them. It was not Lord Varys’. It was not Tyrion’s. No, this victory was hers and hers alone. 

It was not her khalasar that would cause Westeros to fall to their knees. It would not be to the Unsullied. It would not be to Tyrion’s wit. No, no they would fall to their knees for her. It was her that was to be their queen and she would show them what a queen she was. 

These men had chosen to fight for Cersei. They had chosen a woman who had killed her husband and let her children be murdered. They chose to fight for an usurper, she would feel some happiness that they were willing to ride for a woman. But they had chosen the wrong woman. 

Daenerys turned and began to head towards Drogon, his black scales sucking up the light around him, making him appear as though the night had come early. 

“Your grace,” Tyrion said, following after her as quickly as he could on his shorter legs. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to make sure there is no question on whose victory this is.”

“My queen, the outcome is known even before the first drop of blood is spilled.”

“No,” she replied, touching Drogon’s about. “No, the battle is not over until the blood is dry.”

“Your grace—“

But Daenerys ignored him, climbing onto Drogon’s back. He stood, proudly against the skyline, his shadow falling upon the men that had remained behind to protect her. His wings extended and Daenerys dug her nails into his skin as he lifted off, the heat between her legs as the fire beneath his scales seemed to burn into her. 

“Yes,” she whispered, as he rose into the air, higher and higher, to where not even the gods dared to touch her. 

—

Drogon roared, flying over her horde, over her Unsullied, flying low so that the Lannisters might see just how large her child was. So that they might see just how real the stories were, so that none could deny the truth that was her right. She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons, Queen of Dragonstone, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. 

She saw the line of Lannister red. She saw the line of men who should have been sworn to Lady Olenna, who had decided to fight for the usurper queen. 

“Dracarys!” she called over the wind, the growl rolling over her tongue like wine. 

Drogon’s body rippled beneath her as fire built in his chest and then was let loose upon the Lannister soldiers. 

Their line was easily broken and her men rode through the fire with ease, breaking the Lannister men one by one. This was the battle their queen had sent them to. This is the hell that Cersei was happy to let her men fall to, safe upon Daenerys’ throne, safe upon the throne her ancestors had built. She would never be in a place like this, ready and willing to do what was necessary to win the fight. 

Drogon flew high into the air, circling around the field still alight with his fire. She could see everything from where she flew and she could see the long train of carriages running along the King’s Road, no doubt filled with something that only the Reach could provide for Cersei and her traitors. Yes, the Lannisters would prize their gold first. They would get that out long before they claimed the food, even though they would have known that Daenerys was coming. 

Winter is coming , Jon Snow’s words echoed in her ears. Then she would show the Lannisters who it was that would keep Westeros warm at night. It was not their gold, it was her own fire and blood. 

She would show them what a true Targaryen was. 

“Dracarys,” she called and Drogon’s flames fell upon the road as carriages and carts began to explode upon impact. The fire went along the road and Daenerys made certain she burned every carriage in sight, even as they fled from her. 

Dragon flew higher into the air when they were through. His roar screaming into the wind and making her heart pound in completion. 

He circled around and began to return towards the battle. She could see a group of soldiers and could only guess they were facing her. They were like ants at her feet. She could see the arrows approach her and Drogon turned, showing them his chest and belly and she could hear nothing as they repelled against his scales. 

And so, Drogon continued to burn the wagons, anything that looked of importance. Any who stood near them would not be safe and if they moved then there would be no worry for their flesh to burn, for them to meet her fires of justice. If they died in the flames then they were just as guilty as all the men who had fallen in them before. 

The fight continued below and Drogon’s fire continued to rain down upon them. She sneered down at the screaming men, the specks of fire giving them a new red cloak. She had heard stories of the Lannister’s cruelty and lack of mercy. Perhaps this was their justice for the cruel song that she had heard sung in Essos of the Rains of Castamere. Perhaps this was a justice for them as well, even if she did not care whose house had been slaughtered. Their pain and loss was not as great as her own. 

The smoke was getting too strong and Daenerys flew Drogon away from the fight, giving a way to a wide arching circle until she was upon a lake or a large river, she did not care. She needed to see. She needed to clear her eyes from the smoke and let the fires she had already started smolder. She flew across the water as air began to fill her lungs once more and the smell of ash and burning flesh cleared from her lungs. And when they are full, she begins her line to battle, returning to finish it.

Drogon screamed, flying low before letting lose his flames, his heat rolling between her legs as it was set forth. 

He continued to fly around the battle when something whizzed past her ears. Daenerys turned to see what it was but found nothing. She looked down to see where it might have come from, but still nothing, the smoke too great. She circled Drogon around, trying to better access the situation. Whatever it was, she would take care of it. 

“Dracarys!”

But before Drogon’s flames could roll beneath her, something hit her child in the shoulder and he screamed in pain, the sound echoing through her body and borrowing deep into her heart. She held on tightly to the spikes on Drogon’s back as he began to spin out of control, screaming and crying out in pain as he tried to get rid of whatever it was that had hurt him. 

He gained some control and began to hover from the ground and it was then that Daenerys could see a giant crossbow. She did not even need to tell her dragon what to do. He set loose his flames and the contraption was destroyed. He tried to hover for a moment longer, but could not. And so he settled upon the ground, swiping at things with his tail and wings, clearing it from anything that might harm him. 

She climbed from his back and to his side where she found a large black arrow in his shoulder, large and terrible. She grabbed hold of it as her child screamed and Daenerys tried deseperately to pull it from his body but it was far too deep and she feared that if she was not careful it might break off into his skin and he might be further hurt. All she could do was try her hardest to remove it from his body as quickly and as delicately as she could. 

She heard the sounds of a horse approaching and she turned, hoping to see one of her Dothraki, instead it was a soldier of Westeros coming towards her with a spear. 

Perhaps he thought he might claim some glory in killing a queen. But Drogon’s massive head put itself between her and the man and set loose his flames. 

—

Her men gathered the remaining Lannister soldiers to where Daenerys and her closest men stood waiting for them. Drogon was sitting upon a pile of large rocks, watching over them, waiting to protect his mother should any other man be foolish as the other soldier. 

“I know what Cersei has told you,” she called to them, her voice as strong and gentle as it always was when speaking to her men and children. “That I’ve come to destroy your cities, burn down your homes, murder you and orphan your children. That’s Cersei Lannister, not me.” She looked out over them men covered in ash and blood, as though they had already pledged their allegiances in the color the battle had painted them. “I'm not here to murder. And all I want to destroy is the wheel that is rolled over rich and poor to the benefit of no one but the Cersei Lannisters of the world.” She looked at the men who had fought against her, these men who had survived her screamers and her Unsullied. “I offer you a choice. Bend the knee and join me. Together we will leave the world a better place than we found it, or refuse and die.”

A few men began to kneel before her, showing that they were men of true loyalty. They could see what she could do for them and Westeros. They could recognize a true queen when they saw her. She had told the Unsullied to make these people in their memory for they would be rewarded later. 

Drogon roared above them and almost all of the men began to kneel save for a few that still remained standing, including an older man whose armor appeared of an older male and of better quality than the others around him. These men were true to their ways and their principles. Daenerys could admire that. If they but saw that she was the right, they might make loyal men to have under her. 

“Step forward, my lord,” she said gently. The older man did as he was asked, stepping through the men on the ground until he stood between Daenerys and the already kneeling soldiers. “You will not kneel?”

“I already have a queen,” he said plainly. 

“My sister,” Tyrion said from below Daenerys. She would let him speak. She had found that men enjoyed speaking to other men and that they might view Tyrion more favorably as he had lived in Westeros until recently. “She wasn’t your queen until recently though, was she? Until she murdered your rightful queen and destroyed House Tyrell. So it appears that your allegiances are somewhat flexible.”

“There are no easy choices in war,” the man said, strength and exhaustion mixed in his voice and it almost reminded Daenerys of Barristan and Jorah combined. “Say what you want about your sister, but she was born in Westeros, has lived here all her life. She was the wife of Robert Baratheon and the last connected to the house that freed us from the Targaryens after they broke their word and murdered a father and son who simply wished to have their daughter as sister returned to them, only to be given death and for the same king to then call for the heads of two innocent men his son had wronged she was the wife of my king and now there are no Baratheons left save for the papers that tie her to that noble house, a true bloodline of storms, in marriage. You, on the other hand, you married a girl who was but a child, a child whose family your own murdered, you murdered your king, your nephew, and then murdered your father, and chose to support a foreign invader. One with no ties to this land.” He turned to look at Daenerys then. There was no hatred in his eyes. “An army of savages at her back.”

“You will not trade your honor for your life,” Daenerys said, nodding her head slightly in acknowledgment. “I respect that.” She turned to look at one of most trusted bloodriders, who glanced up at her. 

“Perhaps he could take the black, your grace,” Tyrion said quickly. She looked down at him in slight annoyance for his interruption. “Whatever else he is, he’s a true soldier.” Daenerys turned to look at the man. “He would be invaluable at the Wall and, should Lord Snow’s words be true, a much needed person to have for such a threat.”

“You cannot send me to the Wall,” the main said firmly. “You are not my queen.”

She looked at her Dothraki escort and three of her bloodriders walked forward to collect the older man. As they began to take him away, a younger man stepped forward as Tyrion cam up beside Daenerys. 

“You will have to kill me too.”

The older man shoved the Dothraki away from their gold and turned to look at the younger man, true fear quivering slightly in his strong voice. “Step back and shut your mouth.”

“Who are you?” Daenerys asked plainly. 

“A stupid boy,” the older man said and Daenerys thought she might see tears glistening in his eyes. 

“I’m Dickson Tarly,” the young man said. “Son of Randyll Tarly.”

“You are the future of your house,” Tyrion said, stepping forward slightly. “This war has already wiped out two great houses from the world, possibly more. Don’t let it happen again. Bend the knee.”

Dickson Tarly looked at his father, who nodded, giving his son permission to vow his allegiance to her. He did not take his eyes from his father. “I will not.”

Tyrion turned to Daenerys and spoke softly so none but she could hear him. “Your grace, nothing strips bold notions from a man’s head like a few weeks in a dark cell. If you show him mercy—“

“I meant what I said,” she replied firmly and quietly to him. “I'm not here to put men in chains. If that becomes an option many will take it. I gave them a choice. They made it.”

“Your grace, if you begin beheading entire families—“

“I’m not beheading anyone.”

Tyrion looked at her in slight shock and turned to look at Drogon, who began to stretch. His screech echoed across the quiet field, still slight with his fire. 

“Your grace—“

She turned from him and nodded to the Dothraki escort. The men grabbed Randyll and Dickon Tarly and walked them over to Drogon. The older man took his son’s arm in his hand and did not take his eyes off the young lord, while the young Tarly returned his gaze to Daenerys. 

“Lord Randyll Tarley, Dickon Tarley, I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of my name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die.” Randyll Tarly did not turn his head, not even once, as she spoke. “Dracarys.”

As the dragonfire began to fall, Lord Tarly wrapped his taller son in his arms, as though that might shield the young man from the flames. Screams ripped through the air for only a few movements before the two figures collapsed within the engulfment. Daenerys turned to look at the remaining Lannister men who were all now kneeling before her. Daenerys then turned away from them, her victory thrumming in her veins. 

Chapter Text

Rickon still felt nervous speaking before the Northern lords and the Knights of the Vale. He felt more at ease when speaking to the Free Folk, enjoyed the way they were blunt in their wishes and desires. The Northern lords and the knights spoke in circles, trying hard not to appear too forward and wanting. They wanted to play games. But there was going to be a war soon, there was no time for games. 

At least Sansa stayed by his side, never intervening unless she had to, urging whatever lord or knight it was to get to the point. 

Celia was there too, off to the side with Ghost. Bran was off in the godswood and Arya fluttered in and out of the great hall like a ghost. 

“And the smallfolk?” Rickon asked. “We should move them further south, shouldn’t we? Possibly to White Harbor. That way we do not have to worry about more numbers being added to the dead. Once the battle is won, they can return North.”

“An excellent idea, your grave,” Lord Royce said. “And so as to not overwhelm White Harbor, perhaps some could even go to the Vale.”

Rickon glanced at Sansa. She kept her face blank so as not to influence his decision, but she did smile at him slightly. “As long as my cousin agrees,” he said. 

“I am sure Lord Robin will be happy to help,” Lord Baelish said, his voice like that of a snake. 

Rickon swallowed. He glanced at Ghost, whose neck fur was standing up on end, his lips curled into a snarl. “Thank you, Lord Baelish,” he said. “But I will write to my cousin to make sure.”

The man bowed his head respectfully. 

Rickon glanced at his sister who smiled at him assuredly. 

—

“You were doing well, Rickon,” Arya said, coming to him. 

He was starting to remember her, just a little bit. Bran said that Arya spent more time with him, Jon, and Robb when they were children while he spent his days with their mother and Sansa. Even so, he wished he had more memories of her. He supposed that is how they all felt about each other. 

“Thank you.”

“Does Sansa always sit with you when you hold court?” Arya asked. “Did she do that with Jon?”

“She’s Father’s oldest child and Jon liked listening to her opinions.”

“Was Littlefinger there as well?”

“He’s a lord that has come to our aid.” No matter how much Rickon disliked him. “He is the Lord Protector of the Vale like Sansa and Jon are regents.”

“And does Sansa listen to his opinions? Sansa always liked pleasing the adults around her, the ones who showered her with praises.”

Rickon narrowed his eyes at his big sister. He wasn’t quite sure what she was getting at. “Sansa puts up with Littlefinger. She hates him.” Frightened of him. “What are you getting at?”

“I am merely asking questions.”

Rickon’s lips formed a firm line. He didn’t really like these questions. 

—

“Your grace,” a Valeman said, approaching him. “Might I have a word with you?”

“I suppose,” Rickon said. He held Celia’s hand tightly. “We’re supposed to be heading towards our lessons. What is it you need to speak of?”

“Your grace, in times of war, alliances are important. And alliances can be formed when families are brought together, just as your mother and father were brought together as were your aunt and the late Lord Arryn.”

“And I suppose you want to form such an alliance?”

Ser Harry Hardying smiled brilliantly. “Just so, your grace. I wish to as Lady Sansa for her hand in marriage. It would tie your family even closer to the Vale. As I am heir after your cousin Lord Robin, your sister would also share such a title.”

“It is a shame my cousin has a long life ahead of him,” Rickon said firmly. “My sister has no plans to marry, Ser, at least not at this time. If you are approaching me that means you have approached her and she said no and you wish for me to ignore my sister’s wishes, or you. Have only asked me and assume that I would agree without speaking to my sister. I have to get to my lessons, Ser, but know that my sister will marry a Northman. She will not go south again.”

Rickon squeezes Celia’s hand and they continued to Maester Wolkan’s solar. 

—

“I miss Jon,” Rickon said quietly, brushing Ghost’s fur with his fingers. 

Sansa pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

It was hard not to notice that Missandei was around him more often, even if she did not make it obvious. However, he knew that he was still a mystery to the dragon queen’s advisors, especially Lord Varys. He supposed that the eunuch still had no spies in the North which meant that Jon was nearly a complete mystery to him and that he knew almost nothing of what was going on befriend 

It meant he didn’t know about Rickon being king either. 

It wasn’t as though he or his men were hiding such a fact. 

He and Davos both had been very firm when referring to himself as king regent. Perhaps they thought he was regent for Sansa, but she was of age and they now served a queen themselves, so they should have known such a thing to not be possible. But, they did not know Jon, not really. They did not know him, save for that he looked like his father. But he had his father’s honor too. 

Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa. 

Missandei was a curious child, even outside whatever knowledge it was she was meant to gain from him. He would not tell her about Rickon. He would not risk his brother’s safety, but he would tell her of the North. 

He taught her the history and of the First Men. He told her of legends and histories that he recalls in his lessons with Maester Luwin and Robb. He wished he had cherished those moments more because they felt like such distant memories. 

He taught her about Targaryen history as well, as much as he thought he was able to, and only if it was in connection to the North. He told her about the first bending of the knee, focusing on how little choice was had. Death being the only true option, which was no option at all. 

He taught her about the giving away of the Gift and how it hurt the Northern lords. He told her about Robert’s rebellion. Of his aunt and uncle and grandfather. 

Missandei kept her expressions carefully masked so he was never sure how much she already knew or how much she had never heard before. But she listened to him and he hoped that she, at least, might understand why the North did not wish to bend the knee to a southern ruler again, even if she were the best ruler in all the world. 

—

Queen Daenerys and her armies returned. 

Jon watched from the walls of Dragonstone and did not like the look etched on Tyrion’s face. Something about it looked haunted, as though he had not planned on whatever it was that he had seen. As though he had not expected it. 

Either way, Jon did not like it, nor did he like that, beside him stood a more confident dragon queen beside the Imp. She looked envigored, as though whatever it was that had happened had made her more sure of herself. 

Jon could not read the expressions of the Dothraki or the Unsullied, but waded in Tyrion’s, he could only guess that what happened was not good.

—

“I did not get the names of the lords who were killed,” Davos told him. “Either they do not care or they were highborn enough that they do not wish to say the names in fear of it getting out.”

Jon sat in the room he had been assigned with Davos pacing before him. He wished to do the same, but he knew that was more of Ghost tickling at the back of his mind more than anything. 

“Either way,” Jon said. “It almost doesn’t matter if they were highborn or not. She burned two men alive and then there is the possibility that she burned the grain of the Reach. Not only would this hurt the south and Cersei, it would hurt all of us. The North could have used that grain, the lands she claims to wish to rule could have used that grain. She has brought some of the largest armies to Westeros and I have seen no real plans on how to feed them. And I remember Sansa, men can do horrible things if they are hungry. I do not care if Daenerys has told her Dothraki that they cannot pillage. If they are starving they will do so if it means surviving.”

“I fear how much longer the queen will allow us to remain her alive,” Davos said, sitting down from across Jon. “I do not know how long we might live if we continue to say no.”

“I am not a death she could easily cover up. The North will know and even if Cersei does not care for me or Sansa or my father, she would use such a thing to her advantage, especially considering most think that Tyrion had a hand in Joffrey’s death.”

“Even so, son,” Davos said, weariness in his voice. “It’s dangerous to continue to say no to her.”

“My knee will not give her the North and my time would be better spent mining dragonglass and returning North. As of now, I cannot return North and so I will mind my business and send as much materials that I can to Sansa so that they might at least be protected.”

Davos nodded. “Even so, you must be careful. A woman such as that is not used to a man saying no to her.”

Jon sighed. “If she wishes to be a queen, a queen that people can trust, she needs to learn to hear the word no. ”

—

Jon stood near the edge of a cliff looking towards the ocean. His eyes were towards the North. His thoughts and heart was there, with Sansa, Rickon, and Celia. Celia would probably have grown a bit since he had been gone. She was at an age where girls were starting to grow more. He remembered Sansa at that age, her dresses suddenly coming to her ankles and her horrified expressions whenever Theon or Robb would point it out. He remembered her running to him and wrapping her arms around him to pout as Lady Catelyn chastised the other boys about it. 

Gods, he missed her. Sometimes, at night, he would close his eyes and drift to Ghost and feel her warm fingers brush through his fur and he felt such ease. 

The black dragon, Drogon, screeched over his head and flew around him to land behind him. Jon could see Daenerys on his back, but his heart thundered in his chest as the beast began to charge forward slightly, screaming at him, his great mouth a little over an arms reach away as he continued to roar in his face. 

Drogon’s lips curled, revealing its dark teeth. 

For a brief moment, Jon wondered if he was going to die. He wondered if this was where he would die once more. If that were the case, he would do as he had before. He would go to Ghost. He would go to his Wolf and slip into his skin so that he could protect his family in any capacity that he could. 

He did not close his eyes, ready to slip at any moment, any second the Dragon began to ready itself. 

Then a scream echoed across the sky and the white and gold dragon, Viserion, swooped down over them, screeching at their brother and landing behind him, its horns raised as though in extreme annoyance, like a mother wolf’s fur might raise when sensing danger towards their young. 

At that, Drogon held his head back and looked at their brother, snarling at them, as though they had ruined the fun of whatever game the beast had been playing. 

Viserion lifted himself off the ground to join the green dragon and Daenerys slid off Drogon and the black dragon followed suit. 

Daenerys walked towards him and looked back at them flying in the sky together. It was obvious that Drogon was seeming to chastise the brother that had ruined his fun. 

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” the queen asked. 

“That wasn’t the word I was thinking of,” he said, and noticed the offended look Daenerys gave him. “But yes, they are. Gorgeous beasts.”

“They are not beasts to me,” Daenerys said plainly, her voice airy. He noticed that in times when she was trying to act like a queen and her anger was not the driving force of her words, she tended to speak in such a manner. He had never heard someone speak in such a way and wondered if she was conscious of it, or if this was how people of Essos simply spoke and it was a way she had learned to speak. She would have learned to talk in Essos, if he was not mistaken. She turned to look at the dragons. “No matter how big they get, how terrifying they are to everyone else, they’re my children.”

“Forgive me, your grace,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter how you view them. It only matters how the people see them. Are they harbingers of death or are they harbingers of peace. And will your heirs, your true born children, be able to handle them. It is a parents job to prepare their children for the world to help them be liked and admired, especially if you are in positions of power.”

He noticed her stiffen slightly and she turned to look at him. “Do you have children, Jon Snow?”

“A girl,” he said. “Although she’s not of my blood. She is like a daughter to me and she has everything that would make her unlikeable to the North, only because she is from beyond the Wall. But the North is nothing like how it has been for the past centuries. The Free Folk and the Northmen have come together to fight an enemy that will affect us all. And such differences don’t matter anymore.”

“And she is North still?”

“With my sister, aye.”

Her lips formed a thin line. “I suppose you wish to get back to her.”

His thoughts went to Sansa, Rickon and Celia. “I’ve been gone too long, your grace. It appears you were not gone that long, however.”

“No,” she replied. 

“And?”

“And I have fewer enemies today than I did before.” Her statement could easily just reference the men who died in battle, an honorable sort of death outside dragonfire. It could only mean that some part of her realized it might lose her allies and so she did not wish to speak of it. However, Jon had no doubt that such stories had already begun to spread to the rest of Westeros like wildfire. “You’re not sure how you feel about that,” annoyance slipping in her voice. 

“No, I’m not.”

She looked as though she were about to roll her eyes, but instead began to walk towards Dragonstone. “How many men did your army kill taking Winterfell back from the Boltons?”

“Thousands,” he replied. “But I killed many of them with my own hand, not on the back of a dragon. My father believed that if you believed a man must die, if you had to kill him, then you owed it to him to look in the eyes when you did it.”

“I have never been trained with a sword, Jon Snow,” she said. “And as a woman I am more likely to find hatred wherever I go because men do not like it when a woman is in power. We both wish to help people, Jon Snow. We can only help them from a position of strength and sometimes strength is terrible.” She stopped and turned to him. “When you first came here, Ser DVos said you took a knife in the heart for your people.”

Jon grimaced. “Ser Davos gets carried away.”

“So it was a figure of speech?”

“It is a saying that came from the time of the Boltons,” he lied. “Ramsay Snow enjoyed playing with people.”

He turned at the sound of footsteps and saw a group of Dothraki men approach them. One of the men spoke to their queen in their native tongue. The man then stepped away to reveal an Andal looking man. 

Daenerys spoke in the foreign tongue and there seemed to be relief in her voice. So whatever it was she seemed happy to see the man. 

The man knelt before Daenerys, despite the wind. “Your grace,” he said before standing and looking at Jon. 

“Jon Snow,” the queen said. “This is Ser Jorah Mormont, an old friend.”

The name sparked a memory long before he had gone to the Wall. “I served with your father at the Wall,” he said. “I’m sorry to inform you if you have not heard yet, that he passed away.”

The man, Ser Jorah, bowed his head. “I have heard, my lord,” he said. 

“I also know you from my father,” Jon said. “From when you escaped justice for selling free men into slavery.”

“I am a changed man, my lord,” Ser Jorah replied. 

Jon doubted it. 

“You look strong,” Daenerys said, smiling brightly. And for a moment, Jon thought she looked like a young girl. “You found a cure?”

Jon wondered what he must have been cured from. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t,” Ser Jorah said. “I return to your service, my queen, if you’ll have me.”

“It would be my honor,” the queen said, stepping to him and wrapping her arms around the man. 

Chapter Text

Celia gripped Lady Sansa’s hand tightly as they walked up the steps to the upper level that looked over the courtyard. They had begun to use some of the hot spring water to melt the filling snow off the ground. They broke up the ice that formed quickly and pushed it to the walls to keep it out of everyone’s way. It helped immensely, but Lady Sansa was determined to do similar to the land where armies and the Free Folk would be. 

Lady Arya was at the railing, looking over the courtyard. Celia could sense the tension between the two sisters and she held onto Lady Sansa’s hand more tightly. 

“Father used to watch us from up here,” the younger Stark said plainly. “He wouldn't say much. You probably don't remember. You were inside knitting all the time.”

“Father was watching the boys in their own lessons,” Lady Sansa replied plainly. “Robb was being trained to be Lord of Winterfell. Father needed to make certain Robb was ready. I remember him watching though,” she said. “When we would play in the snow. And I was in my lessons where you were expected to be,” 

“One time the boys were shooting arrows with Ser Rodrik,” Lady Arya explained. “I came out here after and Bran had left his bow behind just lying on the ground. Ser Rodrick would have cuffed him if he saw. There was one arrow in the target. There was no one around, just like now. No one to stop me. So I started shooting. And every shot I had to go out there and get my one arrow and walk back and shoot it again. I wasn't very good. Finally I hit the bullseye. It could have been the 20th shot or the 50th. I don't remember. But I hit the bullseye and I heard this,” she started to clap slowly. “I looked up and he's standing right here smiling down at me. I knew what I was doing was against the rules. But he was smiling so I knew it wasn't wrong. The rules were wrong. I was doing what I was meant to be doing and he knew it.”

“He would have still expected you to do your duty as a lady of the North,” Lady Sansa replied. “While Mother did not like you practicing with the boys, she did not stop you, she just expected you to go to your lessons. As did Father, but you reminded him of Aunt Lyanna, and so you were always his favorite.”

“And now he’s dead,” Lady Arya said. “Killed by the Lannisters with your help.”

Celia looked up at Lady Sansa and found her breath frozen in the air. “What?”

Lady Arya pulled out a scroll. “That’s your pretty handwriting,” she said. “I can still remember because Septa Mordane would make me try and copy your pretty lady-like script.” She looked down and read from the scroll. “ Robb, I write you today with a heavy heart. Our good King Robert is dead. Killed from wounds he took in a boat hunt— “

“You don't have to read it,” Lady Sansa said bluntly. “I remember.”

However, Lady Arya continued. " Father has been charged with treason. He conspired with Robert's brothers against my beloved Joffrey and tried to steal his throne. The Lannisters are treating me well and providing me with every comfort. I beg you, come to King's Landing, swear fealty to King Joffrey and prevent any strife between the great houses of Lannister and Stark. Your faithful sister, Sansa ."

“You are a fool if you think I would write that willingly,” Lady Sansa said flatly. “I was forced.”

“Did they force you?” Lady Arya asked sarcastically. “With a knife to your throat? Did they put you on a rack and stretch you until your bones started to pop?”

Lady Sansa scoffed. “You have no idea what it was like. I was still betrothed to them and the only person of the North given any voice. I was a child doing the only thing our parents trained me how to do. I was a child spouting words adults had given me with little understanding to what they truly meant, only that they might save Father.”

“I was a child too,” Lady Arya said, stepping forward. Celia pressed herself into Lady Sansa’s side and the lady put her arm on Celia’s shoulder, protecting her under her cloak. “I would have let them kill me before I betrayed my family.”

“And start a war in that way?” Lady Sansa asked. “No. I did as they said—I wrote that letter—to save Father. He was already publicly accused of treason, I could at least have us all saved from a war that we might not win.”

“You were a fool if you thought the Lannisters would play fair. You know what they did to Mycah. They—“

“I know what they did to Lady,” her voice was raw with emotion. “I know what they made Father do when you could not be punished because I lied for your sake. But I doubt you remember it that way.”

Lady Arya snarled, like a starving wolf being taunted with prey. “I remember you standing on that platform with Joffrey and Cersei when they dragged Father to the block. I remember the pretty dress you were wearing. I remember the fancy way you did your hair—just like Cersei.”

“You were there?”

“I was.”

“And what did you do? Did you come running to the rescue? Did you fight off the Lannisters and save Father?”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t because you were a child, just like me. And if you truly remembered that day, you would remember everything as I do. You would remember that Joffrey had said I had begged for mercy and that my wishes for it were the whims of women. You would remember that I screamed for Father and begged that Joffrey let him go, you would have remembered that I, unlike you, actually tried to do something, despite being a child.”

“I didn’t betray him!” Lady Arya snapped. “I didn’t betray Robb! I didn’t betray our entire family for my beloved Joffrey.”

Lady Sansa laughed scornfully. “And what have you done for the North, hm? What have you done for the North? Have you bled for it? Have you been on your knees for it? We are standing in Winterfell because of me. Jon would have abandoned the North if it weren’t for me urging him to take back our home. We would have lost the Battle of the Bastards if the Knights of the Vale had not come. We would not be this prepared for winter already. And what were you doing? Traveling the world?”

“I was training,” Lady Arya said with a snarl and Celia pressed herself even more closely to Lady Sansa. 

“And while you were training I was a prisoner. You think what happened to Mycah and Lady was true horror? That was a mercy, they were dead and could no longer be tormented. You cannot imagine the things I have suffered.”

“Oh, I don’t know that,” Lady Arya said flatly. “I can imagine quite a lot.”

“You would have never survived what I did.”

“I guess we'll never know.”

The two stared at each other for a long time and Celia pressed her face into Lady Sansa’s side. She wanted to cry. 

“What are you even doing with that letter?”

“Are you scared that I will show it to someone?” Lady Arya asked. 

“Arya—“

“Are you scared I'll show it to Jon? Bran? Rickon? Are you scared they will be angry? No, that’s not Jon. He’ll understand. You were just a scared little girl all alone with the wicked Lannisters.”

“Think about why you found that letter, Arya,” Lady Sansa said earnestly. “A letter that survived the Ironborn and the Boltons. Explain how and why it was placed in your path. Forget about your anger towards me and think with the mind of politics for once in your life—“

“I could show it to the Northern lords,” Lady Arya said. “They wouldn't think much of Lady Sansa if they knew how she did Cersei's bidding. What would little Lyanna Mormont say? She's younger than you were when you wrote this. Are you going to say, But I was just a child ?”

Lady Sansa scoffs. “You truly have no idea what you were doing.” Celia knew that Lady Sansa could feel her tears begin to stain on her dress. “Before you do anything truly stupid, Arya, actually think of the aftermath, and I don’t mean the immediate gratification you will feel, I mean the aftermath that will come days, weeks, months, years later. Joffrey didn’t. Now look where he is.”

Lady Sansa bent down and picked Celia up in her arms and carried her away. 

—

Lady Sansa knelt down before Celia in private and kissed away her tears. “I’m so sorry, Sweetling,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Celia shook her head and wrapped her arms around Lady Sansa’s neck. “You were sad,” she cried. “You were sad and you couldn’t cry.”

Lady Sansa took a shuddering breath and hugged Celia back, stroking her hair gently and kissing her temple. Celia could tell that she had needed a hug. 

Chapter Text

She could tell that something about Marselen had changed. 

She had heard whispers from both sides. She had heard the roaring ones of the Dothraki claiming their khaleesi had returned to them and that she was a true stallion, one who was not weak like the pink men surrounding them. They seemed proud, but there were others who wondered if she would bring the gods of Westeros to Vaes Dothrak, but they wondered if there was anything for the gifs to be taken too. 

The Unsullied had the quiet whispers, haunted whispers. They remembered when their queen had abandoned them in the fighting pits upon her dragon. There were whispers of fire and screaming. They became more quiet when she was around them. 

She was a little sister to all of them. They all knew and loved her. She was the one who could bring a smile to their faces. They knew that she was older than she appeared, and wiser, but it did not stop them from being able to pretend like they were normal men, with a little sister they adored and longed to protect from the cruelties of the world. It was apparently the world's cruelties that they attempted to protect her now. 

Whatever had happened at the Reach was not something anyone wished to share with her, not even the queen. She had seen so much death already, she thought it was pointless to protect her from everything. How was she supposed to help their queen if she did not know everything?

“What happened?” she asked her brother, holding onto his arm as she did whenever she truly wanted something, always knowledge. 

Marselen shook his head. “This is not for you to know, little sister,” he said softly, their mother’s tongue curling in the air gently. “You are innocent of so much and I must keep you that way. We are not slaves. You are not an Unsullied. This is not your fight, or ours.”

“Marselen—“

“No, Missandei. No. That is not something you should know. Trust the queen, you must trust her for you are a child. If a child were to lose faith in her mother… all is lost.”

Missandei’s lips formed a thin line. She did not like this.

—

Missandei pressed herself against the wall and listened as Lord Varys and Lord Tyrion spoke in the throne room. She could only guess that the eunuch knew of her presence and the Imp did not. There was a tapping of scroll paper on stone and the sound of drinking. She could easily tell who it was doing what action. 

“All rulers demand that people bend the knee,” Lord Tyrion said. “It’s why they’re rulers. She gave Lord Tarly a choice. A man who had taken up arms against her. What else could she do?”

“Not burn him alive alongside his son,” came Lord Varys’ voice. 

She thought of Jon Snow, of his histories of the North. She thought of his uncle and grandfather. The queen’s father had burned them when they had wanted to know and reclaim Jon Snow’s aunt who had been taken. But the queen was not her father. 

“I am her hand,” Lord Tyrion said. “Not her head. I can’t make her decisions for her.”

“That is what I used to tell myself about her father,” Lord Varys said plainly. Missandei’s breath caught in her throat. “I found the traitors but I wasn't the one burning them alive. I was only a purveyor of information.” Missandei slid against the wall and peeked at what was happening, and saw Lord Varys drinking from Lord Tyrion’s cup and he grimaced at the taste of it. “It's what I told myself when I watched them beg for mercy, I'm not the one doing it . As the pitch of their screams rose higher, I'm not the one doing it. When their hair caught fire and the smell of the burning flesh filled the throne room, I'm not the one doing it ."

“Daenerys is not her father,” Lord Gurion said flatly. 

“And she never will be…” Lord Varys said, his words trailing off. “With the right counsel. You need to find a way to make her listen.”

“Who is that for?” the Imp asked, nodding towards the scroll in Lord Varys’ hand. 

“Jon Snow.”

“Did you read it?”

“It’s a sealed scroll for the King Regent of the North.”

Missandei narrowed her eyes. She did not trust that word, regent. She did not like it.

“What does it say?” Lord Tyrion asked after a pause. 

“Nothing good if the queen wishes to keep the king wrapped around her finger.”

—

They all watched as the Northern king read the scroll that Lord Varys had initially kept from him. 

“I thought Arya was dead,” he said gently, firmly. “I thought Bran was dead.”

“I am happy for you,” the queen said. “You don’t look happy.”

“I was not there when they came home. They were children last I saw them. They would be grown now… would I even recognize them.” He curled his fist around the scroll, wrinkling it in his hand. “Bran saw the Night King and his army marching towards Eastwatch. If they make it past the Wall—“

“The wall has kept them out for thousands of years,” Lord Varys said plainly. “Presumably—“

“I need to go home,” Jon Snow said bitingly, he lips curling slightly. 

“You said you don’t have enough men,” the queen said. 

He looked up at her. “You appear to not want to help in my fight save letting me mine Dragonglass,” he said. “The North will fight to the last man. You can only pray to yourself, since you believe in no gods, that we will succeed, for them it will be your fight. Unless you wish to join the fight, of course.”

“And give the country to Cersei?” Queen Daenerys demanded. “As soon as I March away, she marches in?”

“Perhaps not,” Lord Tyrion said. “Cersei thinks the Army of the Dead is nothing but a story made up by a wet nurse to frighten children. I doubt she would believe me, considering she believes I killed her son and I killed our father. I doubt she would believe Sansa—“

“Lady Sansa,” Jon Snow corrected. “You are not her husband. Any marriage forced and not performed in front of a heart tree is no marriage acknowledged in the North.”

Lord Tyrion coughed. “Lady Sansa then. It does not change the fact that Cersei will not believe her. What if we were to prove Cersei wrong?”

“I do not think Cersei would spend months of travel to see the dead at my invitation,” Jon Snow scoffed. 

Lord Tyrion walked closer to Jon Snow. “So bring the dead to her.”

“Is that not what Jon Snow is trying to avoid?” the queen asked. 

“We don’t have to ring the whole army,” Lord Tyrion said plainly. “Only one soldier.”

“Is that possible?” Lord Varys asked. 

“For one to be brought beyond the wall?” Jon Snow asked. “I don’t know. If there were a way to prove this, something would have been done centuries ago.” He shook his head. “Winter is coming and Cersei is already losing some of her hold. Besides, if there is one thing I have learned from my sister is that you do not trust Cersei with anything.”

“Anything you bring to Cersei would be useless unless she grants us an audience. Even then, we cannot promise that she won’t have us all killed.”

“She would listen to Jaime,” Lord Tyrion said. “If he could be convinced… and he might listen to me.”

“I could smuggle you in,” Ser Davos said. “But you are a fairly recognizable person, even with the beard. I doubt that anyone can pretend that you are another person. And I am no fighter.”

“Nothing matters if we don’t have one of these dead men,” the queen said. “And even then, how can I trust that they are real.”

“Perhaps you could fly, your grace,” Lord Varys said plainly. “Cersei already knows your intention to take the throne. That is a feeling she understands well. If you swear that these creatures are true, and that you are even stopping your crusade south… she might believe you. From one queen to another.”

“And if Cersei still does not believe?” Jon Snow demanded.

“Then we get one of these monsters and take it back with us,” the queen snapped. 

“I do not even know if they will survive past the wall,” Jon Snow countered. 

“Then what are you even worried about?” the queen demanded. 

“Because the Night King is not like the rest of them. He can survive fire while the others cannot or seek not to. It is dangerous.”

“It might very well be the only way to ensure that I join your cause, Jon Snow.”

Missandei looked at the Northman, whose features were grim. 

“And I suppose that you expect me to lead you North?”

“You will travel ahead and I will follow on dragonback with support coming in from the sea.”

“You seem to forget that I am not your subject, Queen Daenerys. I am of the North and you are not my queen.”

“It is the only way I will give you aid.”

The King in the North sighed. “I will take you beyond the Wall, but I ask, when make our return to Cersei, that you allow me to return to my home first so that I might make certain my family is ready. And I remind you to not attempt to take one of them prisoner. We do not know what will happen.”

The queen’s lips formed a thin line and nodded. 

—

Missandei held onto Jon Snow’s sleeve. He looked down at her, as did his Hand. “Please protect the queen,” she asked. “When you go North.”

Jon Snow’s lips formed a thin line. “I can promise nothing, Missandei. I will do what I can so that her dragons will not be without someone to control them. But your queen seems to be someone who does not care to listen to others.” He shook his head. “There is only so much that I can do.”

Chapter Text

She already knew how and why Arya had found the scroll, but if she had any doubt, they were cleared when Littlefinger made his presence known and close at her side as soon as she had calmed Celia down and had come out to walk and think. 

“Where did she get it?” Sansa asked, ready to hear his excuses. She wondered if he even remembered that he had been there. She wondered if he remembered how he had spoken so harshly to her, smirking beside the queen. 

“I don’t know,” he answered. The fact that he wanted her to believe such a thing was laughable, but she kept her face neutral. “She seems very resourceful. You're worried.”

He followed her into a solar, Jon’s solar, where she felt safe. “We’re asking twenty thousand men to fight us in the worst winter any of them have ever seen. The wealthier will be the least of their problems. Many of them will be happy to find a good reason to go home.”

“You question their loyalty?”

Oh, she could hear the intrigue in his voice. If she questioned their loyalty, he no doubt hoped she would look towards someone whose loyalty she would not question. She kept herself from laughing, but it was ridiculous how much he forgot everything he did before her mother died. “Their loyalty is to Rickon, but he’s a child right now and their loyalty is to Jon, but he’s not here. We haven’t heard anything from him despite my constant letters. Either he is choosing not to answer them or the Dragon Queen is having his letters intercepted.”

“Perhaps the king regent is busy,” Littlefinger said, drawing closer to her. “Besides, he chose you to rule as regent in his absence, and rules you have. Wisely. Ably. The people see that. They respect you. Some already are beginning to prefer you.”

Sansa’s lips formed a thin line. She could see that some people were already questioning Jon as he had not written back to the North. If this was the dragon Queen’s fault, Sansa wanted to laugh. Did the woman not know that doing such a thing would not endear him more to the people, nor would it help the North even tolerate any assistance she might give them?

She shook her head but continued with Littlefinger’s line of questioning. “Many thought taking back Winterfell would be amour last stand, but now that we have the Starks back in Winterfell, so many are ready for the peace they remember when my father was here, but we cannot go back to that, not when we have Cersei and the army of the dead surrounding us. If they find that letter, there will be people who will not wish for me to remain regent and they will try to place themselves as one to hold power over Winterfell and the North. We don’t have time for any of this.”

“Arya Stark is your sister,” Littlefinger said. “You might have your disagreements, but she would never betray her family.”

“I do not know all that she has gone through,” Sansa said plainly. “But her loyalty is to Jon, Bran, and Rickon, not me. If she feels I am betraying them, she will not remain silent for long.”

“Is that what she thinks you plan to do?”

“I don’t know what she thinks. I hardly know her anymore.”

“Perhaps Lady Brienne can help,” Littlefinger suggested. “She’s sworn to protect both of Catelyn Stark’s girls. Did she not?”

“She is.”

“And if one of you were planning to harm the other in any way, wouldn’t she be honor bound to intercede?”

A small amount of dread slid down Sansa’s back. “She would.”

Sansa would need to figure out a way to make sure Brienne stepped back. Having a knight to protect her and go against Arya to diffuse the situation would only make it worse. “She would.”

She needed to figure out what to do. 

—

Sansa had not been sure what to expect when she got the raven from King’s Landing, certainly not to hear that Cersei wished to hold a summit between the independent North, the South and the dragon queen. The reasoning, it seemed, was because winter was already approaching. There had been flurries of snow occasionally in the south, nothing to worry too much about, but it would only get worse as time went on. 

And, Cersei had revealed, Daenerys Targaryen had burned the food from the Reach, food that could have helped feed the entirety of the south if everything was rationed properly. Sansa wondered if Jon had heard about this. She guessed that might not have been something so easily shared. 

Sansa refused to go south again, she would never step foot in King’s Landing ever again, even if it was to attend Cersei Lannister’s funeral. 

However, it gave her reason now to send Brienne away. 

“My lady, you are the Lady of Winterfell and the head of House Stark right now.”

“I am, and you will represent my and Rickon’s interest at this gathering as you see them. I trust your opinion.”

“They invited you, they will expect you.”

“I will not set foot in King’s Landing for the rest of my days. They want another Stark prisoner to hold against Jon, just as they did for Robb. If they want me, they will have to drag me kicking and screaming. Until then, I’ll remain where I belong. I have work to do here.”

“It’s not safe.”

Sansa sighed as she tended to the fire. “Ser Jaime will be there,” she said. “You told me you trusted him and that he treated you honorably. At the very least you might learn something from him that Cersei doesn’t wish to share.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Brienne said plainly. “It’s not safe leaving you with Littlefinger.”

“Petyr Baelish is already being handled. And there are plenty of guards and lords who would happily imprison him, even outside mine or Rickon’s orders. He will be handled.”

“How can you trust that he hasn’t been speaking to the lords behind your back? Let me at least leave Podrick behind to watch over you. He has become a competent swordsman.”

She thought about it, truly thought about it for a moment. A part of her wanted to let Podrick go, Tyrion might be there and he could learn a few things as well.”

“I will have Tormund’s good son come to Winterfell to look after us,” she said. “Podrick shall go with you.” When Brienne still looked worried, Sansa set her hand on Brienne’s arm. “I’m not a child anymore, Brienne. I am home and this is the safest place for me.”

“My lady,” Brienne said earnestly. “I swore an oath to protect you and your sister. If I abandon you—“

“The trip to King’s Landing is long, Brienne. You will not be traveling on summer roads, the sooner you leave, the better chances of making it on time.”

Brienne’s lips formed a thin line. “Yes, my lady.”

Sansa watched as she left and worried that she had been too short for her, but she knew that this was for the best. Having Brienne, or even Podrick, there might only exacerbate the issues she and Arya had. 

Sansa could only pray she was making the right decision. 

—

“I was waiting for you to come and see me,” Bran said softly. Meera had left to teach Celia and Rickon some self defense and now it was only Sansa and Bran in his rooms. She knelt at his feet and put her hand over his. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have come sooner to see you, I just…”

“It’s hard for you to open up,” he said. “I know. I’m sorry that Arya frightened Celia. I know that hurt you more than anything.”

“Still, I should have come to you immediately after I realized Arya didn’t trust me.”

“It’s not that she doesn’t trust you,” Bran said gently. “She’s trying to find her place in Winterfell again. Everything has changed, we have changed. Arya is trying to hold onto what we all had before, but we aren’t fitting into the places she wants to put us in so she’s acting out.”

Sansa nodded. “What should I do?”

“You don’t have to do this alone, Sansa.”

She smiled and touched her brother’s cheek. “Father and Mother always tried to get between Arya and I when we argued. We need to sort this out ourselves. But I want you to help me know what to say.”

“The pack survives, Sansa,” Bran told her, holding her hand more firmly in his own. “Tell her about King’s Landing. Tell her what Joffrey did to you. Look her in the eye and tell her everything.”

“She’ll just think I’m lying—“

“She won’t,” Bran said, shaking his head. He squeezed her hand again. “She’ll know you’re telling the truth. You might have been able to hide your truth from Joffrey and Littlefinger, but Arya will know you’re telling the truth.”

Sansa wasn’t certain if that would be the case. But she would trust Bran. She would trust her brother. 

—

Sansa took a deep breath and waited for Arya in the godswood, at the heart tree. 

She would tell Arya the truth. If Bran said it would work then… it would work. 

Chapter Text

Daenerys was to let them make their way to just beyond the Wall where she would join them on dragonback. It would make more sense for them to travel on ahead as her dragons would be able to cross the skies more quickly than she would on land. 

One of the small boats was already sailing out to the larger one that would take the men North. She had thought about flying them all on her dragon, but she had decided against it. Her dragons were not used to such things and she did not welcome the idea of her dragons getting used to someone else flying upon them. 

She saw Tyrion and Ser Jorah speaking, with her Hand giving the old bear something before her longest and greatest friend turned to look at her. When she went to him, he looked so aggrieved at the fact that he must go. But he was the man she trusted most and he was the man she trusted to do what needed to be done. 

She smiled up at him. “We should be better at saying farewell by now.”

“Your grace, I—“

Her attention shifted ever since slightly as she saw Jon Snow approach, and she reached out and took Ser Jorah by the hands. She returned her attention to Jorah just before he glanced at his fellow Northman. She did not think he noticed her glance towards him, but she looked at Jon Snow directly as well, wondering what he thought of such devotion. She had not seen his Northmen, the ones he had brought, even half so devoted. She returned her attention back to Ser Jorah as he bent over and kissed Daenerys’ hand. He squeezed her hands tightly before he let her go to continue readying the boats. 

Jon Snow bowed his head respectfully as he stood before her. “Once you see the Night King, your grace, and his armies, you will see why such things in the south do not matter. Not now, at least. And then, once the visit beyond the Wall is done, I wish to return to the North to ready my people, regardless of if you wish to aid us or not.”

Daenerys’ lips formed a tight line, although she attempted to keep her expression neutral. “You wish to return to your daughter quickly, I suppose.”

“To my family, your grace,” he said plainly. “My father had a saying, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. I’ve been away from my pack for too long.” He smiled as he glanced towards the North, towards the ship that would take him back to his kingdom. Jon Snow then returned his fascinating eyes back to her. “I am surprised that you are not happy to be rid of me, I’ve been told my brooding can get on people’s nerves.” He smiled at that, smiled at her. 

She smiled back at him. “I believe you’ll find, Jon Snow, that I have grown used to you.”

He nodded. “I urge you to dress warmly when you meet us North, your grace,” he said. “The last Daenerys to be so far North did not fare well and I doubt your dragons wish to lose their mother.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she watched him leave her presence. He went to the boat and called for the men to push forward. Daenerys watched on as they went further into the surf. 

She felt something quicken in her chest. 

Look back at me. 

—

“What do you think of Jon Snow?” she asked as she was being readied for bed. It would be a few days before she would join her men North. 

“He’s handsome,” Irri said, for an Andal. “I thought all men of his type would look like Ser Jorah, but he is plainer, and yet he has some handsomeness in him.” She giggled. “Perhaps if he was dressed in more revealing things, your grace?”

Daenerys thought about it as she was washed. The Northern clothes were far too thick and did not allow for any real appraisal. If he were dressed more like a man in the south… that would be more appealing. 

“Jhiqui.”

“I think he is rather plain looking,” came the answer. “But he appeared smitten with you, your grace. Utterly so. I feel that he will wind up doing your will once he sees you again they say absence makes the heart grow fonder and I think he did become fonder after you returned from fighting against the false queen.”

Daenerys smiled and stood from her bath and stepped out to be dried. “And what do you think, Missandei?”

Her little scribe thought for a moment, collecting her thoughts and Daenerys smiled as she did so, waiting for her answer, knowing it would be well thought out. 

“I think he is kind, your grace,” she said. “He was kind to me and did not speak to me as though I were a child. He also told me about Northern history and even taught me some words in the Old Tongue. I don’t know that language, but perhaps I might learn it.”

Daenerys thought for a moment. Jon Snow had said that he had brought the Wildlings—Free Folk, as he called them—under his rule. It would be wise for her to know what they are saying. 

“Missandei, explore the library and speak to the maester here to see if there are any books about the Old Tongue. I want you to learn it by the time we visit the North.” Even though she was not certain when she would have to unless it was when their king bent the knee. 

“Yes, your grace,” came Missandei’s reply. 

—

Daenerys looked over the painted table, tracing her fingers along the land that her ancestors had united. She wondered how the land had changed since its creation. She wondered how the rivers had cared more into the earth and how the mountains had perhaps crumbled a bit in the time of its carving and painting. This was her legacy. Westeros had been decimated by the actions of the usurper’s rebellion. It was Daenerys’ duty to put everything back together again. 

Her fingers traced over the North where Jon Snow would be heading. She knew it was wise to send him and yet… she had not wanted him to leave her side. 

“Do you know what I appreciate about you?” she asked Tyrion as he sat before the fire. 

“I honestly don’t,” came the reply. 

She swirled the wine in her glass as she turned to look partially to him. “You’re not a hero.”

“Oh,” he said. She turned completely and began to walk towards the fire. “I’ve been heroic on occasion,” he continued. “I once charged through the mud gate of King's Landing—“

“I don’t want you to be a hero,” she said. She looked into the fire and examined it. “Heroes do stupid things and they die.” She looked at him. “Drogo, Jorah, Daario,” she said and then motioned towards the painted table. “Even this Jon Snow.” Daenerys shook her head. “Men wish to out do one another to see who can do the stupidest, bravest thing, and then the people pay for it. For all my dislike of Cersei, there has been no rebellion under her.”

“My sister is the queen of a land that is tired of fighting,” Tyrion said, waving away her concern. “But it is interesting these heroes you name. Drogo, Jorah, Daario, even this Jon Snow. They all fell in love with you.”

Daenerys smirked, but her heart quickened. “Jon Snow’s not in love with me.”

“Oh, my mistake,” her Hand said. “I suppose he stares at you longingly because he’s hopeful for a successful military alliance.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes and returned her gaze to the fire. 

“You left Daario so that you could form a proper alliance here in Westeros, the strongest alliance possible. He is the King in the North and it would be a rather peaceful way to take back the North into the Seven Kingdoms once you sit on the Iron Throne.”

“If I marry a king the people will look to him rather than me.”

“Perhaps,” Tyrion answered. “At first. But it is you who are the Mother of Dragons. Jon Snow is merely Ned Stark’s bastard. It may take time for people to learn, but if Jon Snow is the man I know him to be, he would defer to you. In fact, the only reason I don’t think he has bent the knee yet is simply because he wishes to have the input of his sister, Lady Sansa.”

“Your wife.”

Tyrion shrugged. “Unconsummated and nearly unlawful. I doubt the North would acknowledge it. You might even win their more favor if you publically state that you will not acknowledge a marriage created by my father to bind the North to the Lannister throne. It might even put Jon Snow more at ease. It might even show the North you are not like my family or yours.”

Daenerys sat down opposite her Hand, setting her goblet down. “Regardless, if all goes well. I’ll finally get to meet your sister. From everything you’ve told me about her, she’d rather murder me than speak with me.”

Tyrion set his own goblet down as well. “Oh, first she’d torture you in some horrible way, then she’d murder you. Nobody trusts my sister less than I do,” he said earnestly. “Believe me. But if we go to the capital, we'll go with two armies, we'll go with three dragons, and if anyone touches you, King's Landing burns down to the foundation stone.”

Daenerys sighed. “And right now she’s thinking of how to set a trap.”

“Of course she is,” her Hand replied. “And she’s wondering what trap you’re laying for her.”

“Are we?” Daenerys asked. “Laying any traps?”

Tyrion thought for a moment, curling his hands around each other. “If we want to create a new and better world, I’m not sure deceit and mass murder is the best way to start.”

She cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head. “Which war was won without deceit and mass murder?”

“Yes,” her Hand said hesitantly. “You'll need to be ruthless if you're going to win the throne. You need to inspire a degree of fear. But fear is all Cersei has. It's all my father had, and Joffrey. It makes their power brittle. Because everyone beneath them longs to see them dead.”

Daenerys looked at the painted table before returning her gaze to Tyrion. “Aegon Targaryen got quite a long way on fear.”

“He did,” he acknowledged. “But you once spoke to me of breaking the wheel. Aegon built the wheel. If that's the kind of queen you want to be, how are you different from all the other tyrants that came before you?”

She looked away and stood, walking from the fire to one of the windows. “So we walk into the lion’s den?”

“My brother promised me he'd keep a grip on the Lannister forces.”

“Forgive me, but I don't care about any Lannister promises. Except yours.”

“And I promised him I'd keep you from doing anything impulsive.”

Daenerys stopped and looked back at him. “Impulsive?”

Tyrion stood and then there was only the painted table between them. “This will be a difficult negotiation. We're sitting down with people who want to see us both headless. My sister is likely to say something provocative.”

“And?” 

“And you've been known to lose your temper from time to time. As all our great leaders do.”

She nearly laughed, but didn’t. “When have I lost my temper?”

“Burning the Tarlys is a recent example.”

“ That was not impulsive,” Daenerys said firmly. “That was necessary.”

“Perhaps,” her Hand said slowly. 

“Perhaps?”

Tyrion looked at her a little warily. “Perhaps the father needed to die and not the son. Perhaps they both needed time to contemplate the mistakes in the solitude of a cold cell. We had no time to discuss the possibilities before you ended their possibilities.”

“One can be forgiven for thinking you're taking your family's side in this debate,” she said, turning from him and going to the window. 

“I am taking their side. You need to take your enemy's side if you're going to see things the way they do.” He sighed in such a way that made Daenerys clench her jaw. He was acting as though she were a child. “You must think about how Cersei will twist your actions to paint you into a villain for the people to fear and not love, not seek freedom with. You need to see these things and anticipate their response and act effectively to beat them. Which I want you to do very much. Because I believe in you and the world you want to build.” He had been walking towards her and Daenerys glanced to the side towards the sound of his voice. “But the world you want to build doesn't get built all at once. Probably not in a single lifetime. How do we ensure your vision endures? After you break the wheel, how do we make sure it stays broken?”

Daenerys turned to look at him. “You want to know who sits on the Iron Throne after I'm dead, is that it?”

“You say you can’t have children,” he said. “But that very well might not be true. Any words given to you by a dying woman are just spiteful ways to hurt you. Forging a marriage alliance with Jon Snow will strengthen your claim to the throne. My sister is too old to have any more children. Her legacy will be dead and gone. She is a woman whose lineage will die with her. If you and Jon Snow cannot have children, there are other ways of choosing a successor, ways to have you be more stable than Cersei could ever be.”

“We will discuss the succession after I wear the crown,” she answered coldly, feeling stinging ice in her heart. 

“Your Grace, the War of the Five Kings happened because there was no clear successor after it was revealed Joffrey was not Robert Baratheon’s son. The people do not wish to go through another fight of succession, it will only tear down the world that you wish to build and bring Westeros back to where it was when you first landed on its shores. My queen, I saw hundreds of arrows fly towards you when you fought on Blackwater Rush, and I saw hundred of arrows miss. But any one of them could have found your heart and ended your—“

“You've been thinking about my death quite a bit, haven't you? Is this one of the items you've discussed with your brother in King's Landing?”

“My brother knows nothing of you save what he saw when you battled at the Reach,” Tyrion said plainly. “I’m trying to serve you by planning for the long term.”

“Perhaps if you'd planned for the short term, we wouldn't have lost Dorne and Highgarden. We will discuss the succession after I wear the crown.”

Daenerys left the room, tired of her Hand’s voice. She touched her belly. She thought of Rhaego. Her crown would have gone to him. Her child, the precious child that had been killed because a spiteful woman did not wish to be saved. 

She closed her eyes and shook her head. 

If I look back I am lost. 

—

She left on Drogon the next day, her other children screeching and following behind her. She would see this so-called threat to the North. That would be what helped her decisions. And then she would face Cersei and then she would take back what was rightfully hers. 

Chapter Text

“Why do Sansa and Arya not like each other?” Rickon asked as he sat with Bran in the godswood. Their older sister had suggested they spend time together and that with Bran’s powers, it might make Rickon into a better king. 

“They have history. You wouldn’t remember but things were tense between them and the journey south did not help. Mother and Father failed them when it comes to certain things. Sansa was placed under a lot of pressure and while Arya was always allowed to misbehave to some extent, she was still expected to be like Sansa without proper reinforcement.”

“But we are a pack.”

“We are, but some wounds have been allowed to fester and they need to talk things out between them.”

“Can’t you—“

“I can’t interfere. If I do, that’s only putting a bandage on a festering wound. It needs to be cleaned.”

“And so they need to talk.”

“Privately. This is something they have to get through together in order to face what will come next.”

“And what will come next?”

Bran looked at Rickon with worry. “Fire.”

—

Now it was Rickon’s time to work with Sansa when it came to running the keep and the North. 

He liked these lessons, mainly because it was Sansa. She made things easy to understand and he knew that she wanted him to become a great king one day and that she cared about the people. 

Even so, he could tell that his sister missed Jon and that Jon had to miss Sansa because Ghost followed her everywhere. 

“Did you speak with Arya?” he asked. 

“I did.”

“And?”

“We have some things in place to protect our family from those that would harm us.”

“I wish I was bigger,” he said softly. “I wish I was older so I could protect you all.”

Sansa smiled and ruffled his hair. “You’re twelve, she said. “I want you to be allowed to be a child for a little longer.”

Rickon looked away. “Still.”

“One day, you will be ready to head this family and take care of us, but for now let us take care of you.”

—

And then Rickon had to train with Arya. He was old enough to fight in the upcoming battle, but because he was king, they weren’t sure where he was going to be, especially since Bran refused to wear the crown as would Arya and Rickon wanted to protect Sansa from having to get married again when she didn’t seem to want to. 

Rickon could tell his sister was holding back a bit, but a part of him was glad because he didn’t think he could handle his sister at her full capacity. Even so, he practiced. A king was meant to defend and protect his people. Even if he was a child in their eyes. He would do what he could to do so. 

—

Rickon watched as Celia rushed about with some of the other Free Folk to help with some of the fortifications of Winterfell and the guiding of extra walls and puts for if and when the army of the dead came. 

She was well liked amongst her people, even if she prefered her time to be amongst the kneelers and her mother had been one as well. She was well liked and Rickon knew that she would have to make a choice one day when the world beyond the Wall was safe. 

Something twinged in Rickon’s chest, but he ignored it. 

Chapter Text

A shudder ran down Jon’s spine. Beyond the Wall was colder than it had been before. Either he had gotten better used to the South of the Night King’s growing strength was making the winter worse. Tormund seemed to be the one thriving in the cold, most everyone else were too cold to think other than follow. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asked, glancing at Gendry. The southern bastard knew Arya and even if Davos hadn’t recommended him, Jon would have trusted Gendry by the way he spoke of Arya. 

However, Gendry did not reply and merely grunted in response. 

“Ever been North before?” Tormund called. 

“Never seen snow before,” Gendry shivered. 

“Better than your south,” the older man said. “I can breathe again, the air smells like pig shit.”

“You’ve never been south,” Jon said with a slight roll of his eyes, but smiled anyway. 

“I’ve been to Winterfell.”

“That’s in the North, Tormund,” Jon said. 

“To you, Crow, but to me that’s pretty far south.”

“How do you live up here?” Gendry asked. “How do you keep your balls from freezing off?”

“Keep moving,” Tormund replied. “Walking is good. Fighting is better. Fucking is best. That’s the secret really.”

“There’s not another woman within a hundred miles of here,” Jon said as they continued to trudge through the snow. “Unless you count whatever woman the Night King has changed.”

Gendry made a face but said nothing. 

Tormund leaned near Jon as they walked. “This one is maybe not so smart.”

“Davos says he’s a strong fighter and some of these men are not used to any North, yours or mine.”

Tormund grunted. “I suppose fighting is more important than being smart. Don’t know how that dragon queen’s army will fare in Winterfell if they’re so used to the heat. Your scary sister should be able to figure out how to help them.”

“How are they?”

“Good, I think,” Tormund replied. “Tense. But that’s how siblings are, I should know, I fathered plenty of siblings.” Tormund glanced back towards Jorah. “Speaking of the dragon queen, what did you think about her?”

“She’ll only fight beside us if I bend the knee.”

“That won’t do anything,” Tormund snorted.

“I know that, but she doesn’t.”

“You spent too much time with the free folk and now you don't like kneeling anyway. Mance Rayder was a great man, a proud man. The King Beyond the Wall never bent the knee.”

“Even so, I can only hope that whatever all these people see in her will reveal itself so she will come North even without kneeling.”

—

They continued traveling and Jon’s anger turned slightly to the dragon queen. The fact that she did not care to recognize his rank was annoying. And it did not help that she did not seem to actually care about Westeros or truly changing anything. All she cared about was her throne. Whatever good deeds she had done in Essos truly didn’t matter to Westeros and Jon wondered how she expected to rule seven kingdoms when she could barely rule a few cities. 

This was an easy way to get back North. They just needed her to see the living dead and if she turned her gaze North to help as opposed to the south to rule, perhaps he would find cause to back her claims in the South as long as she eventually came to recognize Rickon’s rule.

She just needed to see the dead, then perhaps she would not be able to stop thinking of the Night King as he did. 

Jon glanced at Jorah Mormont. He was the queen’s man. He had known her the longest, but he had also been away from her. Jon wondered what he would think of her burning men alive. He was old enough to have fought in the rebellion, surely. 

“The first time I went north of the Wall was with your father,” he told the older Northman. Part of Jon felt it was strange to refer to Jorah Mormont as a Northmen. He gave up that right, he felt, after all that had happened. 

“He was a good man,” Ser Jorah replied. “He deserved a better son. Were you… with him at the end?”

Jon shook his head. “I was a prisoner of the Wildlings then. But we avenged him. You should know that every mutineer found justice.”

There seemed to be relief in the older man’s gaze. “I can’t think of a worse way for him to go. The Night Watch was his life, whatever my father was asked to do, he would put his whole heart into it. He would have died to protect every single one of those men and they butchers him.”

“He did not deserve to die that way. My father thought highly of Lord Commander Mormont. But that is the way of Westeros after Robert Baratheon died, good men, honorable men, were butchered.”

Ser Jorah was quiet for a moment as they continued to trek through the snow. “Your father wanted me executed.”

“I know.”

“I know that he was right to wish it and I know it is because of my actions my father joined the Watch.”

“It’s good you recognize that,” Jon said. “If you come with your queen to the North to fight the Others, your crimes will be forgotten until the war is over, then I will ask that you not return. And do not expect a grand welcome. Lyanna Mormont is a person to reckon with. Even though she is a young child, she will not take the dishonor and debt you placed upon her house lightly.” Jon put his head in the white wolf pommel of Longclaw. “Your father gave me this sword. He changed the pommel from a bear to a wolf, but it is still the same sword.” He unsheathed it and gave it to Ser Jorah to hold. The knight looked at the sword in awe and Jon was certain that he would have looked the same had he been allowed to hold Ice one last time. “Lord Commander Mormont thought you’d never come back to Westeros, but you are back and it’s been in your family for centuries. Lyanna does not want it as she is nearly determined to never get married.” He chuckled. “But perhaps in time she will change her mind. Once this battle is over, I will return this sword to you. I know I would have done anything to have my father’s sword returned to my house.”

Ser Jorah stared at the sword for a long time before returning it to Jon. “I brought shame to my own house. I broke my father’s heart. I forfeited the right to claim this sword. It’s yours. May it serve you well and your children after you. I think my father would think it an honor. To return a Valyrian sword to House Stark after they have lost their own.”

Jon did not quite hear the last part of Ser Jorah’s statement. He had thought of Celia when the knight had mentioned children but he had thought of a child younger with red hair and deep grey eyes.

—

“You truly look like him,” Ser Beric said. 

Jon did not know much about the man besides he had been raised from the dead by the red priest, who also seems like the opposite of who Melisandre had appeared to be. “Who’s that?” 

“Your father,” the Southron knight replied. “I had heard rumors, but I had not thought them so true, but you really do look like him.”

“Did you know my father well?”

“When he was Hand, he sent me off hunting for the Mountain. Your wildling friend told me the red priestess brought you back. It appears we share the same lord.”

“Tormund shouldn’t be spreading such information. And I don’t serve your god, I serve the North.”

“The North didn’t raise you from the dead.”

“And your god did nothing to stop my father from being murdered or save my brother and Lady Catelyn from the same fate. The Lord of Light never spoke to me. I don’t know anything about him save one of his priestesses murdered an innocent little girl. I don’t know what he wants from me, nor do I care.”

“He wants you alive,” Ser Beric replied. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s between you and him.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Jon said plainly. “I am here to protect my family and the North. That is all that matters. All that my life has given me is my family back and if that is all that the Lord of Light cares about, then I am thankful. Other than that, I do not care.”

—

They set up camp and it was there that the dragon queen met them. She had dressed warmly, so she had taken his advice on that at least. She was dressed in white fur and she nearly blended in with the background snow. For that sheer fact, Jon judged her. It was never wise to wear pale clothes in the winter, especially considering she had such pale hair. 

He could remember his father refusing to give Sansa a pale blue cloak or any sort of coat that was made out of white fur. 

You can get lost in the drifts and if you are as white as the snow I can’t see you. Your hair might be the only thing that saves you, but even that shouldn’t be your only hope. 

“I see you brought two of your dragons,” Jon said. “What happened to the third, the gold one?”

“Viserion prefered to stay behind,” the queen replied, lifting her chin. “They did not wish to cross the Wall at first.” She looked to Ser Jorah. “It was as though there was something keeping them from even crossing over the Wall. But eventually they forced themselves through, only Viserion did not wish to cross.”

Jon glanced at Tormund, who shrugged. But it was obvious the giant man was judging the dragon queen by her appearance as well and was looking at the two dragons, the green one flying in circles above them, with suspicion. 

“Now, where is the army of the dead.”

“We scouted and could see them camping that way,” Ser Beric replied, pointing towards them. 

“If they are dead, why must they camp?”

“It is not an official camp, your grace,” Ser Jorah said. “However it appears that the sun weakens them to a degree. It is night where we must worry.”

Daenerys hummed. “Then I shall climb upon Drogon and see them for myself. Perhaps I could even end this threat here.”

“The Night King won’t fall by fire,” Tormund said, still eyeing the dragons. “Magic doesn’t kill magic.”

“You do not know what I can do,” she replied a little harshly. “I will ride on.” She turned and began to climb back on her dragon. 

“Your grace,” Jon tried to stop her. “Such a thing isn’t wise.”

“Your grace, if you could just wait—“ Ser Jorah began, but the dragon queen did not listen. 

Chapter Text

Celia ran up to Rickon and threw her arms around him. She had not seen him in a while and they hadn’t shared a lesson for a little while. But she had missed him. She knew he had been upset that she hadn’t left with the other women and children, but she had wanted to stay with him and Lady Sansa and Jon Snow and Lady Arya and Lord Bran and Rickon. 

Rickon hugged her back. “Are your lessons going well?”

She nodded. “I miss Lady Brienne,” she said. “But I know how to run away when I need to.”

“Good,” he said. “But pay attention to your teachers and always run if you need to. Okay?”

Celia nodded happily and took Rickon’s hand in hers. “Can we go to the Godswood?”

He thought for a moment. “Alright, but then we need to get back to our lessons.”

“Yay!” she squealed, dragging him along to the woods. 

He let her pull him to the weirwood and they played amongst the trees and the gods. 

Celia smiled when she saw the worried looks that Rickon had recently seemed to fade away to smile and laughter. 

—

Celia curled into Lady Sansa’s side and snuggled into the lady’s arm. She could tell that the lady was distant. She seemed distracted and worried. 

Celia could always tell when Lady Sansa was distracted and she needed a distraction from whatever it was that worried the lady. 

“Lady Sansa,” she said softly.

“Yes, my sweetling,” came her answer. “What is it?”

“Could you sing me a lullaby?” Celia asked. “I love listening to you singing.”

Lady Sansa smiled. “You’re trying to distract me,” she said, booping Celia’s nose. “It’s not your job to worry about me, sweet girl.” 

“Please, Lady Sansa?” She begged. “I love your voice. Please.”

Lady Sansa chuckled and kissed the top of Celia’s head. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

Celia snuggled more into Lady Sansa’s and closed her eyes and listened.

Hush now, my baby

Be still love, don't cry

Sleep like you're rocked by the stream

Lady Sansa’s voice was truly beautiful. It was soft like the wind. Maybe like a harp. She could remember Mance Ryder’s songs and harp. She wished she could remember his face better.

He was the kind of king Celia thought Rickon would be. He would help unite the North and he would rule kindly. She thought of the King-Beyond-the- Wall. She wondered what sort of queen Lady Sansa would be. She would be a beautiful queen. Kind and gracious. Even if she wasn’t a queen by name, she was the queen in the hearts of so many. She was a quee even if she wasn’t one in name. 

Celia supposed she would be queen until Rickon married. 

Sleep and remember my lullaby

and I'll be with you when you dream

She wondered what sort of person Rickon would marry. It would be a beautiful southern girl. Perhaps he would marry Lady Lyanna Mormont? They didn’t seem to like each other, but she was from Rickon’s kingdom. Maester Wolkan had said that building lasting bonds between houses was important. 

Maybe he would marry someone from the Vale or the Riverlands. Those places were even more in the south.

Drift on a river that flows through my arms

Drift as I'm singing to you

I see you smiling so peaceful and calm

and holding you I'm smiling too

She wondered if Lady Sansa would get married. She would be a good ma. Lady Sansa reminded Celia of her ma. 

Regardless, whoever Lady Sansa married, Jon Snow would protect her. 

Here in my arms, safe from all harm

Holding you I'm smiling too

Celia’s eyelids began to grow heavy, but she was determined to tag awake. She snuggled closer to Lady Sansa who began to run her fingers through Celia’s hair. 

Hush now, my baby

Be still love, don't cry

Sleep like you're rocked by the stream

Celia hoped that regardless of where everyone was after the Others were defeated, Celia hoped that they would let her stay in Winterfell. She wanted to stay with all of them. She wanted to never leave them. 

Perhaps they would send her back to be with the Free Folk, but she wanted to stay. She wanted to stay. 

She was sort of like the song her ma used to sing to her. She never wanted to leave

Sleep and remember this river lullaby

and I'll be with you when you dream

Celia pressed her face into Lady Sansa’s collar. She didn’t want to waste a single moment, but she was getting so sleepy. 

Here in my arms, safe from all harm

Holding you I'm smiling too

Celia didn’t want to leave.

Sleep and remember this river lullaby

and I'll be with you when you dream

Sleep and remember this river lullaby

and I'll be with you when you dream

The dancing snowflakes entered her vision as she began to drift asleep.

I'll be with you when you dream

—

Word came that Jon Snow was heading to the Wall. 

Celia missed him. 

She wished Jon Snow would come home soon.

—

Celia was drifting in and out of sleep as she listened to Lady Sansa and Lady Arya talk. 

“Are you certain you’re ready for this?” Lady Arya asked.

“The Vale lords are ready for the shift in power. Robin is ready to take his place as the Lord of the Vale. And they are ready for justice as well.”

“Then it will be done.” 

Chapter Text

“Don’t go!” she begged, running, forever running. “Don’t go!”

If they kept going, if they went, she knew where they would be, the ships, the darkness, the rough clothing, the butterflies would be gone. Their parents. 

She couldn’t even remember their faces anymore. She couldn’t remember her mother’s smile or her father’s laugh. 

She forgot Merin’s laughter too. She remembered when she saw his body. The Good Masters didn’t care to hide those who failed their training. 

She was starting to forget Mossador too. It was too painful to remember anymore. 

“Don’t go!”

The queen was flying away, far from Missandei, far from the others. 

“Don’t go!” 

She watched as Jon Snow disappeared on his ship. 

Missandei jerked awake and looked over to find Marselen already awake, breathing deeply, shaking slightly. 

Missandei wanted to reach for her big brother but… he had nightmares of his own. She didn’t want to bother him with her own. 

—

Missandei did not particularly like ships. 

She didn’t mind being on them, but she simply didn’t like them in general. There were bad memories and there were decent memories. However, they were on their way to Castle Black to meet with the queen and Jon Snow and then return south to show Cersei Lannister the so-called Others and gain a truce. 

“So, Missandei,” Lord Varys said, coming up next to her as she watched the waves the ship made. “Tell me, what are your thoughts on Jon Snow? I know you spent some time with him as I asked.”

She would have likely spent time with him regardless. The queen appeared to have some emotions towards him—Missandei wasn’t quite sure if it was love or not, but there were emotions there. Lord Varys had simply asked her to be more observant of Jon Snow’s behavior around the queen or at the thought of her. 

“He seems like a man who cares for his people. He would do anything for them.”

“Hm,” the bald man hummed. “Would anything include lying?”

Missandei’s eyes narrowed and she turned to look at the man before her. “Jon Snow wouldn’t lie. It’s too honorable.”

“I once knew a man who was just as honorable and he had a young daughter who he needed to protect. And to protect her he would have to lie. He would have to lie to the entire realm for even a chance at protecting his daughter. But, I suppose Jon Snow only has a sister and brother—“

“He has a daughter,” Missandei said. “He told me he had a daughter that was in the North.”

“I see. Perhaps there are more players on the board than I initially thought. Once we meet with the queen and Jon Snow again, try to learn more about his daughter and how the queen might find favor with her. Daughters can often be used to cripple a father’s plans, and Starks are notoriously protective of their daughters.”

—

“We should have heard from someone by now,” Lord Tyrion said as they watched one of the Night Watch castles draw closer. They would dock there and then ride to Castle Black. From there they would retrieve the queen and Jon Snow and then return south. 

“Do you think something has happened?” Lord Varys asked. 

“No, I simply believe that perhaps, hopefully, the army of the dead is further off than Jon Snow initially anticipated.” 

Lord Varys sighed. “One can only hope.”

—

Once they reached Castle Black, a letter arrived for Lord Varys. 

“From the Citadel,” he said, waving his hand when he saw Missandei’s questioning gaze. “I am merely seeing if there is anything else I can learn about our queen’s King in the North.”

Chapter Text

“It’s not easy for ravens to fly in these storms,” Littlefinger said, walking about Sansa’s solar as though he belonged there or as though he were not as interested in her reaction as he truly was. “Perhaps Jon tried to send word earlier. It’s quite surprising that this is the first that we have heard of him, to go so far North without stopping here to see any of his family.”

Sansa withheld a sigh. “I doubt he had much time for writing, and if he did, I doubt that we were allowed to receive any letters. It feels like something Tyrion would Ro, a way to fracture a relationship. But, then again, he has no idea or understanding that it would fracture the North’s trust even further.”

“Do you truly believe Jon wrote more than just this letter?”

“I trust Jon with my life, Lord Baelish,” Sansa replied plainly. 

Littlefinger said nothing for a few moments, contemplating his next words as he turned to look at Sansa. 

“I’ve heard gossip that the Dragon Queen is quite beautiful.”

Sansa’s teeth ground together slightly before she looked up from her desk to Littlefinger. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Jon is young and unmarried. Daenerys is young and unmarried.”

“You think he wants to marry her?” Despite the fact that Sansa knew this thought was untrue, she still felt her heart twist painfully in her chest. 

“An alliance makes sense. Together, they’d be difficult to defeat. She believes him to be a king, after all and he is a good general who no doubt knows more about the goings on of current Westeros than any of her advisors.”

“Jon can marry who he likes,” Sansa said flatly. “As long as she’s of the North. Stark men do not do well in the south and I do not wish to push his luck any further than that.”

Littlefinger held up his hands in mock defeat. He turned his attention around the room in thought. “And how is Lady Arya adjusting?”

“I was not aware that you cared to know anything about Arya,” Sansa said, returning to her work. 

“I care about things that would bring you harm, Sansa, you know that.”

She pursed her lips. “She discovered the letter you and Cersei had me write to Robb. It’s interesting that such a thing should be here. My mother and brother were already in the Riverlands when I wrote that letter.”

“Perhaps she discovered it on her journey?” the man suggested. “Who knows where she has been all these years. The question is if she plans on sharing its content. Even if the lords and Lady Lyanna know you wrote it under distress, it would plant seeds of doubt. Your brother did nothing to come for you. Perhaps your remaining brothers would do nothing to aid you as well.”

“And what do you suggest I do?” Sansa asked. 

“Destroy the problem, root and stem. Lady Arya does not appear to be a team player. What’s more, she appears ready to divide a kingdom that is on the brink of a great war. Such things should not go unpunished, I think.”

“And why do you think my sister supposedly wishes to destroy the very thing Jon had helped build?”

“Sometimes, when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What is the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? Then I ask myself how well that reason explains what they say and what they do. So tell me, what’s the worst thing she could want?”

Sansa’s lips formed a firm line. Ah, so that was his plan. She thought of her Aunt Lysa and how long she must have had such poison dripped into her ear by the man that stood before Sansa. 

—

Sansa stood upon the ramparts of Winterfell, looking North to where Jon would be. Thoughts swirled in her mind and, even though she knew the decision she had to make, it was difficult. 

For the longest time, Littlefinger was her only protection. But that was for the scared little girl who had no one she could turn to. That was Alayne Stone. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She had her brothers and sister and Jon to protect her when necessary. She did not need Littlefinger anymore. 

It did not mean she did not mourn the loss of the safety net she had beneath her for so long. However, she would make it. She always would. 

Sansa took a deep breath and turned to leave, speaking to the guards. “Have my sister brought to the great hall.”

—

Sansa and Bran sat on either side of Rickon, who fiddled with the fur on his coat. She could sense her youngest brother’s unease, but he knew that this pageantry was necessary to create a false sense of calm for the man who had been instrumental in the decline of their house. Celia sat on the other side of Sansa, her small hand woven tightly against her own. Ghost laid at the feet of the Starks, presenting a united force. 

The room was filled with the Northmen. Although there were still Free Folk at Winterfell, this was an issue the North had to handle on their one. The representatives of the Vale were there too. They would have justice as well. 

Arya was escorted into the hall, and left to stand alone before the table. Sansa could see Arya glance at Yohn Royce and then Littlefinger, who smirked almost triumphantly. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Arya asked her. 

A way out. He would be useful in some ways. Especially if and when the Dragon Queen came to Winterfell. But he was more of a liability than anything. She could not risk Jon or the North because he wanted the stupid iron chair. 

“It’s what honor demands,” Sansa replied plainly. 

“And what does honor demand?”

“That I defend my family from those who would harm us. That I defend the North from those who would betray us.”

Arya nodded and then looked at Rickon. “Alright then. Get on with it.”

Rickon took a shaking breath. “You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges, Lord Baelish?”

Everyone turned their heads to look at Littlefinger, his previously smug expression slipped from his fingers and he turned to look at Sansa, specifically, in shock. 

“The king asked you a question,” Arya said patronizingly. 

“Your grace,” Littlefinger said, straightening and removing himself from his lean against the wall. “Forgive me, I’m a bit confused.”

“What charges confuse you?” Sansa asked. “Let’s start with the simplest one. You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the Moon Door and watched her fall. Do you deny it?”

“I did it to protect you,” he said. 

“You did it to take power in the Valen earlier, you consorted to murder Jon Arryn. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him. Do you deny it?”

“Whatever your aunt might have told you, she was a troubled woman. She imagined enemies everywhere.”

Sansa’s lips formed a firm line. “You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who murdered Jon Arryn when, really, it was you. The conflict between the Starks and the Lannisters, it was you who started it. Do you deny it?”

“I know of no such letter.” He spoke evenly and with as much ease as he usually did, but Sansa could note the apprehension in his voice. 

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to betray our father, Ned Stark,” Sansa continued. “Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned and later executed on false charges of treason. Do you deny it?”

“I deny it!” he said it with pride and then turned to look at the crowd, expecting to play off of their emotions. “None of you were there to see what happened. None of you knows the truth.”

“You held a knife to his throat,” Bran said, Meera standing behind him, holding his shoulders in comfort. Littlefinger turned to look at Bran, shock etched upon his face. “ you said, I did warn you not to trust me. ”

Arya drew the Valyrian blade. “You told our mother this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister, but that was another one of your lies. It was yours. This knife,” she said, holding it for the crowd to see. “Was the knife used when assassins came to kill my brother Bran. It was this knife that caused my mother to go south and come upon Tyrion upon her return. His capture led to Tywin Lannister to sick the Mountain upon the Riverlands and begin the first conflict of the War of Five Kings.”

“Lady Sansa,” Littlefinger said hurriedly, going to her. “I have known you since you were a girl. I’ve protected you.”

“Protected me?” she asked. “I was to be married to a lord who could have perhaps helped us in winter, but you could not have me away from your side and so you informed the Lannisters and I was forced to marry the Imp, a man whose family would murder my mother and brother, the family who had already murdered my father.”

“If we could speak alone,” he said urgently, setting his hands on the table, leaning towards her. “I can explain everything.”

Celia squeezed Sansa’s hand. 

“Sometimes,” Sansa said firmly. “When I'm trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason you have for turning me against my sisterThat's what you do, isn't it? That's what you've always done turn family against family, turn sister against sister. That's what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa and that’s what you tried to do to us.”

“Sansa, please.”

“I know you, Lord Baelish,” she said. “And you can no longer hide behind your words.”

“Give me a chance to defend myself,” he begged. “I deserve that.”

Sansa looked to Rickon, who nodded.

Little finger straightened and went to Yohn Royce. “I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie.”

The knight lifted his chin. “I think not.”

Littlefinger looked around him and found not a single friend amongst the sea of faces. He then looked to Sansa. “Sansa,” he said, falling to his knees. “I beg you! I loved your mother since I was a boy.”

“And yet you betrayed her,” Arya said, looking at him in disdain. 

His eyes flickered towards Arya and then back to Sansa. “I loved you, more than anyone.”

“You love nothing but power, Lord Baelish,” Rickon said plainly, standing. “You once told my sister there’s no justice in the world, not unless we make it.”

“Thank you for your many lessons, Lord Baelish,” Sansa said. “I will never forget them.”

“In the name of King Rickon Stark,” Arya said, pulling out Needle. “You have been found guilty of treason. Any last words?”

“Sansa—“

Arya cut his throat. 

Sansa felt tears threaten to fall, but she refused to turn her gaze, comforting Celia instead, letting the girl stand and crawl into Sansa’s lap as she trembled. 

—

Sansa stood once more upon the ramparts, but this time with Arya. 

“Are you alright?” her sister asked. 

“It’s just strange,” Sansa said. “I’m his own horrible way, I believe he loved me, as much as a man like that could love.”

“When I was at the Twins, I learned that Littlefinger had paid to have our mother kept alive. Or at least paid the Freys to do so. But they did not respect guest rights. How could he expect them to respect gold from a landless lord?”

Sansa’s lips formed a thin line. “Does it bother you,” she asked. “That I’m the Lady of Winterfell?”

“Father once told me that I was destined to marry a lord and to be the lady of a keep one day. It was what he expected of me. However, I told him that it simply was not me, that was you, Sansa. I think… I think a part of me hoped that, when I returned, it would all be a horrible dream and Mother and Father would be waiting for me. And then I saw you, looking and acting just like Mother and yet you have Father in you too. You’re a lot like him anyway, like the lord we so rarely saw. Not Ned Stark the Father, but Ned Stark the Lord.”

Sansa smiled slightly at the compliment. 

“ In winter, we must protect ourselves. Look after one another. That is what you’re doing, it’s what you’ve been doing this whole time, even when we were children, even at the Trident.”

Sansa smiled truly then. She took Arya’s hand in her own and squeezed it. “When the snows fall and the white wind blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Arya squeezed Sansa’s hand back. “Family, duty, honor.”

“We’ll make them proud,” Sansa said firmly. 

“We already are.”

Chapter Text

She was tired of men who questioned what she could do. 

She was Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons. 

She had done what none had done before her. She was not some wilting flower. She was made of fire and blood. 

Drogon climbed higher into the air, the wind whipping about her so she could hardly hear the men and their shouting at her. 

The land beyond the Wall was a barren place. It was cold and it felt like the wind ran straight through her fur coat as she flew towards the supposed encampment. 

—

There were more of these others than she could possibly count, more than she could possibly comprehend. She had seen armies before? Her own and others. But these numbers…

She could understand then why Jon Snow wished for her help, wished for her to make peace for a short while so she could focus her efforts on this Northern threat. 

She had been a savior to the slaves and a leader to the Dothraki. She could very well do and be the same to the North. Any hesitancy Jon Snow might have about bending the knee would be gone once he saw her for who she was, saw the greatness that so many before him had seen. 

Daenerys shifted her gaze and felt her heart stutter in her chest. Their numbers seemed to go on forever. She glanced back from whence she had come and saw a swarm of the others were making their way towards her men. 

She gritted her teeth and Drogon roared. 

Now, once more, she must be a queen. 

—

Drogon and Rhaegal roared as they flew low and fire caught upon undead. She could see her men below and saw that Jon Snow looked up at her. She knew it to be in awe. He had not seen her dragons in action before. 

Daenerys was eventually able to land close to the party as Drogon cleared the way for them. 

She counted the men as they ran towards her. One of them carried another on his shoulder, bone visible and shaking. They had managed to grab one. 

Daenerys reached down when Jon Snow grew near. At first it seemed he would take her hand, but then he saw one of the undead and turned to face it. 

Chaos continued as the other men began to climb atop Drogon’s back. Jon Snow continued to fight. 

“Jon!” Ser Jorah shouted as Rhaegal roared, fire fanning across the frozen land. Drogon continued to clear a path, making certain not to hit the Northman. 

The captured other was slammed down onto one of Drogon’s spikes and Daenerys turned her attention back to Jon Snow, waiting for him to come to her, to let her rescue him. 

Suddenly, an explosion erupted behind her and a helpless scream pierced the air and she turned to see Rhaegal on fire, his chest aflame and he was falling. And then the fire was gone and it was blood falling across the snow painting it red as he crashed into the ground. Drogon roared in anger as Rhaegal slipped below the surface of the ice. 

Daenerys felt her body grow numb, her eyes burning with tears as she gripped Drogon more tightly. 

Her stomach felt suddenly empty. Barren. 

Rhaego. 

Rhaego. 

Rhaegal. 

“No!” A scream ripped from her throat and she began to reach for her fallen child, the tears sliding down her cheeks, too warm to freeze upon her skin. Ser Jorah took hold of her around her waist as she screamed. “No!”

“Khaleesi,” he whispered, holding her more tightly. 

“No!”

“He’s gone,” her loyal knight whispered as she fought against him, Drogon crying out for his fallen brother. “He’s gone. I’m so sorry, my queen.”

“Go!” a shout pierced through the air and Daenerys turned to see Jon Snow running towards them. “Go! Leave! Hurry!”

And then he was tackled to the ground, the ice cracking beneath them and they disappeared beneath the water. Daenerys’ breath knotted in her throat and she stared at the darkness, waiting for Jon Snow to resurface. And then she saw movement. One of the Others, a great white and blue being approaching with a javelin.

Her eyes grew wide and she turned and urged Drogon to fly. 

It whizzed over their heads as they soared upward. She looked back, to where Jon Snow had disappeared and to where her child was now buried beneath the black water. 

Her heart felt shattered in her chest. 

She looked away. 

If I look back, I am lost. 

Chapter Text

Those who were nonessential, either too young or too old to fight and those whose children needed them, were divided and made their way to either White Harbor or to the Vale. The further away they went, the better. But Rickon knew that they could go no further south, not with the dragon queen and Cersei seemingly agreeable to have prisoners and hostages. 

Rickon knew Sansa had tried to convince Celia to go with the group going to White Harbor, but the girl had refused, glaring at anyone and everyone who dared to tell her that she needed to go. Arya thought it was hilarious. 

Eventually she was allowed to stay. 

And so she stood by Sansa’s side as they watched their people depart for someplace safer. Soon, they would all be able to return North, should they win against the Others. 

The North, in a way, was their pack. And the pack had to survive. They had not all gone through so much just for them to die now. 

Sansa put her hand on Rickon’s shoulder and squeezed it. 

They would be okay. 

They had to be. 

—

Their faces often merged with Jon and Sansa’s whenever he dreamed of his parents. There was a statue of his father in the crypts, but his sisters and Bran said that it looked nothing like him. 

Sometimes Rickon hated being so young, hated being the only one who didn’t really remember what their parents looked like. 

He hardly had any memories of them. His memories thrived on stories his siblings shared and half understood emotions of warmth and safety. Someone stroking his hair, a firm hand on his shoulders. 

They would be proud of him, he guessed. He just wished they were there. He wished that they were there with him. 

—

Rickon fell promptly on his face and he could feel Needle on the back of his neck. 

“Again,” Arya said. 

A small giggle came from the edge of the training grown and Rickon glanced up to see Celia watching him as she trailed behind Sansa, who was talking about the granaries. She turned her gaze from Rickon and followed quickly after Sansa. 

Rickon felt his cheeks flush from embarrassment as he pushed himself up. He grabbed his sword and readied himself for Arya’s attack. 

“Even if you will not take part in the main battle,” Arya said. “As you and Sansa will serve as strategists and will help alert the troops of anything you see from the walls of Winterfell, you still need to learn how to protect yourself and those you wish to protect. That wildling girl will no doubt be your focus, but you should focus on Sansa too.”

Rickon’s face turned almost as red as his hair and he rushed towards Arya who quickly brushed off his attack. 

“Always keep a level head, little brother. Even if the Others can’t seem to speak or taunt, always keep a level head. Who knows, maybe someone will challenge you to a duel for your lady love. Littlefinger challenged Uncle Brandon for Mother. Perhaps there’s a Free Folk boy your little redhead grew up with that wants to lay claim?”

Rickon tried again, annoyed at himself for letting Arya get in his head. 

He didn’t feel that way about Celia. She was simply… how did Maester Wolkan describe it? She was his anchor. Ever since he lost Shaggydog, he felt off. It was like his mind was constantly trying to latch into something, anything that could ground him to reality. At first it was Osha, she helped, but then she was gone almost as quickly as Shaggydog was. 

And then there was Celia. Her hand in his brought him back to the firm reality of what was going on around them. It made it easier for him to remain as human as possible. 

Part of Rickon wondered if part of Shaggydog lived inside him. A part of him wanted to lash out and howl and be as uncivilized as possible. Sort of like how he had been when Jon and Sansa had found him again. 

But Celia kept him grounded. 

She kept him human. 

—

Rickon sat with his brother and sisters and missed Jon. Ghost had his massive head on Sansa’s lap, licking her fingers from the treats she gave him. 

They all missed Jon. And Rickon couldn’t wait for his brother to come home, where he belonged.  

Chapter Text

The air left Jon’s lungs as soon as he hit the water. He struggled against the wight that had pushed him into the icy depths. 

His fur weighed him down and the ice bore into his bones. He felt himself drifting further and further down. 

But then the image of blue eyes and fiery hair came into his mind and Jon kicked. 

—

Jon slammed his hand on the ice and pulled himself up, his head breaking away from the dark water. He gasped, filling his lungs with the sharp cold air. He sank slightly before he tried to clamor onto the thick sheet of ice. 

Grabbing hold of Long Claw, he used the hilt to jab the ice and drag himself forward. He continued to pull himself up until he was almost completely out of the water. He sighed heavily and collapsed, pressing his cheek into the ice. He closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to build up his strength. He felt so heavy, and the cold felt like a knife to his joints. He knew what being stabbed felt like and this was it. The cold froze any of the moisture left in his clothes and he felt stiff. 

However, Jon couldn’t just stay there. He pushed himself up and began to head towards the south, where his family was. They needed him to come home. 

He needed to go home. 

Jon stumbled and fell to his knees. However, he forced Long Claw into the ground and pushed himself up. He looked up and saw hundreds of the undead making their way towards him. Jon took a shuddering breath and held up his sword. Ready to fight for the death. 

If he couldn’t go home, he would make certain that there would be less army for a Night King to use. 

Suddenly, a ball of fire began to swing and the wind picked up flecks of ice. A rider approached Jon, racing towards him and the young man faulteted in his stance. 

The rider was hooded and dismounted, approaching Jon in a way that indicated he was not one of the undead. He lowered his hood and the wrap around the bottom half of his face. 

“Uncle Benjen.” Jon’s entire body sagged in relief as his uncle wrapped his arm around Jon and helped him to the horse. “How?”

“A raven told me to come,” his uncle said. “I failed to protect your mother boy.” He helped Jon onto the horse. “I should have stopped this all from happening. But it gave us you and if I couldn’t protect her, I’ll protect you.” Jon’s mind could not even fathom what his uncle was speaking of. “You ride for the pass.”

“Come with me,” Jon begged. “Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon… they’re alive. We need you.”

“There’s no time,” Uncle Benjen said. “There’s no room. This horse would be dead before we reach the Wall if we both ride. Get back to your siblings, Jon, I’ll return to mine. Go!”

The older Stark slapped the horse and it was off. Jon shuddered against the weight of his frozen clothes and the icy wind that blew right through him. 

He looked back and saw the ball of fire swing at the coming undead until there was nothing left. A howl pierced through the air, low and mournful. Then it was joined by another, and another, and then one more. Four wolves sang to one another until Jon could see no more of the dead. 

—

His mind fell into Ghost’s. The warmth of the hearth sank into his bones and Jon rested his head in Sans’s lap as she ran her fingers through his fur. 

She lifted his head then and pressed a tender kiss to his wet nose. Jon licked at her face, promising to return to her soon. 

A memory formed of them all as children, playing in the godswood, around the heart tree. He had been a knight and she had been a princess. He had rescued her from a dragon played by Theon and she had gifted him with a small kiss upon the lips as she had seen her parents do countless times since their father had come back from the rebellion. 

The kiss burned in his memory, even though he had spent so long denying it had ever happened. She was his sister and she had not meant it in that way. 

Jon closed his eyes and rested his face once more in Sansa’s lap, listening to her soft voice as she sang, her fingers combing through his fur. 

—

Jon heard voices, voices shouting, human voices. 

He fell from his horse and shuddered at the feeling. And then he felt hands, warm hands. 

“It’s alright, son,” Davos’ voice came. “We’re going to get you home. There’s a little girl waiting for you to come home.”

Chapter Text

Winterfell was so much more empty now that many of the children and the elderly had gone. Plenty of women had gone too and Celia felt rather lonely. 

But at least Littletoe was gone. She was glad that he couldn’t hurt Lady Sansa anymore. 

And it looked like a cloud was lifted from Lady Arya. The younger Stark woman was much more open now and smiled often with her siblings. 

Still, it was strange to have so many people gone. 

Celia was used to being surrounded by people and there had always been safety in numbers, but she supposed it was safer to get people who would only get in the way to a safe place where the Others would not get to them. 

Celia followed after Lady Sansa as she went about her duties. She could see that the lady was on slightly on edge. They hadn’t heard from Jon Snow in a while and Celia knew Lady Sansa was worried. 

Celia would do what she could to help, do what she could to make sure that Lady Sansa was happy. 

—

Celia sat in the snow as Lord Bran did his warging. It had frightened her a bit when she had first seen him do it. But she was more used to him now. 

She had volunteered to be with him so that Lady Meera could rest a bit. 

Celia built a small Winterfell out of snow as she waited for the strange lord to come back to himself. She wondered where he went, what skin he took on when he left his own. 

She wondered what he saw. She wondered who he saw. 

Perhaps he was looking at Jon Snow? Perhaps he was making sure his brother was alright. 

If so, she was happy that Jon Snow wasn’t truly alone wherever he was. 

Celia looked up and realized that Lord Bran had already come back and was looking at her, his bluish grey eyes watching her carefully. 

She smiled up at him, unsure if he needed something. 

“Be wary of dragons,” he said. “Even if they bring friends, be wary. Butterflies are beautiful and kind, but guided cages are more comfortable than chains and look so much like the freedom they always craved.”

Celia narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What?”

“Friends cannot always be told the truth. And the truth is not always meant to be shared with friends. Be wary, little bainrìgh .”

It was a word in the Old Tongue, but Celia did not recognize it. It wasn’t said save for when the big folk talked about the South, when little ears were not meant to know anything, tuttering about their strange ways of kneeling. She would have to ask what it meant. She would have to ask why Lord Bran called her that. 

—

Celia leaned her head against Rickon’s shoulder during lessons, her eyes fluttering closed, trying desperately to remain open. She hasn’t slept well and was paying the price for it now. 

Rickon put his arm around her shoulders and she closed her eyes, drifting off to a sweet sleep. 

—

“This used to be my room,” Lady Sansa said, opening the door. They both stepped in and Celia looked at the room in wonder. It wasn’t as large as the lord’s chamber, but it was quaint, with some dolls and some dresses hanging up in the wardrobe and a small trunk with a wooden wolf at the end of the bed. “And now it will be yours.”

Celia looked at the lady with wide eyes. “Mine?”

“Yes,” Lady Sansa said with a smile. “I think it’s time you got a room for yourself and I think it’s time that you had a place of your own. This is your home now, after all.”

Celia smiled broadly and wrapped her arms around Lady Sansa’s waist. “Thank you! Thank you!”

The lady chuckled and kissed the top of Celia’s head. “You’re welcome, Sweetling. You’re welcome.”

Chapter Text

Some of the Dothraki had come with them on the ship to fetch their queen, their khaleesi, and Missandei had begun to hear the rumblings of their discomfort when the chill had begun to grow colder like ice piercing the lungs. 

Why does Khaleesi send the sandal men to do her bidding? We’re we not the ones who won her latest victory?

Jorah the Andal was one thing. He knows our language and knows our way. He knows and respects us. 

These men in leather and iron show us no respect, no respect for the Dothraki who have followed Khaleesi through hunger and sickness and heat. 

Why does Khaleesi not just go south to take the walled city as she has all the others before? Why does she bring us to a land where ghost grass grows?

Missandei knew not what to say to help her queen’s men with their fears. They looked at her fondly and were happy to help her with parts of their language she didn’t understand. Even a few of them had asked how they might say something in the common tongue to communicate with some of the Unsullied, but she did not know how to pacify their questions about what the queen was doing for she knew not what to say either. They had known the queen much longer than she had. 

Missandei, as had been happening more and more recently, didn’t know what to say. 

—

Even after reuniting with the queen, Missandei felt a great sense of heartbreak and worry for Jon Snow. 

The queen refused to leave Castle Black in hopes that he might return to her. 

However, Missandei could only think of Jon Snow's daughter. Someone would have to write to her and the man’s siblings about his loss beyond the wall. 

Missandei remembered her parents to a certain degree. 

She was not certain which would be worse, having memories of parents you would never see again, or no memories at all and just a vague pull of loss and regret that would weigh the heart down for as long as a person drew breath. 

—

As they waited for Jon Snow, Missandei went to the Castle Black library to learn more of the Old Tongue. However, there was so little in the library there as well. It was old for a reason, she supposed, but how could she possibly learn when there was so little to study. 

Missandei’s lips formed a thin line. 

She thought of Lord Varys’ request to get close to Jon Snow’s daughter. Perhaps… perhaps if she approached the girl acting as though she merely wanted more knowledge, which a large part of her did… perhaps it could work. 

She suddenly heard a great commotion outside. 

“What is happening?” she called to one of the unsullied. 

“It is Jon Snow,” he replied. “He has returned!”

—

It was chaos once Jon Snow returned. Missandei could barely see what was happening. Everyone was too tall and everyone was shouting. 

Some of the Northmen were arguing that Jon Snow needed to be taken to Winterfell, to his family, but the queen refused, stating he needed to come south. 

It was chaos and the words swirled around Missandei as she tried to reach her queen but was constantly pushed further and further away. 

Chapter Text

Sansa watched as Celia ran about with some of the boys and even a handful of girls that were old enough to stay and fight. Boys and girls Bran’s age a few a year younger. But Celia was by far the youngest person left in Winterfell. Although word had come that Jon’s friend Sam was bringing his lover and son to Winterfell and would be arriving soon. The boy was barely three years old. And if they were traveling, Sansa could hardly send them a raven asking for the woman and her child to be taken to White Harbor. 

“I wonder if I should have been more forceful,” Sansa said as she watched Celia run after the others. “Perhaps I should have been more forceful about her leaving.”

“It’s best that she stay here,” Arya said from beside her. “You would worry even more if you didn’t know where she was, even if you knew she was safe. I doubt she would leave before seeing Jon again. She helps keep Rickon steady and grounded, I’ve seen the way he holds her hand when he’s angry. And Bran seems to think she’s important. And I’ve learned we should always trust Bran, even if he can’t explain everything to us.”

Sansa took a steadying breath. “I know,” she said. “I'm just worried. She’s so young. She’s younger than we were when we left Winterfell.”

“But she’s stronger. She might appear to be all smiles and laughter, but she’s got a spine of steel.”

“I’m just worried that she’ll be seen as a weakness for Jon if he’s able to convince the dragon queen to help us.”

“The pack survived, Sansa. We’re all weaknesses to Jon in one way or another.”

Somehow, that didn’t make Sansa feel any better. 

—

Sansa stood upon the Northern rampart and kept her gaze North. Ghost stood by her side, his red eyes waiting for his master to come home. Just as she was. 

She hadn’t heard anything and that worried her. 

Jon was supposed to come back to Winterfell once the army of the dead was proven. They had a representative of the North already heading towards King’s Landing. They needed Jon to come and help lead them and prepare them for what was to come. 

“Jon,” she whispered, her breath billowing from her lips like smoke. “When will you come home?”

—

Sansa continued to have Winterfell fortified. With Celia’s hand firmly in her own, they walked around Winterfell to make sure that everything was being supported and an extra layer of protection was made. 

Sansa, once again, wished that the giants still roamed the land. A giant, even just Wun Wun would have been enough. But there was nothing they could do about it now. 

All they could do was protect their keep as much as they could. Winter had fallen here once before. They would make it fall again. 

Bran came to her from the godswood. “Sansa,” he said, his blue eyes laced with concern. 

“What is it Bran?”

“We have to burn the bodies. We have to make sure they can’t rise.”

Sansa’s stomach twisted, thinking of her father’s bones. She nodded, though. “We burn them tonight.”

—

Sansa could still smell the burning bones, the burning bodies of the dead. They had to dig up those who had been buried in Wintertown too. All the bodies they could possibly find, they burned and reburied. 

She dreamed of fire too. 

She dreamed of fire consuming red stone and banners of red and gold. 

“Jon!” she screamed, holding two children close to her side, trying to protect them from the smoke. “Jon!”

“Mama!”

Sansa was suddenly yanked backwards, black claws wrapped around her body as violet eyes stared at her in absolute hatred. 

“Your fault,” came the snarl. “It’s all your fault. If it wasn’t for you—“

Sansa jolted awake as Ghost climbed onto her bed next to her. He huffed and rested his massive head on her belly. She eased back into the bed and closed her eyes, praying for a different dream as she drifted back to sleep. 

Chapter Text

“He needs to be returned to Winterfell,” the old knight that had come with Jon Snow said firmly. The Northern men who had gone on the journey agreed and even Ser Jorah looked at her in concern. 

“Khaleesi, he needs to return to his family to heal and help them prepare for the threat beyond the Wall. We know it’s real now.”

Drogon gave out a shriek of indignation and Viserion cried out to his brother, they could feel her annoyance. 

“It would be better for him to be inside a warm ship,” Daenerys said. “He will be brought south with us and he shall speak on behalf of the North to Cersei.”

“He is not yours to decide his fate,” a red haired man said. “He needs to get back to Winterfell. He said he wanted to go back to Winterfell.”

Daenerys knew that Jon Snow had wanted to return, but she knew better. He needed to come South with her so that he could better convince Cersei of the peace treaty so they might fight this threat in the North without worry. Cersei and her men would see that all they had was the Crownlands and the Westerlands. They had nothing else. Daenerys had the rest. 

“He will come South,” she said firmly, her guard forcing a separation between them. “You can either come with us or you will stay.”

The old knight looked at her firmly and then peacefully went to Jon Snow and where her men took his body. 

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said carefully. 

“My decision has been made,” she said. “This is for the best, to show a united front against Cersei.” She looked Ser Jorah in the eyes, pleading. “Do not turn against me again.”

Her faithful knight bowed his head and she knew she had won. 

—

Daenerys watched as Ser Davos tended to Jon Snow with the help of her crew. 

He needed to be stripped and put into new, warmer clothes. He would freeze otherwise. 

Daenerys watched in awe as his shirt was lifted over his head and her eyes widened when she saw the mangled scars upon his chest. Daenerys could recognize a stab wound when she saw one. She could recognize the appearance of puckered skin where a wound had healed. 

It was impossible for anyone to survive such a vicious looking attack. All of the wounds seemed to have healed similarly and around the same time. 

No mortal man could live from such injuries. She thought of the words she had heard Ser Davos say of what Jon Snow had done for his people. 

Who was she to say what was impossible? 

People had thought the dragons were gone and yet she had survived the testing flames and had brought dragons into the world again. Magic had returned by fire through her. 

The Targaryens were thought to be lost and their dynasty over, and yet there she stood. 

The Dothraki had never found the courage to cross the sea, and yet she had done it. 

The Unsullied were created to be mindless slaves to their master’s will. But now they were free and fought for a grander purpose. All because of her. 

Who was she to say that she was the only one to accomplish impossible things?

It seemed Jon Snow was able to as well. What had that Red Woman said? There was another who was important in bringing peace to Westeros. 

And perhaps it was to be alongside the man who laid before her, healing. 

—

Daenerys ordered everyone else out as she continued to watch Jon Snow. Color had begun to return to his lips and cheeks. He was getting warmer, that was certain. 

She didn’t know how long she had been there when he had begun to stir, perhaps growing too warm under all the furs. Daenerys was not close enough to hear the word that fell from his lips, but he stirred nonetheless. His eyes opened and he turned to look at her. 

“Where…”

Daenerys walked to him and sat in the chair Ser Davos had been in. She took Jon Snow’s hand in her own. “We are on one of my ships,” she told him. “It was too dangerous, I felt, to have you travel to your home in your condition. It was safer for you to travel with me and for you to come south. Cersei Lannister might not trust my words, but perhaps the words of Ned Stark’s son.”

Jon Snow looked at her for a long time. Their eyes met and he studied her even more closely. “I’m sorry for the loss of your dragon, Rhaegal,” he said at last, causing Daenerys' breath to knot in her throat. “I know you think of them as your children.”

She squeezed his hand and his own twitched slightly, no doubt wanting to hold it more firmly, but she could still feel the ice upon his fingertips. “I wish that I had brought only Drogon. I wish that I had believed you on your word alone.”

“You have been alone for a long time and I doubt men have given you reason to trust them,” he said. “A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.”

Daenerys could not quite explain the warmth she felt in her chest at his words, words of recognition and understanding. She squeezed his hand more tightly. “I have paid the price for my unbelief,” she said. “But now I am apart of this fight, even if you did not ask for me to be. The Night King took away my child.” She put her higher hand over Jon Snow’s and rubbed her thumb along the back of it, feeling his calluses along her wrist as his fingers moved again. “I had a child once, taken from me before I had the chance to meet him.” Daenerys looked him in the eyes, firmly, searchingly. “I made the woman who took my child from me pay.” She had let her burn and, in turn, it had given Daenerys her dragons, her children. “I will make the Night Ming pay even more severely.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Dany.”

A small laugh bubbled from her throat. “Dany?” She smiled at him and reached to brush some of his dark hair from his face. “It has been a long time since someone last called me that. My brother, perhaps, and he is not the company you wish to keep.”

“Queen Daenerys is a mouthful,” he replied, especially if I have to use all your titles.”

She smiled more warmly, letting her hand slide back to the one in her grip. “Perhaps simply, Daenerys,” she said. And perhaps, one day my queen. “As long as I am allowed to simply call you, Jon.”

He nodded. “The title of king never suited me, anyway.”

Daenerys felt a thrill run up her spine. “And what of the people who chose you, swore to you?”

“They chose their king and I have no doubt they would choose their queen when the time comes.”

Daenerys brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. “Do you think they shall come to like me?”

He looked at her once more, studying her carefully. “They’ll all come to see you for what you are.”

She smiled at him. “I hope I deserve it.”

“You do.”

She smiled and him and stood, leaning over him and pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You should rest. I doubt Cersei will find you intimidating if the King in the North appears weakened by a common cold.”

He simply nodded in reply and slipped his hand from hers. He sighed, sinking into the furs and closed his eyes. 

Daenerys left quietly, letting him sleep. 

—

Daenerys stood on the deck of the ship and felt such pride swelling in her chest. 

Jon Snow… Jon… was on her side. He was choosing her, perhaps in not the most direct way, but Ser Jorah had often told her that the Northmen were not always so direct when it came to more personal connections. 

But Jon had chosen her for her. Not because of her dragons or her house name. He had chosen her because he saw her for who she was. 

Soon she would tell him of her inability to give him children, but he had once been a man of the Night Watch, at one point he had no intention of having children, even if he had a child now. 

Lord Varys had discussed it with her, as had Missandei. A little girl who was in need of a mother and Daenerys had only just lost a child and she had never had a girl before. But she knew what it was like to be a motherless girl. 

This girl could be her heir that Tyrion was always so worried about. Daenerys could mold her into a princess and eventual queen and raise her up to be greater than the bastard daughter of a lord’s bastard son. 

And the North would love her for it. 

Daenerys smiled. 

Chapter Text

Rickon could tell he was getting stronger. He wouldn’t be able to beat a fully trained knight, much less Arya, but he was getting better, stronger. 

With practice, he might even become as good as Jon. 

Arya was relentless in training him, taunting him to make him lose his footing. The main way she did this was talking about Celia. 

It wasn’t that Celia was a sensitive subject for Rickon, it was more that some part of him feared what would come in the future. She was one of them, she was of the North, of Winterfell. But she had grown up beyond the Wall with her people. What if, when all was said and done, she wanted to return there with them? 

Rickon wasn’t sure if he could handle being alone, handle being without the anchor that helped his mind from wandering. 

He could still feel it in his chest, the loss of Shaggy Dog. He could still feel that part of him hollowed and carved out. 

He didn’t want to lose anyone else. He didn’t want to lose anyone again. But he knew war and time were the greatest of factors. 

Rickon simply wasn’t sure if he had it in him to thrive should he lose anyone else. 

—

Rickon reached Bran at the godswood, nodding at Meera so that she could leave and take a short break from watching Bran and spend some more time with her father. 

Rickon sat at the snow and watched Bran, surprised that his brother’s eyes cleared and his gaze landed on Rickon. 

“Did you see something?” he asked. 

“I see a lot of things,” Bran replied. “Some things shall never come to pass, some things have only a fraction of a chance of coming true, and other things are shifting with decisions everyone is currently making. To believe that time is upon one line, already etched into history is a foolish way to think.”

Rickon nodded, only fully understanding half of it. “Then what do you think your visions mean? What did you see that made you come out of it?”

“Jon is heading south,” he said. 

“What? But he was supposed to come back to Winterfell!”

“Yes, but the dragon queen has other ideas.”

Rickon’s lips thinned. He already hated the dragon queen and once the lords found out they would dislike her for more reasons than simply her name. “You called Celia a queen in the Old Tongue,” he said. “She didn’t know what it meant, and I didn’t tell her, but I want to know why you called her that.”

“And how do you know that word?”

“Osha taught it to me.” The thought of the wildling woman made his heart throb painfully in his chest. He missed her. He missed her so much. “But don’t change the subject. Why did you call her that?”

Bran looked at him for a long time, as though debating what he would and would not say. 

“Celia has many futures where being queen is a possibility. A queen in the south if we fail, a queen in the North should some decisions be made, a queen beyond the Wall if yet more decisions are made. Her paths don’t all lead to queenship, but there are paths she is wavering upon. Regardless, she’s important to the future of our house.”

“Bran…” 

“I can’t tell you any more,” his older brother said with a shake of his head. “Fate is a choice, and Celia deserves to have one.”

Rickon frowned. “I would never take her choice away.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But, perhaps one day, you will want her to make a specific choice and perhaps guide her actions towards one destiny. For now… for now you deserve to be children.”

—

Rickon was in his lessons with Maester Wolkan and Celia. 

Her red hair had been braided similarly to Sansa's, only a little less ornate, but there was something a little wilder about the way she held herself in comparison to his oldest sister, mainly because her hair was not as long and not as thick. 

Celia swung her legs as they didn’t even touch the ground when she sat. Her face was in her hands as she watched and listened to Maester Wolkan’s lessons, fully invested in learning. 

Rickon glanced at the older man, sometimes feeling that there should be someone else in his place. 

Sometimes he felt like so many people should be replaced by impressions of people he no longer remembered. 

Celia’s hand was suddenly on his own. She was still listening to the maester, but her hand found his and she squeezed it tightly. 

He squeezed it back. 

—

“Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Samwell,” Rickon said as the round man bowed slightly and the woman beside him curtsied slightly. The young child in her arms looked at Rickon curiously. 

“Just Sam is fine, your grace,” the man replied. 

“Regardless, welcome to Winterfell. I’m told you have some instructions for how to create weapons out of the dragonglass?”

“Yes, your grace. I do.”

Rickon nodded and glanced up at Sansa. She smiled at him in encouragement. “We’ll have you shown to your room and then you can bring the instructions to the forge.”

Sam nodded. “At once, your grace.”

Chapter Text

“Queen Daenerys is a mouthful,” he replied. She wasn’t his queen and it was obvious she would never return the courtesy to him, even if he was only a regent. There had been very little respect. Barely even a title of lord cast his way. “Especially if I have to use all your titles.”

She smiled at him snuggly, like a child that had been caught but allowed to carry on in their mischief. Rather reminiscent of Theon when they were children, if Jon were to compare it to someone. Him of Joffrey when his mother had said nothing to reprimand his cruel words about Bran. The woman’s hand slid to his own. “Perhaps simply Daenerys,” she said. His stomach churned, almost a me to hear her innermost thoughts and belief. “As long as I am allowed to simply call you Jon.”

He nodded. It wasn’t as if it would be much of a difference. She would simply be dropping the name of Snow. “The title of king never suited me anyway.”

That had always been Robb and now Rickon. He missed his little brother and wondered how he was fairing since Jon had last seen him. 

“And what of the people who chose you, swore to you?”

She was looking ever so pleased with herself. She seemed so sure of who he was in terms of power. The North respected the Stark name and his father. That and the king was still a child. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know him or his people at all. 

“They chose their king and I have no doubt they would choose their queen when the time comes.” Rickon’s bride would be queen one day, and even if it wasn’t in name, Sansa was their queen too. 

Daenerys brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles. It took everything in him to not yank his hand away. Her lips were like fire, trying to brand him as her own. “Do you think they shall come to like me?”

He looked at her for a long time, trying to find the words that would appease her and make her leave quickly. “They’ll all come to see you for what you are.”

She smiled at him, like she was victorious. “I hope I deserve it.”

“You do,” he said simply. She was a fool. He had promised her absolutely nothing and she was too blind to see it. 

She continued to smile and stood, leaning over him. Jon stiffened as she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and he wanted to shove her away, but he needed to bide his time. He was still her prisoner. He hadn’t been returned to Winterfell. She was taking him south and he had no way of returning until they docked, but even then, he doubted that any of his men save perhaps Davos had come with him. For now he was at the dragon queen’s mercy. 

“You should rest,” she ordered him gently, as he had seen Lady Stark kindly order his father about. “I doubt Cersei will find you intimidating if the King in the North appears weakened by a common cold.”

He had nearly died of hypothermia. She truly was an utter fool who seemed to think nothing of belittling the trials of others. Jon nodded and slipped his hand from hers now that her grip had loosened. He sighed and closed his eyes, thrilled when he heard her leave. 

He was furious. Did no one in her confidence inform her that she had basically kidnapped a king, at least to their understanding? Did no one inform her that a Targaryen taking someone of House Stark away from the North and their family would reflect badly on her? 

It was bad enough that she had forced him to stay on Dragonstone. However the North would be all too willing to find reasons to dislike her beyond her house and she was making a rather easy list for them. 

Jon sighed. 

He wanted to go home. 

—

Jon walked alongside Davos, Missandei, Jorah, and Tyrion ahead of the Dothraki guard that had accompanied them. Lord Varys, Theon, and the Hound were further behind them. They made their way to the Dragonpit for the foolish meeting that would barely get anything done. 

Surely Tyrion knew that. From what Sansa had told Jon of Cersei, she would play dirty. This was pointless. Perhaps she would send aide to the North. Perhaps she would do it and endear herself to the people and show them that she was a queen that would defend them. If she did not, she would be a queen that showed she did not bow to tactics built on fear. 

Daenerys was a fool. 

Especially since she appeared to not care to arrive when everyone else was. She was a fool. Now was not the time to threaten as she had when he first arrived on Dragonstone. It appeared that her diplomacy skills were lacking. He had thought it was because she had been misled by Tyrion to believe he had come to bend the knee. However, this appeared to be her tactic for both supposed friend and foe. 

“Why did they build it?” Missandei asked. Jon glanced back and saw the girl looking at everything, her eyes wide, and he was brought back to memories of Celia and her eyes once she came to Winterfell and could appreciate it. 

“Dragons don’t understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn’t,” Jorah told her. “Land, livestock, children… Letting them roam free around a city was a problem.”

“I imagine it was a sad joke at the end,” Tyrion added. “An entire arena for a few sickly creatures smaller than dogs. But in the beginning, when it was home to Balerion the Dread, it must have been the most dangerous place in the world.”

Lannister guards approached and Jon’s breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of Lady Brienne and Podrick. 

Jon could hear the grimace in Davos’ voice. “Maybe it still is.”

A man Jon did not recognize stepped forward. “Welcome, my lords,” he said. “Your friends arrived before you did. I’ve been sent to escort you all to the meeting.”

“I will follow shortly,” Jon said firmly. “I must speak to Lady Brienne.”

“I’m sure that—“

“I will speak to my lady sister’s sworn sword and ask what she is doing here. This is a matter concerning House Stark, I will follow shortly.” He stepped forward and took hold of Lady Brienne’s arm. 

“Podrick, follow the others to the meeting,” the lady said calmly. 

—

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You are supposed to be with Sansa and Rickon and Celia.”

“Lady Sansa bade me come,” the lady knight said calmly, seemingly expecting his anger. “An invitation was sent and she refused to come—“

“As she should.”

“And she ordered that I come in her place. Your youngest sister, Lady Arya is an excellent fighter, by my estimation. She can protect Lady Sansa if necessary. My lord, your sister is safe.”

“Sansa is not safe when Lord Baelish lingers.”

“Your sister appeared to have him well at hand. What’s more, I revived a scroll informing me that Lord Baelish is dead, executed for his crimes against House Stark, Lannister, and Arryn.”

Relief swept through Jon’s body. 

Littlefinger was dead. He was gone and he could hurt Sansa no more. “Good.”

Lady Brienne nodded. “Let us go now then, my lord.”

“Of course.”

—

They entered the ruins of the Dragonpit, a small rise in the middle to form a sort of stage was furnished at its center with red banners and chairs to sit if they so wished to. Jon had to admit that this was far more welcoming than the reaction the dragon queen had given him. They filed in, the Lannisters to one side and everyone else on the other. 

They reached the place they were indicated to go and Jon felt a hand tugging on his cloak. He glanced down and saw Missandei. The girl seemed to sense the tension in the area and he knew that her brother was not at the meeting, only the Dothraki had come. Jon opened his cloak and put his hand on her shoulder to help her feel more safe. 

His eyes happened to meet Davos’. The old knight nodded his head. 

Jon turned when he heard movement and saw Cersei Lannister enter the pit with a large man beside her, two men he did not recognize, and Ser Jaime Lannister. They made their way up to the raised platform and Cersei glanced at Jon, paling slightly. And he wondered if she saw a ghost in his features. He wondered if she saw Ned Stark, the man whose death had brought so much suffering. 

They all made their way to sit down. Jon between Davos and Brienne and, on the other side, Jorah and Tyrion on the other side. Jon smiled at Missandei and encouraged her to sit with her queen’s party. She left him carefully and made her way to stand next to one of the Dothraki. 

The Hound walked from behind where Jon sat, his eyes trained on the giant man. The two men met near the center of the conference. “Remember me? Yeah, you do. You're even fucking uglier than I am now. What did they do to you? Doesn't matter. That's not how it ends for you, brother. You know who’s coming for you. You’ve always known.”

The Hound left to get the wight and there was a long sense of unease. 

“Where is she?” Queen Cersei asked, her voice tinged with annoyance. 

Jon glanced at Davos and he could see the old man was uneasy with how little the dragon queen cared for appearances. This was beginning the meeting with a bad taste in everyone’s mouth. 

“She’ll be here soon,” Tyrion assured his sister. 

“Did she not travel with you?”

“No,” Tyrion replied. 

There was a pregnant pause before the dragons began to screech. Ser Jaime stood quickly at the sound and soon others followed. 

Jon’s face drained of color.

She couldn’t possibly be that stupid.

He stood and left the protection from the tapestry above his head and watched as the two dragons circled overhead. 

She couldn’t possibly be that stupid. 

One of the dragons landed on a perch of the ruins and Jon recognized it as Drogon. The beast screeched and roared, lowering his head to reveal Daenerys on his back. 

She couldn’t possibly be that stupid. 

Dragon made his way down the ruins until he was at the Dragonpit’s floor. He lowered his side slightly, allowing the dragon queen to dismount. 

She couldn’t possibly be this stupid. 

She walked calmly to the dais as Drogon flew away. She took her seat as though nothing were amiss. 

Cersei looked at the sky for a moment longer before returning her gaze to the younger woman. “We’ve been here for some time.”

She could not be this stupid. 

“My apologize,” Daenerys said, as though she were merely apologizing for the weather. 

She could not be this stupid. 

She had just let Cersei know that she had only two dragons now. 

Chapter Text

Celia followed after Lady Sansa, acting as her shadow as she went about her day. Many of the servants who remained or the soldiers who roamed the hall would bow their heads respectfully to Lady Sansa and then look to Celia and smile. The older servants especially. 

She heard whispers of Lady Stark, Lady Sansa’s mother, and how it reminded them of when Lady Sansa was a child, following after her mother. 

It made Celia blush happily at the thought of being compared to Lady Sansa when she was a child. 

Whenever Lady Sansa did something that was only a little confusing, she would stop and explain to Celia why she was doing it and why she was doing it the way she was doing it. 

Not once did Lady Sansa make Celia feel like a fool. She felt rather grown up. 

“I want to be like Lady Sansa, when I’m older,” she whispered to Rickon as they headed for their lessons. 

The king blushed slightly and nodded. However, he did not say anything in return. 

—

Celia walked with Rickon, who had begun to grow a little taller recently. But only a little. 

Lady Sansa said that he had not been eating enough in the years he was gone from Winterfell and was only now beginning to gain some of the height he should have, but he would have time to grow more. 

Rickon held her hand firmly in his own as they toured Winterfell and continued to check how the repairs were coming. The repairs were coming along splendidly and the workers had also begun to set up tents on one side of Winterfell that was furthest from the Wall so they could begin to prepare for the battle that might come their way. 

Part of Celia hoped such a battle would never come. But she could remember the blue eyes Others taking over her home. She could remember their loveless stares. 

She gripped Rickon’s hand more tightly. Celia wished that the monsters would never come. 

She wished Jon Snow would come home. She would feel safer if Jon Snow was home. 

—

Celia pushed Bran’s chair with determination. The young lord was chuckling, she could tell. But she was determined to push him instead of sitting on his lap as she had occasionally done when Lord Bran would go to the heart tree. Lady Meera was behind her as well gently telling Celia that she could push as she normally could. 

However, Celia stuck her tongue out in determination and continued to push. 

—

Celia peeked over the wall of the rampart to look where Jon Snow would return when he did. She got on her toes to do so, even though Lady Sansa told her to be careful. 

“Do you miss Jon so much?” Lady Arya’s voice came and Celia turned to look at the lady 

She nodded enthusiastically. “He said he would come back though. 

“And he will,” Lady Arya assured her. 

Celia nodded firmly and turned her gaze back to the south. 

Chapter Text

There was a great silence cast upon the Dragonpit, with only the sound of Dragon snarling slightly beyond them, the strange crackling growl of his throat and the even more distant sounds of Viserion’s great wings against the wind. 

It was like no one dared move, no one dared breathe as the two queens looked at one another for the first time, took in every little thing about the other, overthinking what every stitch of clothing and every carefully tamed hair meant of the other woman’s power and glory. 

Lord Tyrion coughed and stood, ready to take control of the situation. He walked towards the center of the meeting banners to be better seen. “We are all facing a unique—”

“Theon!” A bearded and frightening looking man called towards the Ironborn. “I have your sister.” At that, Missandei stood straighter. Yara Greyjoy. She was still alive? They had to help her then, they had to do something to get her out. She was a loyal— “If you don’t submit to me here, now… I’ll kill her.”

There was silence as it stretched once more across the air. Missandei glanced at Jon Snow and could see he was staring intently at Lord Theon. Whether it was concern or judgment, she could not say. 

“I think we ought to begin with larger concerns,” Lord Tyrion said slowly, if not a little annoyed. 

“Then why are you talking?” the bearded man asked. There was something in his eyes that frightened Missandei. There was something unhinged about him. He was like a rabid dog tied to a string with only a bit of his own restraint to guard them all from his own madness. He stood and began to approach Lord Tyrion. “You’re the smallest concern here.”

Lord Tyrion glanced at the queen. “Do you remember when we discussed dwarf jokes?”

Missandei could see that her queen was clearly quite annoyed and Lord Theon was stiff and she could sense the burning rage rolling from his figure. 

“He explained it at the end as well,” Lord Tyrion continued, as though he were teaching a lesson. He returned his hardened gaze towards the man standing over him. “Never explain. It always ruins it.”

The man bent his body down. “We don’t even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know,” he said, a slight shift in his tone. His voice became a whisper, almost. “We kill you at birth. An act of mercy for the parents.”

Missandei could see the slight pain that crossed Lord Tyrion’s face when the gold handed man, Ser Jaime Lannister spoke. “Perhaps you ought to sit down.”

The voice reminded Missandei of Mossador. An older brother trying to be there for a younger sibling. 

“Why?” the bearded man asked, not taking his eyes off of Lord Tyrion. 

“Sit down or leave,” Cersei Lannister said, her voice calm if not a little annoyed. 

The gigantic armored man moved forward as though to enforce his mistress’s will, ready for the order. There was a long silence, just as there had been when Queen Daenerys had landed with her dragons. Missandei felt her heart tremble in her chest. This place was dangerous. 

Lord Tyrion walked more towards his siblings and stood before them, bowing his head slightly in thought. “We are a group of people who do not like one another, as this recent demonstration has shown.” Cersei Lannister folded her hands in her lap to listen as the Queen’s Hand spoke. “We have suffered at each other's hands. We have lost people we love at each other's hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face-to-face.”

“So instead, we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?” Cersei Lannister asked, her voice thick from thought and annoyance. 

Even Missandei knew that such a thing was not possible. She thought of Asapor and Meereen. 

“We all know that will never happen,” Lord Tyrion admitted. 

“Then why are we here?” Cersei Lannister asked through gritted teeth. 

Jon Snow stood from his seat and crossed to the center of the group with ease. There was such power in the way he moved and it was obvious that the Lannister queen and her brother sat at more attention as they looked at the Northman standing before them. 

“This isn't about living in harmony,” he said. “It's just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can't negotiate with. An army that doesn't leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city. They're about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead.”

“I imagine for most of them it would be an improvement.”

Jon Snow stepped forward. “My sister, Lady Sansa told me of the Bread Riot. She told me how the people of King’s Landing had grown so hungry they tore a Septon apart with their bare hands in outrage. You were able to kill those people. You will not be able to kill any of them should they join the dead. You both knew my father, you both knew what he stood for, the kind of man he was. I would not be here if I came to speak lies.”

“I believe the words of Ned Stark,” Cersei Lannister said coldly. “I would, perhaps, even trust the word of a son of Catelyn Stark, but you? Who could ever trust a bastard?” As she spoke the words, it did not feel as though she meant them. She looked to Queen Daenerys. “If my brother, Jaime, has informed me correctly, you’re asking me for a truce.”

“Yes,” Missandei’s queen replied. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Cersei Lannister scoffed. She leaned forward in her seat, almost like a mother ready to reprimand her child. “Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster hunt. Or while you solidify and expand your position. Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back until you return and march on my capital with four times the men.”

“Your capital will be safe until the northern threat is dealt with,” Queen Daenerys replied. “You have my word.”

“The word of a woman who does not understand diplomacy or the rules of war is not one that I trust,” the Lannister queen leaned back in her seat. “You come speaking of peace and yet you bring your dragons. You ask for trust when you kill prisoners you could have easily traded for the ones I currently hold in my cells. You have not even asked about them. I must say, even if you did not know your father, I must say you are following his example fantastically well.”

The silence that followed was horrifying. Not even the dragons made a sound and all Missandei could hear was the rapid beating of her heart. She fidgeted in her seat, desperate to have the silence be over. 

“There is no conversation,” Lord Tyrion said slowly, stepping forward. “That will erase the last fifty years. However, we have something to show you.”

The man with the horribly scarred face returned to the pit with a giant crate on his back. He walked up the stairs and set it down at the far end of the raised meeting area. He knelt and set the crate down, slowly removing the chains and the bars that locked it. He slid the lid from the crate and stepped back. When nothing happened, the man grasped the hilt of his sword and kicked the crate over. 

An undead monster, a body so starved that Missandei was reminded of the slaves whose masters worked them to death, screeched in anger. The thing searched about itself wildly and began to charge, at random, towards the Lannister queen. The woman recoiled as the undead thing drew near and was suddenly yanked back but he scarred man. It scrambled on the ground and Ser Jaime stood. The thing scrambled it’s way to the scarred man, who drew his sword and cut it in half. 

Both halves continued to move, the upper body dragging itself toward the man. He cut off one of its arms. 

A man dressed in oversized black robes that was with the Lannisters—Missandei could see a pendant that indicated he was the Lannister queen’s hand—walked to the hand and picked it up. Jon Snow walked to him and took the arm from him. Ser Davos came along beside him and the two men lit a torch. 

“We can destroy them by burning them,” Jon Snow explained, setting the arm on fire and casted it aside as the thing writhed in pain and screeched helplessly. Jon Snow pulled out a black dagger after handing the torch to Ser Davos. “We can destroy them with dragonglass.” He sheathed the dagger and then withdrew his sword. “Or Valyrian Steel. If we don’t win this fight, then that is the fate of every person in the world.”

He slammed his sword through the chest of the thing and it became silent instantly and ceased all movement.

Missandei glanced at the Lannister queen and saw the shock and horror on her face. 

Jon Snow walked forward and stood before Cersei Lannister. “There is only one ear that matters right now. The Great War, and it is here.”

“I didn’t believe it until I saw them,” Queen Daenerys said, her voice smooth as silk. “There were so many and I fear I could not even fathom them all.”

“How many?”Ser Jaime Lannister asked. 

“A hundred thousand,” the queen said. “At least.”

“And if we keep fighting now and if we do not join together against this common enemy…” Jon Snow took a deep breath. “Anyone who falls in battle against them will rise. Every single person that stands between you and them could be added to their ranks.”

The bearded man stood and went to examine the undead thing. “Can they swim?”

“I don’t know,” Jon Snow replied. “They do not seem to. “

The man stood. “Good,” he said. “I’m taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands.”

“What are you talking about?” the Lannister queen asked. 

The bearded man turned to who Missandei thought was his queen. “I've been around the world. I've seen everything, things you couldn't imagine, and this,” he glanced at the thing. “This is the only thing I've ever seen that terrifies me.”

The man walked over to Queen Daenerys. The Dothraki that were behind them tensed and readied their weapons. “I’m going back to my island,” he told her. “You should go back to yours. If they can die by fire, just wait until everyone is dead and just burn them all. And then, we’ll be the only ones left alive.”

And at that, he left. 

Chapter Text

Sansa tried to keep herself busy since Jon had yet to return, but she failed miserably at it. He should have been back now if it weren’t for the dragon queen. 

Honestly, how foolish was the woman to not allow Jon back to Winterfell considering word had come that he would after he was practically forced to go beyond the Wall. Sansa knew full well the lords were restless as it was when Jon went south, but now they were even more so. 

Even if he was not their king and merely a temporary regent, he was the ghost of Ned Stark come again and he was one of the main factors of them reclaiming the North.

The dragon queen had won herself no favors by keeping him away. 

Sansa surely wouldn’t feel inclined to have her help at all. However, her dragons’ fire would help limit the amount of dead and their soldiers could spend time focusing on the stronger Others rather than the massive amount of foot soldiers they would create. 

Sometimes it was necessary to sue for a temporary peace when one shared a common enemy. 

Even so, Sansa missed Jon. She missed him being at her side and she missed the fact that he was not there to quarrel with her or help her feel safe. Yes, Baelish was gone and Rickon was the true king, but Sansa felt more safe with Jon. He had been the first person in a good long while to make her feel safe and she missed him for it. 

She missed him for other reasons, of course. Of course she did. He was Jon. 

But part of her shied away from the other reasons she missed him. Reasons she would never allow to cross her mind in their fullness. 

—

“There’s something I need to tell Jon when he comes back,” Bran said. 

Sansa glanced at her younger brother. He looked so determined. He seemed to be doing so much better than he had been when he first returned to Winterfell. A glint in his eyes that she remembered from childhood was slowly returning and his cheeks had become fuller. He looked like a young man now, rather than a fragile boy who had been forced to life in the far North surviving on a possibly low amount of food, no matter how well Meere Reed could hunt. 

“What do you need to speak to Jon about?” she asked. 

“That is between him and myself,” Bran said. “However, he will tell you first. He will want you to know first.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes for a moment, but nodded, accepting that this was what needed to happen. She trusted Bran to not keep things from her and she trusted Jon to tell her whatever it was when the time is right. 

—

Sansa watches from the landing as Celia danced along the snow, laughing and giggling as Ghost played alongside her. She was dragging Rickon into the play as well. Her laughter echoed across the halls of Winterfell and Sansa could see some of the soldiers and the remaining Northern servants look at her and smile. They smiled as well as their young king also indulged her in the happiness of a fresh snow. 

This was what they were all fighting for, what they were all prepared to die for if necessary. They were fighting for the future of children like Celia, of boy kings like Rickon. They were fighting for a future they might never see, might never experience. But this is what they were fighting for. 

—

“My lady.”

Sansa turned to look at the Valelord who approached her. “Harrold Hardying,” she said. 

“I was unaware you know who I was, my lady.”

“I remember you from the Vale,” she replied. “And I try to memorize everyone who is in Winterfell.” It helped her decide how to best divide labor. “Is there something you need?”

He coughed into his fist. “Yes, my lady. There is something I wish to ask you.” His cheeks turned slightly pink. “I was wondering if you would do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.”

Sansa’s lips formed a thin line. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, my lord. You, no doubt, must return to the Vale when this is all over and I am to remain here, in Winterfell for the rest of my days. So no, I can not marry you.”

He opened his mouth to speak. 

“I have been forced into an unwanted marriage before, Lord Hardying. And if Littlefinger promised you something, I will assure you I have had no part in it. Let us part ways now before you embarrass yourself further.” Sansa turned on her heels and left. 

Chapter Text

They all watched as the Ironborn man stormed away, a few men dressed similarly to him walked away. Euron Greyjoy. She had heard plenty of whispers of him, even when in Meereen. He was dangerous. 

“He’s right to be afraid,” Cersei said, her voice smooth and matriculate, leaning forward slightly in her seat. Not once did she take her eyes from Daenerys. “And a coward to run. If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Everything we suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we lost will have been for nothing. The crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy.”

Daenerys glanced at Jon as he let go a breath she was certain he was not aware he was holding. 

“In return,” Cersei continued. “The king—“

“Just the king?” Daenerys asked. 

Cersei looked at her with slight contempt. “I would never ask it of you. You do not even know what to do with your prisoners of war, how can I expect you to keep your word on this. I know you would never agree to it and, even if you did, I would trust you even less than I do now.” She returned her gaze to Jon. “In return the King in the North will extend this truce. He will remain in the North where he belongs.” Daenerys turned to look at Jon’s stony features. “He will not take up arms against the Lannisters. He will not choose sides. I know Ned Stark’s son will be true to his word.”

“I am true to my word,” Jon said after glancing at Daenerys. “Or, I try to be. The King in the North will remain North. But that is not what I am.”

Daenerys felt her lips spread into a smile. A shiver ran up her spine as she leaned forward, wanting to hear every word, wanting to capture every movement of his lips. 

“The North will be the bulk of the fighting force and, unlike the rest of Westeros, we have lost much in previous wars. My men are exhausted and marching south when we must prepare for winter would not be wise. Queen Daenerys will have my sword if she asks it, but I am not the King in the North. I have my own bargain for you, Queen Cersei.” He stepped forward. “Lady Sansa.”

Daenerys glanced at her Hand, who stiffened, and then to Cersei who snarled. 

“What of her?” the Lannister woman all but demanded. 

“You will not send anyone North for Lady Sansa. You will not do anything to endanger Lady Sansa. If you do anything to harm her, you know what the North did when the crown took and caused harm to a Stark woman. The North would act with as much vengeance. If you do not touch Lady Sansa, you have only me to worry about. The rest of the North will not move South.”

“She killed my son.”

“You know as well as I do that she didn’t. And even if she had, for all that he did to her, can you blame her, considering what we all guess you did to your husband? Even if Joffrey was not sired by Robert Baratheon, he was that man’s son.”

Cersei’s lips curled and she stood. “Then there is nothing left to discuss,” she sneered. “The dead will come North first. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you.”

At that, Cersei and her men began to leave. A rather large woman from the North went to speak with Ser Jaime Lannister, but Daenerys stood to make her way to Jon. His previous Hand had already gone to him. 

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” the man said in his rough accented voice. 

Daenerys came to Jon’s side. “I am grateful for your loyalty,” she said, her voice strained. Your wish to protect your sister is honorable. But my dragon died so that we could be here.” She thought of Rhaegal, of his body slipping below the surface of the ice water. Of his cry of pain before he fell. If I look back I am lost. “If it’s all for nothing, then he died for nothing.”

“I am aware, your grace. You seem to forget that my siblings could die if we do not return to them soon.” She knew he was frustrated at Cersei and she could see how he was restraining himself from taking his anger out on others present. He was not like Viserys. He was not a man who would take his anger out on those who did not warrant it.

“I’m pleased you bent the knee to our queen,” Tyrion said, his back to them, watching where his siblings had left. “I would have advised it, had you asked.” He then turned to look at them. “But have you ever considered learning how to lie every now and then? Just a bit?”

Jon turned to Daenerys’ Hand and scowled. “I’m not going to swear an oath I can’t fully uphold. Talk about my father if you wish to teach me a lesson, tell me that is what got him killed. But when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Queen Cersei already has two of your allies, allies who were fighting against her. Tyrion, you know how Sansa was treated here, you know what they did to her here. Regardless of any treaty, can you look me in the eye and tell me that your sister would not do something backhanded to hurt my sister if given the chance?”

Tyrion looked at him for a long time. Daenerys watched as his eyes widened. “You baited her.”

“Sansa didn’t come here for a reason. Cersei doesn’t need another hostage, but she would have used it as an opportunity. Especially since we haven’t exchanged salt and bread here. If Cersei realizes she is better off helping us, she knows she cannot do anything to my sister without calling upon the wrath of the North. Your sister has lost the Riverlands as well as the Vale. She has the West and part of the Reach. The Stormlands are in shambles now with Stannis Baratheon recently dead. She cannot risk the North attacking her. And I cannot risk my sister should she agree to come North.”

Daenerys thought for a long moment. He was so very unlike Viserys. Her brother would have thrown her to the wolves if it meant his crown, his throne. But Jon Snow was not Viserys Targaryen. No. He protected those he cared for and Daenerys knew she was counted amongst those few. 

“Any ideas as to how we might change Queen Cersei’s opinion?” Ser Davos asked. 

“Only one,” Tyrion replied. “Everyone stay here, and I go talk to my sister.”

Daenerys turned to him. “I didn’t come all this way to have my Hand murdered.”

He gave her a quick smile. “I don't want Cersei to murder me either. I could have stayed in my cell and saved a great deal of trouble.”

Daenerys nodded and watched as her Hand left. She turned to speak with Jon, but he was already on his knees speaking to Missandei who had come up to him. Daenerys smiled at him. He would make a good father one day. 

The thought made her stomach twist and she looked away, turned to look at the bones of the dragons that had come before her own, dragons that had brought House Targaryen greatness. 

If I look back, I am lost. 

—

After Jon was finished speaking to Missandei, he went to look about the Dragonpit and Daenerys followed after him slowly. He bent down and picked up a bone that Daenerys did not recognize the shape of. 

“No one is less happy about this than I am,” he said as she drew near. He looked up at her, his peculiar grey eyes glinted with something in the southern sun. 

“I know,” she said gently. “I respect what you did. I wish you hadn’t done it, but I respect it.” Jon looked down at the bone and Daenerys stepped closer to him. “I told you briefly of my brother. He was not a good man and he would not have done what you did for your sister. You are a good man, Jon Snow. Of that I am certain.” She reached out and he handed the bone to her. Daenerys turned it over in her hand and then looked up at the crumbling stone. “This place was the beginning of the end for my family,” she said. The Valyrian rolled off her tongue with ease. “ A dragon is not a slave. ” Memories of freeing the Unsullied filled her mind and she opened her eyes, not realizing she had even closed them. “A dragon is not a slave,” she translated for him. “They were terrifying. Extraordinary. They filled people with wonder and awe.” She walked towards a small alcove and Jon followed her. “And we locked them in here. They wasted away. They grew small. And we grew small as well. We weren't extraordinary without them. We were just like everyone else.” She handed the bone back to Jon. 

He took it carefully. Jon looked out at the Dragonpit and then turned his gaze towards her again. “You’re not like everyone else.” He stepped down and closer to her. “And your family hasn’t seen it’s end. You’re still here.”

“I can’t have children,” she said. The words slipped from her mouth with ease she did not know she had. She had wanted to be a mother of a child made of flesh and bone, not fire and blood. She wanted her Rhaego. She had wanted a child with Daario. She had wanted, but she had been given nothing. 

If I look back, I am lost. 

“Who told you that?” Jon asked her gently. He looked as though he might touch her, but he was too honorable for that. 

“The witch who murdered my husband.”

He looked away and then back to her. “Has it occurred to you that she might not have been a reliable source of information?”

She smiled at him. She wished she could see the goodness in the world as he seemed to. “Nothing that has happened to me has led me to believe that she might be wrong. And now I have lost one of the children given to me. If I had trusted you from the beginning, everything would be different. Rhaegal would still be alive.”

“So, what now?”

“I can’t forget what I saw North of the Wall,” she said and his eyes brightened ever so slightly. “And I can’t pretend that Cersei won’t take back half the country the moment I march North.”

Jon looked away from her. “I need to return North regardless. Just as you do not wish to lose any more of your dragons or the land you have won, I cannot lose my family. I have only just gotten them back. They need me. There’s a little girl up North that needs me.”

Daenerys had almost forgotten that he had a daughter already. A daughter who could be molded. A daughter who needed a mother, as far as she could tell as no mother had been mentioned. 

“Jon—“

They heard footsteps and Daenerys looked to see Cersei and her men approach. She and Jon made their way towards them. 

“My armies will not stand down,” Cersei told them once they had met upon the middle ground. “I will not pull them back to the capital. I will march them north to fight alongside you in the Great War. The darkness is coming for us all. We'll face it together. And when the Great War is over, perhaps you'll remember I chose to help with no promises or assurances from any of you. I expect not. Call our banners. All of them.”

—

Daenerys sent word to Dragonstone that they would be returning soon to gather the rest of their forces to head North. She smiled triumphantly as she also sent orders to have something made in the Targaryen colors for a young girl, smaller than Missandei. Not a dress, but a cloak. She would gift it to the little girl and show the North how easily one could be welcomed within her ranks. 

Their king had bent the knee and she knew that soon the North would follow suit. 

—

They stood around the painted table of the map of Westeros, deciding how to best move Daenerys’ troops North. 

Jon’s hand grazed against the stone as he spoke. “If we have the Dothraki ride hard on the kingsroad, they'll arrive at Winterfell within the fortnight.”

“And the Unsullied?” Daenerys asked. 

“We can sail them at White Harbor,” he answered. “Meet the Dothraki here on the kingsroad, then ride together to Winterfell.”

Jorah leaned against the table. “Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, your Grace.” How she had missed his voice. “You have many enemies in the North. Thousands fell fighting your fatherAll it takes is one angry man with a crossbow. He'll see your silver hair on the kingsroad and know that one well-placed bolt will make him a hero. The man who killed the conqueror.”

“Riding her dragon will only make her look more like a threat,” Jon said. “They will see her as a conqueror, not a queen. And I will be with her. The son of Ned Stark will ride alongside her and that will be enough to quell any thoughts of assassination.” He looked to Daenerys. “If we’re going to be allies in this war, it’s important for the Northerners to see us as allies. If we sail to White Harbor together, it sends a better message.”

Everyone turned to look at Daenerys, awaiting her decision. 

“I've not come to conquer the North. I'm coming to save the North.” She looked to Jon. “We sail together.”

Chapter Text

A letter came not from Jon, but rather from the dragon queen’s Hand, Tyrion Lannister. The letter informed the North that they were coming with their armies and that the Lannisters were coming as well. 

“I highly doubt that,” Sansa said when Rickon had given her the letter. “Cersei would never come here. I highly doubt she trusts anyone enough to leave the safety of her throne to send her armies North. The people might fear Daenerys more because of her dragons, but there’s no true love for Cersei either. She cannot risk the people fearing her less. Not when people are beginning to question if Daenerys really had anything to do with the destruction of the Sept of Baelor.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Sam asked. The man was no maester, not truly, but he was a man to be trusted with strategy among other things. 

Sansa glanced at Rickon and he nodded at her. He was still learning. He wanted to know what his sister thought. He glanced at Arya and Bran who both looked at Sansa intently. 

“Most obviously, we need to prepare. Rumor has spread that the dragon queen has burnt a wagon train worth of food and I have no idea if she is bringing any food with her. We need to go over the grain stores and the meat and livestock that we have. Split everything in half, although favor our portion more. We will be seen as generous, but it is our people that are priority over our own stores. We will even suggest where the queen and her armies might store their own food to show that she is expected to have brought her own food, referencing to the stores that King Robert Baratheon had used. She, no doubt, Will wished to be seen as her father’s supposed usurper.”

“And where will they be staying?” Arya asked. “Her army is enormous.”

“They will be stationed south of Winterfell so that we can continue the defenses in the North of it. We will make do with what we can and offer then any of the extra fur and leather available to us as I know we have enough for many people. But we can hope that the dragon queen has brought furs along herself for men who have no doubt never seen snow before.”

“Bran?” Rickon said softly. “What do you think? What have you seen?”

The rest of the Starks turned to their chair bound brother. He looked at them distantly for a moment before his gaze began to focus on them.  “She will not bring that much food. She will have enough to get her people here, but not much else. However, game and other wildlife halve pushed themselves down from the Wall trying to get away from the Others. That should be enough for now. She is leaving some men on Dragonstone, they might be able to send more food if she asks them to do so.”

Rickon nodded. “We’ll do as you suggest, Sansa.”

She nodded and Rickon dismissed them all. 

—

Rickon made sure that everything was prepared for when the armies came. He even made sure to make space should the Lannisters decide to come. Bran didn’t say anything, but he was certain they wouldn’t come. 

Rickon did everything as Sansa suggested and oversaw the camps being raised, the food stores being stocked and divided, and the leather and furs readied. 

Rickon was glad he wasn’t doin this alone. Didn’t know everything, but his siblings knew what to do and advised him accordingly. Sam Tarly and Maester Wolkan were equally kind when it came to his tutoring. 

He could not imagine not having their help. 

He couldn’t imagine not listening to them. They knew better than he did and he was happy to do what he could for his people. 

—

Even with the preparations well on their way, Rickon was still expected to go to his lessons with Celia. However, Sam Tarly also joined them to teach. 

Jon’s friend was a decent man, from what he can tell and had brought plenty of information on how to help against the Others. His wife—Rickon wasn’t actually certain if Gilly was his wife—and Little Sam were nice too. Celia certainly liked them. 

And that’s all that sort of mattered. 

When news of Jon coming back came, Celia had been ecstatic. She was jumping all over the place, running after Sansa and Arya to help prepare for the dragon queen, but mainly Jon. 

She even sang to herself as she skipped about. 

Jon Snow. Jon Snow. 

It made Rickon’s heart twist awkwardly in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he felt a little annoyed at how excited Celia was. He was happy for his brother to come back too. But Celia’s excitement… it annoyed him a little and he even felt a little angry at Jon, even though he didn’t really feel angry at his brother. 

It was just confusing and Rickon didn’t like thinking about it. 

He also didn’t like the way his mind went blank sometimes when Celia ran up and hugged him as though he were the most important person in the world. 

He felt anxious after and tended to snap at people, which only got Arya grinning at him like a Cat. 

But none of it mattered—or he told himself it didn’t. They had to get ready for the dragon queen and the Others. 

—

“Bran, is there anything I should know, anything as a king that I should know before the dragon queen arrives?”

His brother thought for a long moment. Rickon didn’t remember what Bran had been like before, just as he couldn’t really remember what he had been like before. However, he knew that Bran had changed. He’d become quieter. He had become more withdrawn. 

“Jon is going to have to play a part to appease the dragon queen so she does not set her dragon upon us. So be wary of that. And she does not know that you are alive and are king. Keep your head level. She will not wish to be seen acting like a child around you.”

Rickon nodded. “I’ll try. Anything else?”

Bran hummed. “Keep an eye on Celia. Do not let her be alone with Daenerys Targaryen.”

Rickon bristled. “I would never.”

His brother nodded. “Just be careful. That’s all I ask.”

Chapter Text

Jon and Ser Davos left the room of the meeting. He felt like he had accomplished some things, but he still felt anger that he and those who had come with him had yet to be allowed to write back to the North. Instead, it was Tyrion and his queen that wrote. 

It irked him greatly that words should be put in his mouth. Jon supposed it was out of fear that he would send a secret message to Sansa, but even that was a reach. He would speak to Sansa almost plainly. He would warn them of the dragons coming and give a truthful idea of how she and Rickon—although his youngest brother would not be mentioned—might prepare for the armies to come. 

He very much doubted that Cersei would send her armies North. Ser Jaime Lannister might come with a few men. The Kingslayer looked as though he held true concern for what the battles ahead were, while his twin seemed to care less, holding her cards close to his chest. Even so, Jon doubted that she would truly be of any help. Sansa had said that Cersei possibly blamed Tyrion and Sansa for the death of Joffrey. If men were sent, they would have to keep a close eye on them. And it did not help that the dragon queen revealed that she only had two dragons. 

She wasn’t playing the same game as the rest of them. 

She thought she was, but she wasn’t at all. 

“Jon,” Theon’s voice came from behind him and Jon turned to look at him. “Can I speak with you?”

Jon nodded and motioned for Ser Davos to let them speak in private, and the older knight did so. “Alright.”

Theon swallowed and seemed to look everywhere but into Jon’s eyes. “I… I was always jealous of you, Jon. I… a part of me had always hoped that one day I would be more than just a hostage. I hoped that Lord Stark would look at me and think of me as a son, a son he found worthy of someone like Sansa. So I could be a true part of House Stark. But you… even without the Stark name, you were still one of them. You were accepted as a Stark in ways that I never would.”

“Get to the point, Theon.”

“I was a coward. Even when I tried to do that right thing, even when I got Sansa away from Ramsay, I was still a coward. I couldn’t face you. I… I was too afraid to die by your sword, rightfully by your sword.”

“You still got her out,” Jon said. “And for that I am grateful. I know my father and Robb would be grateful too, even in their disappointment.”

Theon nodded and chewed his lip. “When I was Ramsay’s prisoner, my sister tried to save me. And if you had known that Sansa was there, I know you would have met her halfway between Castle Black and Winterfell. My sister was the one who tried to save me. She’s the only one. And she needs me now.”

Jon looked at him intently and set his hand on Theon’s shoulder. “Just come home once you have her. I know Sansa will want to see you.”

“Arya would kill me.”

“Sansa will want you alive. That’s all the reason Arya needs to not do so.” Jon withdrew his hand. “Go, save your sister. Robb didn’t save Sansa when she was in King’s Landing. And I was bound in my vows, hopeful that Robb would get her back. Go, save your sister from King’s Landing where the Starks could not.”

Theon bowed his head and left. 

—

They had boarded this ship and night had come.

“Is it going to be as cold as it was when we reach the North again?” Missandei asked. The girl was already shivering and Jon wondered how far south winter had already come.

“Yes, it will,” he replied. “But you’ll be fine. I have no doubt my sister has prepared as much furs and leathers as she could spare.”

Missandei nodded, glancing at the Unsullied and their rather bare clothes. They and the Dothraki would be in for a shock. They hadn’t felt what it was like to fight in the cold, which was much greater than simply standing about. 

Jon sighed. He had no doubt that he would have to train them how to move to not waste the warmth their clothes provided. 

One of Queen Daenerys’ handmaids approached him and giggled, handing him a small letter. The queen was ordering him to come attend to her. He ground his teeth together. He bid goodbye to Missandei and ignored the giggling woman and went to the queen’s chambers. 

He took a deep breath and knocked. The door opened to reveal the queen in nothing but her shift and Jon felt disgust coul in his belly. 

“Come in, Jon Snow,” she said, her voice almost a purr. 

“I’m afraid I cannot,” he replied. 

Hurt and anger flashed in her eyes and Jon remained calm despite the screech of Drogon outside the ship. “No?”

“Your grace,” he said. “My people will already wonder why it is that I grant the knee to a Targaryen. They will wonder why it is that I have bent the knee to a woman whose father killed my uncle and grandfather. As you might know the saying, the North remembers.”

“What does it matter if this is what we both want?”

Jon had to keep his emotions in check. “The North will assume I bent the knee because of my cock rather than because you are a good queen.” She was not a good queen and he had not bent the knee officially. People around her simply assumed he could not and would not lie. “They will set aside thoughts of me because I am a man, although my brother was killed, in part, because he needed the wrong woman and that could be used against him. You will be seen as someone like Cersei, who spreads her legs for power.” Cersei was more than that, but she knew how to make use of her feminine skills, or so Sansa had said. “I will not dishonor you, your grace. For I am no king and merely only a bastard. And if you order me to bed you now, the North will think even more poorly of you.”

They already would. Jon had no doubt that thoughts of her already bordered hate.

The queen’s lips pursed. “Fine then,” she said. “Send Irri to me then.”

Jon bowed his head and left as she slammed the door shut. 

—

He thought it was Ygritte at first. But the hair was wrong. Her skin was not chapped by the sun. Her body was too soft. 

But she felt right. She felt perfect. 

His conscious warred with his actions as he felt himself push inside her. He pressed his nose into her neck. Lavender and lemon. And roses. 

He held her tight to his body as she sighed and gasped at his menstrations. 

“Jon,” she moaned. “Jon.”

Sansa…

He awoke with an ease that was almost unnatural. He awoke as though the dream had not been that of a coupling between himself and his sister. 

Half-sister. 

As though he had not awoken Ro thoughts of Sansa that would make their father ashamed and prove her mother right when it came to her thoughts of him. 

And yet, there was no guilt in his heart. 

—

They were almost to Winterfell and Jon felt the pull in his blood the closer they got to his home. However, this was a somber return and Jon could see that Queen Daenerys was not pleased by the way the smallfolk stared at them in disapproval. There were not many of them and Jon recognized that they were essential people to the runnings of Winterfell. There were some soldiers too, who would no doubt fight in the war to come. 

“I warned you,” Jon said, as the queen’s features grew darker and Jon was almost certain her lip was curling in disgust. “Northerners don’t trust outsiders.”

Drogon roared overhead and few people cried out in horror and rushed away, towards the safety of Winterfell. Jon’s stomach curdled as Daenerys smirked, seemingly happy at her display of power, at the way the people shrank beneath her. Jon wondered if this was the same look the Mad King had as he watched Jon’s uncle and grandfather die. 

They continued to Winterfell and the gates opened. Jon felt his breath catch in his throat as he saw Bran. He was a man now. He was no longer the boy who loved to climb and dreamed of the valantry of knights. He was a man nearly grown. 

Rickon stood, proud and strong and Jon saw a crown of winter placed around his reddish curls. He looked wild still, but he reminded Jon so much of Robb that it hurt a little. 

Arya was nowhere to be seen, but Sansa stood behind Rickon, her chin lifted and she looked more a queen of winter than Daenerys did with her pale coat and pale hair. No, Sansa was like a fire, a beacon in which the people of the North would gather around for protection. Even though she was only a lady, Sansa appeared to be more a queen than the woman who rode into Winterfell alongside him. 

Jon dismounted his horse and he debated on helping the dragon queen, but he was soon given no option. 

“Jon Snow!” Celia’s sweet voice echoed across the walls of the courtyard and she ran towards him in a dress that was most definitely made by Sansa, in a cloak that made her look as though she were of the North, a true little princess. Celia ran to him and Jon bent down slightly to catch her as she leapt into his arms. She huffed him around the neck as Jon stood straight, holding her to him. 

She was crying, mumbling through her tears, asking that he never leave again and that she missed him. Jon stroked her hair and kissed her temple, swaying carefully to soothe her. He whispered assurances to her and she merely held onto him more tightly. Jon shifted her so that he could hold her a little more easily, especially since she was wearing a dress. 

Jon knelt down and kissed her hair again. “I’m right here, Sweetling. It’s okay.”

A cough came from behind him. He turned to look up at the dragon queen who eyed Celia is a way that made a chill run down his spine. And who is this?”

Chapter Text

Jon Snow was coming home. Jon Snow was returning to Winterfell. 

She told anyone who would listen that he was coming back and he would never leave again because he would surely promise never to leave ever again. 

Celia skipped through the halls of Winterfell, singing Jon Snow’s name over and over. 

“Did you know that Jon Snow is coming back?” she asked Gilly. 

The woman nodded and smiled gently to Celia as she took hold of Gilly’s baby’s hands. “Jon Snow is coming back and he is going to save us from the Others. And he is going to tuck me in for bed. And he’s going to sing me songs because he owes me songs.” Gilly chuckled and someone else chuckled. Celia turned and saw Sam Tarly coming. “I was telling Little Sam that Jon Snow is coming back.”

Sam Tarly smiled. “He is coming back,” the crow said with a nod. He patted the top of Celia’s head and it reminded her a little of Wun Wun. “I think I saw Maester Wolkan looking for you. Isn’t it time for your lessons?”

“But Jon Snow is coming back.”

Sam Tarly chuckled. “It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go to your lessons. Jon would want you to go to your lessons, wouldn’t he?”

Celia pouted and was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

“Good, now run along. I’m sure King Rickon is worried about you too.”

“Okay!” Celia rushed off to the lesson room, skipping along the way. 

—

“Jon Snow is coming back,” she whispered to Rickon during their lessons. 

He frowned and nodded, keeping his eyes towards the maester. 

“How many weeks do you think it will be till he gets here?”

“It will be a while yet,” Rickon replied. 

Celia wrapped her arms around his and put her chin on Rickon’s shoulder. “But how long? Please, I want Jon Snow to be back soon.”

Rickon sighed and glanced at her. His blue eyes were stern at first. However, when he stared at her for a long moment, his gaze softened. Just ever so slightly. “Long enough to make it feel like forever, but short enough so that it might seem to be just around the corner.”

Celia scrunched up her nose, her chin still on Rickon’s shoulder. He grinned down at her and it brought a smile to her own lips. 

“Your grace, my lady,” Maester Wolkan said. The two children turned to look at their teacher. “Pay attention.”

And so they did. 

—

“Stand still for just a moment longer,” Lady Sansa said as she hemmed the dress Celia was trying on.

It was beautiful. The dress was a fine dove grey with white sleeves. Celia felt like a princess from her ma’s stories or from Lady Sansa’s songs. She blushed happily as the hem was finished. 

“And then I shall have your cloak finished as well so it is ready for when Jon arrives.”

“So I can look like a princess.”

Lady Sansa laughed gently. “Yes, just like a princess.” She helped Celia out of the dress now that the hem was marked. “You will look like a Stark.”

Celia’s cheeks turned an even darker shade of red. She wanted to be a Stark. She also wanted to be a Snow. 

She wanted her ma to be Lady Sansa and Jon Snow to be her pa. 

They felt like her parents and she greatly wished that they were. She felt a little bad about it because she hardly remembered her parents. She barely had any memories of her pa. And her memories of her ma were slowly being replaced by Lady Sansa. 

Tears started to slide down her cheeks. 

“Oh, sweetling.” Lady Sansa cupped Celia’s cheeks in her hands and brushed her tears away with her thumbs. “What’s wrong?” Celia shook her head and Lady Sansa held her more tightly, kissing the top of her head. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

—

Celia bounced on the balls of her feet as the main household of Winterfell gathered for Jon Snow’s return. He was home. He was home. 

She watched as he rode in through the gates of Winterfell. He looked so different from what he had looked like when he left for the south. He looked more worn, more tired. 

Others entered through the gates, but Celia only saw Jon Snow. He dismounted from his horse and his eyes took in the sight of his family. 

And then his eyes fell on her. Celia could wait no longer and she rushed for him. 

“Jon Snow!” she cried and ran to him. He bent down slightly and swept her up in his arms. Celia hugged his neck as Jon Snow straightened and hugged her tightly. “Don’t leave again, don’t leave again, don’t leave again.” Tears slid down her cheeks as she pressed her face into his cheek. “I missed you, Jon Snow.”

He stroked her hair gently and kissed her temple. Jon Snow swayed gently to soothe her. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered to her gently as he hugged her more tightly. “It’s okay.” He knelt down and set her on the ground and kissed her hair again. “I’m right here, Sweetling,” he said. “It’s okay.”

Celia pressed her face into Jon Snow’s neck, taking in his warmth. 

A cough came from behind Jon Snow and Celia looked up and saw a frighteningly pretty woman standing above them. 

She looked like a Cold One. 

“And who is this?”

Chapter Text

Missandei felt the North was colder than it had been before. She was bundled up for more than she had been last time and her brother and the other Unsullied laughed when they saw her. 

She was bundled up so tightly she could barely keep her arms flat to her sides. She had to ride with her brother so she could stay steady on her horse when she traveled. 

Missandei felt like a doll. 

She wondered if this is what all little girls in the North looked like. 

She suppose not, based on some of the children they saw in White Harbor. They were dressed a little more lightly, and looked up at the queen and the Unsullied with wide eyes. 

Wide and wary eyes. 

It was even worse when the Dothraki joined them. The people moving further south as they moved North looked at them with more fear than Missandei was used to. 

She could remember the slaves crying out for the queen, joy thrumming through their voices as they called out for her. They had been freed. They could see what a good queen they were. 

And yet… and yet these people looked at Queen Daenerys in fear. They bowed their heads to Jon Snow in respect, but everyone was viewed with fear. 

Marselen was always stiff when they passed by the Northmen going south and Missandei wondered what he was thinking. 

She could tell he was worried. 

These people did not see the queen as they did. These people did not look as though they were being freed. 

These people reminded Missandei of slaves looking at their masters. 

—

Missandei could remember when she was dragged onto the slave ship. 

She remembered her brothers huddled around her. They had tried to protect her. 

They tried to protect her. 

Missandei wished she had been able to protect them. 

—

Winterfell was like nothing Missandei had ever seen before. Even King’s Landing had not seem so grand. 

Winterfell was seen even from miles away. It was beautiful. 

Missandei could see that Jon Snow was ready to be home. 

—

The girl was younger than Missandei thought she was going to be. Missandei had thought the girl would be almost Missandei’s age, but she was smaller. 

She had imagined that she would look like Jon Snow. The girl’s hair was a vibrant red that almost looked like a golden fire in the winter sun. She looked like a princess, like the daughter of a king, the way her hair was done to almost look as the red haired woman did. 

The girl cried out for Jon Snow and rushed to him. He bent down and swooped the girl into his arms and held her as she cried. 

It made Missandei’s heart ache. 

It made her think of her father. 

She barely remembered him. 

Chapter Text

Sansa had done everything she could to help Rickon prepare for Jon’s return and the dragon queen’s arrival. The remaining servants and knights and Free Folk had been prepared and given proper lodgings. A camp area had been made for the dragon queen’s army that was separate from the forces of the North and Vale and the Free Folk. 

Sansa hopes that there wouldn’t be too much infighting, but she simply couldn’t be sure. She had to do what she thought was right and this is what she thought was right. 

Sansa just wanted Jon to return. She missed having him home, in Winterfell, where she might feel safer to have him there. 

She felt no threat from anyone, Baelish was gone and she had her younger brothers and Arya and Celia, but she wanted Jon. 

And she missed him terribly. 

“He’ll be happy to see you,” Bran told her. She looked at him with some hope. “He’ll be happy to see all of us. But he’ll be happiest to see you.”

—

Sansa knew she was not the only one excited for Jon’s return. Arya was, naturally, thrilled, but all that she had gone through had taught her to keep her emotions withheld. Rickon and Bran were both busy in their own preparations. Celia, however, did nothing to hide her excitement. 

She sang Jon’s name almost every day since the letter preparing for his arrival came. She smiled and skipped and told everyone who would listen that Jon Snow was coming back to Winterfell. 

It was charming and Sansa had no doubt this is what all of her siblings were feeling, Celia was simply innocent enough to proudly proclaim it. It had gotten plenty of smiles from those she told and Sansa was certain the girl’s happiness was bringing up the moral of those that had stayed behind to work and fight. 

—

The two dragons were terrifying. Sansa could hardly imagine the thought of three. 

While terror was the main emotion coursing through Sansa’s veins, her main fear was food. These dragons would have enormous appetites and would no doubt eat enough to feed the army twice over. 

The thought made Sansa shudder. She had to prevail. She had to protect her people from starvation. 

She knew what happened to kings and queens when the people starved. 

—

Sansa smiled as Celia ran out and threw her arms around Jon’s neck as he bent down to get her. 

A memory stirred of a long time ago when her father had returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion. She remembered running to her father as he came through the gate. She recalled the way he had picked her up and spun her around. 

She remembered the warmth of being held by her father once more. 

She wondered if that is what Celia felt. She wondered if her own feeling of content and pride was what her mother had felt when her father had returned, once more, to Winterfell. 

However, the image was ruined when a woman dressed in white, her pale hair not helping her look as alive as everyone else in her company approached Jon from behind. A chill ran up Sansa’s spine and spread through her veins. 

The dragon queen had arrived at Winterfell. 

Chapter Text

“And who is this?” Daenerys asked. Jon was still knelt on the ground, the girl holding onto him tightly. She couldn’t have been older than ten. Perhaps she was younger than that or perhaps Jon Snow was older than Daenerys thought. 

“Go back to Sansa,” Jon told the girl, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ll introduce Queen Daenerys to all of you at the same time.”

The girl turned her grey eyes to Jon before glancing back at Daenerys and then turning to run towards who she assumed was her aunt, the Lady Sansa. The red haired woman opened her cloak slightly to allow the girl to lean against her side as Jon Snow stood and motioned for Daenerys to follow him. 

She did so, with a little annoyance, but this was his home and he was allowed some impoliteness, after all he would be the one introducing his people and family to her. 

“Bran,” Jon said to the young man in the chair. “You’re a man now, it seems.”

Bran Stark’s solemn features transformed as a smile brightened and he looked like a young boy. “Almost.” 

“Queen Daenerys, my younger brother, Lord Bran Stark.”

“I’m no lord now, Jon,” He turned to look at Daenerys and nodded his head. “Your grace.”

Jon Snow then hugged Lady Sansa. “Where’s Arya?”

“She will show herself when she wishes to.”

Jon nodded and, and arm still on Lady Sansa’s back and Celia now having her arms around Jon’s waist, he turned to Daenerys. “Your grace, my sister Lady Sansa, and our charge, Celia.” He let Lady Sansa go and stroked Celia’s hair as she pressed her face into Jon’s stomach. 

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said, a smile spreading on her lips. Varys and Tyrion had both told her that Lady Sansa had long since been called the key to the North. Having an ally in Sansa Stark would surely make things easier. After all, the woman was probably starved for a true queen after being forced under Cersei’s thumb for so long. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed, as are you.”

“Your grace,” Lady Sansa said, merely bowing her head slightly. 

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. It was one thing for a boy chair bound to not bow, but a woman not defective should—

Her thoughts were halted when Jon Snow got down on one knee to a boy younger than Bran Stark. He bowed his head and that is when Daenerys noticed that the boy wore a circlet of bronze. 

“Your grace, I have returned,” Jon Snow said. 

The boy smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Jon.”

Jon stood and then looked to Daenerys. “Queen Daenerys, my brother, Rickon Stark, the King in the North.”

Daenerys’ breath caught in her throat as the boy did not bow to her at all, did not even nod his head. 

Drogon screeched, his scream piercing the air and many flinched, however, the boy king simply stiffened. 

“Welcome to Winterfell, Queen Daenerys,” the boy king said. “The North, Riverlands, and Vale thank you for joining in our efforts to protect Westeros from the threat of Winter and the dead. We have had rooms set up for you and your advisors and close circle in the keep and hot baths will be made ready for you tonight. Camps have been made for your armies and furs and leathers have been prepared as well for them since we assume soldiers of summer would. Or be ready for the amount of cold we expect for when the Others come.” He paused for a second to look at his older sister, who nodded. “We have made room for the grain and other food you have brought to help support your armies in our stores. Ser Davos knows where they are and can show your men where to store it.”

Daenerys felt as though ice had entered her veins. “Grain?”

Before her mind could fully complete the thought, Bran Stark spoke. “We do not have time.” The slight outburst seemed to shock even his siblings. He looked at them all. “The Night King has resurrected your dragon. As soon as he manages to master the torn wings he will be on his way to Winterfell. The Wall… the Wall is going to fall.”

—

Daenerys leaned against the hearth, trying to regain her composure as the Stark king and his eldest siblings sat on either side of him. She and her main men had been given bread and salt, a bitter thing that Daenerys found to be pointless. She had dragons and she was not simply a guest, she was a queen. 

“Word has already been sent to the rest of the banners who have not finished their preparations,” Rickon Stark said. “Lord Umber, when can we expect your people to arrive?”

Daenerys glanced and saw a young boy stand and walk towards the great table. “I am going myself to make certain everything is brought from my family’s keep. All the grain we can find, if any has been left over. It shall be brought to Winterfell and those who cannot fight will be sent south right away, my king.” He then looked from Lady Sansa to Jon. “My lady, my lord. He stepped back as though to return to his place. However, he then bowed towards Daenerys. “Your grace.”

A smile flitted across Daenerys’ lips. At least someone seemed to recognize her place in all this. 

“You may go and ready a small group of men to help your elderly if any remain in Last Hearth. May the gods guard you on your journey.”

“Thank you, my king.” The boy left quickly, calling for three men to follow. 

“We need to send ravens to the Night Watch as well,” Jon said. “There’s no sense in manning the castles anymore. If the Wall is going to fall, we need the men out of there as quickly as possible.”

“At once, my lord,” the maester said and left quickly to do as requested. 

A young girl stood, her brow severe. “If no one will ask this question, then I will.” She looked to the boy king. “If I may be so bold, your grace?”

Rickon Stark nodded. “You may, Lady Mormont.”

Mormont?

“We have not had any lord from Jon Snow in many moons. We were only informed that he had gone North past the wall and then that he was to head south again. Jon Snow has made his loyalty to his family known, refusing the crown in deference to his trueborn siblings. The Starks like to say the pack survives, and yet we heard no word from him while he was being hosted by Daenerys Targaryen. How can we trust that she is a true friend to the North? She comes here with dragons and finds glee in the fear they elicit. I may be young and I was not alive when the last Targaryens had been in Westeros. However, I remember the stories of my mother who told me that the Mad King used fear to bind his subjects to him.” She then looked to Jorah. “And you,” she said. “You were gone before I was born, but I know of you. Of the cowers you were. Blinded by beauty, you lost all our money to please a women who did not love you and then when you had no more gold to spend on her, you turned to selling Northen men into slavery.” 

Daenerys heard Missandei gasp and some of the Unsullied who spoke the common tongue stiffen.

“And when Lord Stark came to seek justice for them men you sold, lost to who knows where, you ran away like a coward you are, unable to be felt justice for the lives you stole. You brought such shame upon our family that your lord father took the black for shame of having you as a son.” She looked to the big king. “I demand justice for my house. Jorah Mormont, a slaver, has no right to fight for the North or Westeros.” She looked at Daenerys. “Breaker of chains, that is what I heard one of your titles is. Why do you have a slaver amongst your closest council then?”

The people of the great hall began to murder in agreement. 

A screech came from outside and then another. 

Tyrion stood from his place and walked to the center of the hall. “Cannot men change?” he asked. “Jorah Mormont has been with Queen Daenerys since almost the beginning. He was there when she freed the slaves and has supported her in every decision she has made. He is not the man you once knew.”

“Perhaps,” an older knight said. He had a falcon emboldened on his armor. “Perhaps Ser Jorah has changed in the many years he has been away. And yet you are here as well, Lord Tyrion. You forced a young girl into marriage and murdered your father. You set the Blackwater on fire and have proven to all that you care little for Westeros. That was recently. How are we meant to trust you?”

People continued to murmur. 

“We are here at your request even though we have been lied to on many counts. We have brought two dragons along with the greatest army the world has ever seen and soon the Lannister army will follow to join the cause.”

“I doubt that Cersei would send her men to help.” Daenerys turns and saw a young woman who looked rather similar to Jon standing where she certainly hadn’t before. “How can we trust her? You say you have brought two dragons but we know there were three and that one has been lost to the Night King. Were you foolish enough to show Cersei your two dragons to let her wonder where the third was?”

This got the lords speaking even more loudly, shouting even. 

“Our people might not have been friends in the past,” Tyrion called over the noise. “However, my sister has reasons for why she would join us and my brother has given his word. We must fight together now or die.”

“May I ask,” Lady Sansa said, leaning forward. “How are we meant to feed the greatest army the world has ever seen? While I ensured our stores would last through winter, I didn’t account for the Dothraki, Unsullied, and two full-grown dragons. What two dragons eat anyway?”

“Whatever they want,” Daenerys said firmly, letting her lip curl slightly. She did not like Lady Sansa. Not one bit. 

“I have yet to see your queen’s stores, Lord Tyrion,” the boy king said. “Does she expect us to feed her people as well? There wouldn’t be much to go around. Does she expect her people, a foreign army, to be fed till their fill while my men and family starve. Where is your food, Lord Tyrion? Where is your grain?”

“I heard the dragon queen burnt it all,” said a man Daenerys did not see. “Will she burn us all if it came between her men and ours?”

The men began to shout at one another and at the Dothraki in the room as well as the Unsullied. Daenerys opened her mouth to speak when the boy king stood. 

“Our men will take precedence. Queen Daenerys holds the Reach. Have her send word that any of their grain is to be sent North and any that remains on Dragonstone as well. We cannot let the people grow hungry either. My sister remembers the bread riots of Kings Landing. We all heard what happens when people grow hungry and blame their ruler for it.” The boy sighed. “Our blood is all far too hot at the moment. We shall speak again on all this tomorrow after we are all well rested and our guests have found footing in the North. I know our ways are strange to them.”

This got a laugh out of many men and the dispersed without even looking at Daenerys for leave. 

—

“How could you not have heard of this?” Daenerys demanded, turning on Lord Varys in anger. “How could you not know that Jon Snow was not King in the North?”

“My birds have been scarce in the North ever since the Ironborn had taken Winterfell, your grace. The same with the Boltons. It seems, however, that the Starks have kept news from the Citadel as well. No one was aware that Rickon Stark was even alive.”

Daenerys scowled. “And now I look like a fool! And what if Cersei does send her armies? She will hear I do not have the North as she previously assumed!”

“Khaleesi, this might be beneficial to us,” Jorah said. 

She took a deep breath and looked to her bear. “And how is that?”

“Jon Snow, daughter would be a good place to begin. You have said many times before that you cannot have human children and so you would need someone to take your throne once you are gone so as not to leave your dragons without a mother. What if you name the girl your heir and set a betrothal between herself and Rickon Stark? It would seem rather foolish for them to refuse. He would be king in the North and she would be queen of the south and then their child would become the king or queen of Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms united once more.”

Daenerys’ lips thinned as she thought it over. “I will debate all its merits and shall return with a decision later.”

Her council bowed at her wisdom on the matter. And yet Daenerys still felt discontent. 

—

Daenerys could feel Drogon’s unease. He did not like the cold and he seemed to feel her discontent at how the people of the North were treating her. 

She could not feel Viserion. She felt disconnected from her other dragon. It was as though there was a veil between them. Then again, she has never been as close to him as she had with Drogon. 

Daenerys looked out her window which gave her a perfect view of Winterfell’s courtyard. She saw Jon Snow with his daughter, lifting her up into the air and smiling as she came down and wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her tightly and kissed the top of her hair. 

Jon Snow would agree. He would see that it was the beat for his daughter and Westeros. 

He would see that she was right. 

Chapter Text

Arya had heard plenty about the Unsullied and the Dothraki in her time in Essos. A lot. 

The Unsullied were possibly blind in their devotion to the dragon queen. It wasn’t as though Arya couldn’t understand. They had been given freedom. A sort of freedom, anyway. They no longer wore chains. They could fall in love. They could speak their minds. To a degree. But they were a unit. It would be difficult for Arya to get close to them, but she has to in order to protect her family. Training with them for winter would be the best way to know them, let them see what it was like to be free as the Northmen were free. 

The Dothraki would be another story entirely. They were loyal to the dragon queen because of their culture. She was the strongest and she had killed the other khals. It was loyalty because they would have to deny their belief system to believe that she should not be their leader. That would be difficult. They also would not be able to settle in Westeros. This wasn’t like the Free Folk who had formed a relationship with Jon and even thought of the land North of the Wall as their home. They were fighting for their home. The Dothraki were fighting for… Arya wasn’t sure what other they wanted. Perhaps, if this could all be over, they could return home. Hopefully without pillaging. Westeros was too war torn to handle that. 

—

Arya had watched her brother from afar. He looked like their father. He looked like Ned Stark, especially by the weirwood tree. It took Arya’s breath away. She always had this dull ache in her chest whenever she thought about her parents. But seeing Jon brought it back in full force. 

“You used to be taller,” she said. He was still tall, but when they were children he had felt like a giant to her. 

Jon turned and looked at her. And his expression brightened. “How did you sneak up on me?”

“How did you survive a knife through the heart?” she asked. She wanted to know. Part of her wanted to say that it was a lie. 

“I still had things I had to do here,” he said with a smile. 

Arya laughed and they rushed towards one another. She threw her arms around his neck and he lifted her up slightly. He set her down and they parted. Jon glanced down and his eyes widened slightly. 

“You still have it?”

Arya unsheathed her sword. “Needle.”

“Have you ever had to use it?”

She smiled sadly. “Once or twice.”

He looked at her with remorse. It reminded her of her father not being able to protect Arya when she scraped her knee as a child. She sheathed Needle and Jon pulled out his sword and handed it to Arya. 

“Valyrian steel,” she said. She looked at the hilt. “And is that Ghost on the hilt?”

“Lord Commander Mormont gave it to me.” Arya handed the sword back and he sheathed it. “Where were you earlier?”

“Watching, like you used to. The queen doesn’t like Sansa.”

“She doesn’t seem to like seeing women in power if it’s not her and if she was not the one who put that woman there.”

“And Sansa is not the same person she was when we were children. She’s less likely to play nice as she had to in King’s Landing. She’s in a position to protect people she cares about.”

Jon nodded. He put his hand on the side of her head and knelt slightly to look at her intently. “Keep an eye on Sansa. This isn’t like anything she’s faced before. This person has dragons.”

“We all need to be careful,” she said, nodding. 

“We all do. Including me.”

—

“Jon is playing her,” Arya said, sitting on Sansa’s bed. 

“I know,” her sister replied. 

“You know?”

“He would never do anything to endanger Rickon or Celia or any of us.”

Arya nodded. “So what are we going to do?”

“Protect Rickon’s place as King in the North and protect our independence. What have you learned from the Unsullied and the Dothraki?”

“They are loyal to Daenerys. The Unsullied will be easier to talk to. Some of them are already worried about what she’s doing. They didn’t like the sight of men being set to flame after they were already defeated. The sight of a father and son willing to die together didn’t sit right for them.”

Sansa nodded. “Keep working with the Unsullied,” she said. “Daenerys has a little handmaiden, I believe her brother is an Unsullied.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you.”

—

She held the dagger to the Hound’s throat. 

“This is quite a greeting,” the scarred man said carefully, trying not to move his mouth or throat too much. 

“I want you to stay away from Sansa,” Arya said darkly. “And Celia. I don’t trust you with little girls.”

“It would be hard to stay away from the little bird while I’m here.”

Arya growled. “Stay away as far as you can or I will kill you wherever you stand.”

The Hound held up his hands. “As you wish, Stark bitch. As you wish.”

Arya let him go and turned on her heels and left.

Chapter Text

Marselen did not know how he felt about the North or Winterfell. He did not care for the cold, mainly because the clothes he and the others of Queen Daenerys’ army wore. The North had prepared some clothes for them. However, it was still freezing. The cold would sink into his bones and everyone was grumbling. 

And then there was the fact the North had a king that none of them knew about. 

And then Marselen began to think and wonder about everything he heard Jon Snow said. He had never once said he was king. Even when he was introduced to them all, he had never once said he was king. 

If he had not felt lied to on behalf of his queen, he would be impressed. 

—

Marselen walked with Varys, Lord Tyrion, and Ser Davos Seaworth. His queen had wanted him to learn as much as he could about Winterfell and think of how the Unsullied could defend the ancient keep. 

They watched as a maester left with a young woman. 

“The Karstarks,” Lord Varys said, watching the woman and the maester leave. Marselen still didn’t quite understand House names—or names like Snow. However, he understood that Westeros was different from any place he had lived before. 

“One of the better sigils,” Lord Tyrion said. He looked at Ser Davos. “Beats an onion anyway.”

The strand man snorted a laugh. “Can’t argue with that.” Marselen followed behind the three men as they continued to walk. “Not so long ago, the Starks had no home, and now they are thriving. The wolves have come again. The North is whole.”

“And our queen is grateful,” Tyrion said. 

“There is no need for her to be grateful,” Ser Davos said. “The North did not unite for her. They united for the Starks, not for Queen Daenerys. They don’t like that your queen kept the brother of the king hostage.”

“He was there as a—“ Lord Tyrion began. 

“You can call it whatever you want,” Ser Davos said. “Especially after the return to the Wall and Jon Snow was injured and your queen took him south against his wishes. The Free Folk also have loyalty to Jon Snow, and especially Lady Sansa because of little Celia. They don’t know your queen, all they know is that she kept a man from his family.”

Marselen could see where the old knight was coming from. The queen had made a misstep. He wondered what the North would think when they learned about the field of fire. 

—

He met Jon Snow’s daughter as she seemed to be running to one of the wildly dressed men. She stopped when she saw him and a couple other Unsullied. She shifted on her feet, although he couldn’t necessarily see them under her dress or furs. She looked like she was debating what to do. She curtsied to them and then ran over to one of the… Free Folk, he believed they were called. She ran into the woman’s arms and she was picked up and soothed, almost like a frightened child. 

It reminded Marselen of Missandei when he and their brothers would leave to fight. Whenever she saw the masters, when she was small, she was so frightened, always afraid that every time they came, they would be taken away. 

Marselen’s heart broke a little. 

She was afraid they were going to take her father away. 

—

They were given more furs and leathers to wear. 

At least he was getting warm. 

Chapter Text

Rickon hated that they had to exchange bread and salt with the dragon queen, especially considering such a promise had not been extended to Jon while he was down south. 

Honestly, perhaps the queen could be forgiven since she had not grown up in Westeros and other places perhaps had other customs. However, her Hand was Tyrion Lannister. Surely he knew better when it came to a Stark or Stark adjacent involved. His family had three of the Starks murdered, four of Robb’s unborn child were included in the number, during guest rights. How was Jon supposed to feel if no guest rights were given at all?

From what Rickon could see, Queen Daenerys knew and cared nothing of the North and yet she expected to be loved. Even when they all met in the great hall once more to discuss food, she did not seem to understand why the people, even her own, needed to be prioritized over her dragons. 

Jon had helped some whispers spread that the queen could have no children and she saw her dragons as her own. Rickon was not a woman, nor a man grown that had a child of his own. He could not speak of the longing for a child of his own blood. However, he could not imagine putting such a fatherly love towards a dragon that could kill a hundred men within a matter of minutes. 

He could not understand preferring them over his own people during winter when such fathered dragons ate more than six families in three months. 

He could not understand it. 

—

Rickon could not sleep for worry of what the dragons were capable of. 

If Queen Daenerys felt so inclined, they would be destroyed. 

Rickon stepped from his bed and wrapped himself in furs and walked the halls. He needed to sleep, but found he could not. And so he walked in hopes of finding it. 

“Rickon?”

He turned and found Celia also walking the halls. Her sun kissed skin was darker in the moonlight, but her hair was like fire. 

“You should be in bed Celia. Sansa would worry if she knew you weren’t asleep. Same with Jon.” She smiled at him as he drew closer. 

“”I don’t like the dragons,” she said. “They are… and the queen looks like an Other. She looks as pale as death and just as cold.”

Rickon had not seen the undead, but he believed her. He sighed and took off his cloak of furs and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I’ll take you back to your room.”

She smiled at him and took hold of his arm. He took her back to her room and hoped she might find a better sleep than he could. 

—

Rickon stood next to Sansa. Celia was at his sister’s side as they spoke to Ser Yohn Royce of the grain and of the preparations of the North. They had dragonglass in excess and they had begun to construct catapults that could be used to explode and rain down upon the undead in hopes they might keep their enemy at bay. These men were not of the living and they made no promises of fair combat that they might find themselves able to believe in men who were under the hold of a being who did not care for warmth of food. 

“Your grace,” came Lord Tyrion’s voice came. “My lady, Ser.”

Ser Yohn Royce looked at the Imp in distrust. He turned back to Rickon and bowed his head to him and then to Sansa and even Celia. “Your grace, my lady, my lady.”

And then he left them. 

“The King in the North,” Lord Tyrion said, nodding his head before turning to Sansa. “But Lady of Winterfell. It had a nice ring to it. It was a title always meant to be yours, if I might be so bold.”

“And once more you are a Hand, now to a queen,” Sansa said. “However, just as a king or queen makes a Hand, so does a Hand make a ruler and I feel you have found yourself under the thumb who does not care for anything but her own name.”

Rickon stood carefully before his sister to protect her and Celia from the Imp if needed. 

“Last time we spoke,” Lord Tyrion said. “Was at Joffrey’s wedding. It was quite the affair.”

Rickon looked at his sister and by her expression he could tell that she could see the game that he was playing with her. 

“It had its moments, but the past does not matter,” she said. “Or so your queen seems to think when it suits her.”

Lord Tyrion’s lips twitched in a slight smile. “I do not think you know my queen well enough to make such judgment. I have warned her of you as many underestimated you, and most of them are dead now. I hear that even Littlefinger is dead too.” Sansa said nothing and Rickon watched his sister to hear how she might handle this. “I’m sure you were thrilled to hear the Lannister army is marching North. You have every right to be fearful of my sister. No one fears her more than I do. But I promise, you’ll be safe—”

“Cersei told you her army was coming North to fight?” Sansa asked coldly, calmly. 

“She did.”

Sansa did everything but snort. “And you believed her?”

“She has something to live for and I ask that you trust that she wants to survive this.”

Sansa sighed and Rickon looked up at his sister to find her utterly disappointed. “I used to think you were the cleverest man alive.” She stroked Celia’s hair and set her hand on Rickon’s shoulders. “It’s time for your lessons.”

She led them out and away from the Imp and whatever seemingly clever words he might have returned. 

—

“We need to bide our time,” Sansa told him as they reached the the lesson room with the maester. “We shall play our cards close to the chest and I shall do my best to protect you both. For the future and our dreams of it rely upon what shall come after us and since you are what comes after, our hopes and dreams of spring and victory rests on you.”

Chapter Text

Jon awoke from a dream that was already slipping through his fingers and all he knew was that Sansa had been there. But as he came to consciousness, she was gone. 

However, he was not alone. 

There were two forms pressed against his sides and he knew neither of them were Ghost, who had taken to sleeping in Sansa’s room. 

He glanced down and found Rickon and Celia curled into his sides. He smiled down at them and remembered when Bran and Arya would sneak into his and Robb’s room to climb into their beds and allow the older boys to frighten away whatever monsters were conjured by their dreams. The Starks had done the same with their father and mother. 

Even though he could never go to a parents’ bed; he understood the need and reassurance to know that the one that promised to protect them was there. 

Jon glanced out the window and saw that the moon was still high and he closed his eyes to allow himself to drift into a peaceful sleep once more. 

—

Jon walked with the dragon queen as she watched her men being fitted for furs to wear in the coming battle. He knew that she was upset with his lies, but he could also tell that she was explaining his deception away. 

“Your sister doesn’t seem to like me,” she told him. 

“I have two sisters,” he replied. “You’re going to have to be specific.”

“Sansa,” she prompted. “And I have no doubt she is filling your younger brother with poison in his ears against me and my armies, as well as you.”

“She’s doing what she can to protect her younger brother. You implied your brother was not a good man and that he didn’t protect you. Starks protect their pack. You are an outsider very much trying to force your way in.”

“I am the queen.”

“You are a queen and Rickon is our king. You need to learn diplomacy with people who are of an equal rank to you or else you will never get any respect.”

Daenerys scowled at him. “I don’t need anyone to be my friend, I am the queen, and I’d she can’t respect me—“

Jon almost wished she had made that threat in full before one of her Dothraki soldiers began to speak to her. If she said a direct threat it would build a case for the future antagonistic relationship Jon was certain they would have. 

Daenerys seemed disappointed at whatever the Dothraki were saying. 

“What’s the matter?” Jon asked as the riders left. 

“My dragons are barely eating

She attempted to walk away, but Jon took hold of her arm. “By barely eating do you mean this because you barely brought any food yourself to feed them or because you expected them to be fed by the North and we’re not granted such an allowance.”

Queen Daenerys pulled her arm from his grip and walked off. Jon sighed, but followed her. 

—

Jon followed Daenerys to where Drogon and Viserion were kept. The dragons were standing atop a rather small pile of bone in comparison to what Jon supposed they were used to. But the bones indicated many families and soldiers that could have been fed instead. They growled softly at Jon and Daenerys’ approach. 

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked. 

“They don’t like the North,” she replied touching Drogon’s nose. 

“The last dragons to be here died of the shivers, I think,” he said. 

“Those dragons had been made weak by the Dragonpit,” the queen said bitterly. “My dragons have not been so restrained as the dragons born in chains.”

Jon looked at the dragons carefully. He did not like them so close to his family, so close to the children that remained in the keep. He did not like or trust them at all. The would be able to handle the wights and make the Night King’s army smaller, but it would not handle tothe Others or the Night King himself. 

As he was thinking, he had not realized that Daenerys had climbed onto Drogon’s back. Viserion, on the other hand, was staring curiously at Jon. 

“Go on,” she said, and Jon realized what she wanted. 

“I don’t know how to ride a dragon,” he told her plainly. 

“Nobody does,” she replied. “Until they ride a dragon.”

“And if I fall off?”

“Then it was good to know you, Jon Snow.” She said it as though she were joking, as though his concerns for dying were a joke. 

“If it is required of me to ride, I shall, but I won’t risk my life needlessly if it is unnecessary.” He bowed his head to her. “It’s best that we return, your grace.”

Her lips formed a thin line, but she nodded and dismounted her dragon with reluctance. 

—

As they made their way back to Winterfell, he saw Celia running out to them. Worried that something had happened, Jon hastened his steed forward and then jumped from the horse before it had fully stopped. He reached down to Celia, who kept into his arms and began to cry. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked gently, stroking his hair as the dragon queen approached them from behind. “What’s wrong, Celia?”

“You left,” she cried. “You left again and she took you away.” 

“Shhh,” he hushed her gently, bouncing her slightly as he had seen Lady Stark do with Arya many times when they were children. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “I’m here. I’m right here. I would never leave without saying goodbye.”

She continued to cry, wrapping her arms more tightly around his neck. Celia flinched more into him when he noticed Daenerys’ fingers brush along the crown of Celia’s head. 

“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” the dragon queen said. “I shan’t take him away from you.”

Chapter Text

“Celia,” Rickon said, trying to grab at her hand. “No.”

But she was already running from the gates of Winterfell and down the road towards Jon Snow as he rode back to the keep. Tears and the cold stung at her face and she reached her arms forward, almost blindly as Jon Snow jumped from his horse and ran to her. 

Jon Snow scooped her up into his embrace and held her tightly. “What’s wrong?” he whispered into her hair as he stroked it gently. He rocked her slightly as though she were a babe and she buried her face into his neck and continued to cry. “What’s wrong, Celia?”

“You left,” she cried out, holding onto him more tightly. “You left again and she took you away.”

“Shhh,” he hushed her gently, pressing his lips to her temple. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here. I would never leave without saying goodbye.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck as he whispered calming words to her, but she flinched away when she felt an unfamiliar hand on the crown of her head. She peered over Jon Snow’s shoulder and saw the dragon queen looking at her with a smile on her face. It was one of those bitter smiles, like when Rickon had let her taste a lemon for the first time. A bitter sort of sweetness. 

“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” the woman said. Her pale hair unnatural. “I shan’t take him away from you.”

Celia pressed her face into Jon Snow’s neck again and he said nothing to the queen and walked them back into the keep. 

“It’s okay,” Jon Snow whispered. “Let’s get you back to Rickon. Let’s get you back to Sansa.”

Celia held him tightly. “I don’t like her,” she whispered so softly she wasn’t sure he would hear. 

“I will never let her touch you again, sweet girl. I swear it.”

—

There were some people on the Dragon Queen’s army that Celia did not mind. 

Her Doth…raki soldiers reminded Celia of the Free Folk. They were wild and free and they seemed to have their own laws and rules that were tamed because of the queen they followed. Celia supposed she understood that. Her soldiers all looked different from Celia too. 

She preferred the Unsullied though. They were how she used to imagine kneeler armies were like. Not quite mindless, but so bound by rules they didn’t seem to have any fun. But now was not the time to teach anyone about fun. 

“Jon Snow’s girl.”

Celia perked up a looked up at the Unsullied who was the big brother of the little maid person, Missandei. 

“Hello,” she said. She didn’t say his name because she didn’t want to get his name wrong. It would be rude. 

He smiled at her. 

“You remind me of one of the older boys,” she told him. “His father’s ship had crashed up North.” Celia reached up and, looking at her in slight confusion, he bent down slightly and let her touch his face. “You remind me of him. You have the same eyes.”

“Where is he now?”

“He was killed when Jon Snow came to save us. He was made into a Cold One.”

“Cold One?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. 

She nodded. “The bad people. Jon Snow is going to protect us though.”

The man knelt down and offered his hand. “My name is Marselen,” he told her. “You’re named Celia. Jon Snow spoke of you often.”

Celia perked up and smiled happily. 

“Celia,” came Lady Arya’s voice. She looked up and she could tell that the she-wolf was not happy. She held out her hand and Celia rushed off to hug Lady Arya’s hip instead. Lady Arya glared at Marselen. 

He held up his hands. “I meant no harm.”

“Make sure your queen doesn’t mean any harm either,” Lady Arya said flatly before taking Celia away. 

—

Celia was able to get away from Lady Arya to try and find Rickon. Ghost had found her instead and she climbed onto the wolf’s back and searched for the young king. They had no lessons that day, but he wasn’t in the training yard. 

Celia gripped Ghost’s fur tightly as he stalked the halls. The Free Folk didn’t seem to care what she was doing, smiling at her when they saw her. The Northmen smiled as well. The Dothraki looked at her in a way that made them seem unnerved. The Unsullied looked at her in confused awe. They had never seen someone ride a wolf before, she supposed. But she was small enough for Ghost to carry. 

She rode him as he stalked the hall, trying to find Rickon. 

That was when they ran into the dragon queen. The hair on Ghost’s back rose. His lips curled and he bared his teeth at the strange looking woman. 

She had that bitter sweet smile again. “I do not think we’ve been properly introduced.”

Ghost took a step back when she stepped forward. Celia fisted ar Ghost’s white fur. 

“My name is Daenerys, and you’re Celia. Jon Snow spoke of you often.”

Celia crouched down against Ghost’s back. She didn’t want this woman touching her hair again. Ghost’s ear flicked to the side and he turned around and stalked off with Celia until he brought her to Rickon and promptly dropped her on the ground at his feet. 

—

“Don’t wander on your own,” Rickon said flatly. His voice was almost a growl and his eyes were almost red with a slight anger. The hair on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end. “It’s not safe here with so many strangers.”

He was getting worked up, like a caged animal not liking the fact that he was being cornered, or a wolf not liking that someone had wandered too far from the pack. 

Celia wrapped her arm around his arm and held him tightly. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay.”

He pressed his nose into her hair and breathed in. That seemed to calm him down, his hackles lowered. 

She slid her hand from his arm and into his hand and led him out from the hall where they met the dragon queen’s maid, Missandei. 

Chapter Text

Missandei wasn’t sure what she expected when she properly met the King in the North, who was the same age that she was. He had curly red hair that was windswept from his face, his skin dry and red from the cold, his lips chapped. 

Jon Snow’s daughter was holding onto him, her own curly red hair was braided like Lady Sansa Stark’s. Her tanned skin, rosy from the cold. 

“Hello,” the girl, Celia, said. 

To be polite, Missandei curtsied. “Your grace, Lady Celia.”

The girl laughed happily and got on her toes to whisper to the king although it was loud enough for Missandei to hear. “I didn’t know that other places had kneelers.”

“Kneelers?” Missandei asked. 

“It’s what the Free Folk call those who live below the Wall,” the king said. “They don’t believe in loyalty to a person just because they have a crown.” He looked to Lady Celia. “You shouldn’t call people kneelers, you wouldn’t call Sansa a kneeler.”

“She’s Lady Sansa.”

The king rolled his eyes. “Fine, you wouldn’t call Arya a kneeler.”

The girl made a face but nodded. 

“Is her mother a Free Folk?” Missandei asked. 

“No, she was of the North,” Lady Celia asked. 

Missandei wondered if she and her mother lived by Castle Black then. She supposed that was how Jon Snow met her. 

“You should tell her queen that she should be less worried about people liking her and more worried about earning our respect. Liking a person doesn’t matter during war. Respect is more important. She’s acting like a child that hasn’t gotten her way.”

The king’s words were like a slap to the face. Missandei wasn’t sure how to respond. 

“Jon is not hers, he is the Stark’s. Come on, Celia, we need to get to Lady Brienne for practice.”

As they walked away, Missandei tried to memorize everything that had just happened.  

—

“Tell me, Missandei,” Lord Varys said. “What is it that you have learned of the North?”

He was seemingly upset that he had no little birds here before. He was upset that he had come into all this blind and she knew that the queen was upset about it as well. 

“The North does not like the queen.”

“That much is obvious, little scribe. I need more in-depth information.”

“They do not respect the queen and think she is only trying to get them to like her instead of respect her.”

The eunuch grimaced, but nodded. “What else?”

“The king said that Jon Snow was theirs, and not the queen’s.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” She wasn’t sure why that intrigued him. 

“It means,” he said, seeing her expression. “That they fear he could be swayed towards our queen. And despite everything they might think of their boy king, the North needs a man, not a child, to lead them.”

“So what should we do?” Missandei asked. 

“Keep watching the North, especially their king and Lady Celia. You are closer to your age and they might trust you more. See if you can get into the king’s ear. He’s at an age where girls become more… interesting. See if he can be swayed.”

Missandei’s lips formed a firm line. “Okay.”

—

Missandei tried to do as she was asked, but the king was firmly with his sister in all things and did not seem to be alone for the most part. The girl, Celia, seemed to wander about more, flitting like a bird around the Free Folk and the Northmen and the Valemen. She was almost always with Jon Snow’s wolf too. 

But she was easier to approach. 

“Hello,” she said, a little wary of the wolf that Celia seemed to be prone to riding like a pony.

“Hello,” she said. “Your Missandei.”

“Yes, I am.”

She smiled at her. “You have a big brother.”

“I do.”

She slipped off of the wolf’s back. “You can pet him. He isn’t mean.”

Missandei guessed that he could very much be mean when he wanted to be, but she didn’t say anything as Celia took her hand and placed it on the wolf’s cold nose. 

“Do you speak the Old Tongue?” Missandei asked, figuring this was the best opportunity she would have to ask. 

“Yes.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Why?”

“I speak many languages,” she said. “I want to learn another.”

Celia seemed to think about it. “Okay. We have to go to the classroom though because that’s where we’re supposed to learn.”

Missandei thought it a very childish thought, but she supposed that Celia was a child. “Could you lead the way?”

“Mhm!” She took hold of Missandei’s hand and pulled her away, the wolf following them. 

—

“You should be very careful,” a voice came from the shadows and Missandei was worried that her heart was going to stop. 

She turned and saw the younger Stark lady. Her eyes were like Jon Snow’s but more dangerous. Missandei had seen a lion before. She had seen them in the fighting pit and how they looked at their prey. That is what Missandei felt like now. 

Prey. 

“Careful?”

“Starks feel betrayal more acutely in recent years. However, we are not as we were as children. Do not betray any trust my brother or Celia might extend to you. There will be no forgiveness if you do.”

Chapter Text

Sansa saw the dragon queen’s handmaid with Celia. At first, worry tingled at the base of her spine and then she remembered that Missandei was just a child like Rickon and Celia. It wasn’t fair to hold her to the standards of an adult and it wasn’t fair for her to expect Missandei to express opinions properly around a grown woman who has done kindness for her in the past. 

It reminded Sansa of when she used to look up to Cersei. The queen has given her a dress and sweet words. She had been kinder than Joffrey. And, in her own strange way, Sansa thought the queen might have seen her as a daughter, as a version of the girl Cersei Lannister had once been. 

Sansa remembered Shae and her kindness. The older woman’s gentle hand and words that had been Sansa’s saving grace on many occasions. 

She had no other friends there. She had no other person to rely on and so much of the self-esteem she had retained in King’s Landing after her father died was because of Shae. Margaery helped a little, but when she was of no use to the Reach woman, she had been so easily dropped. 

There were no other children amongst the dragon queen’s forces. 

Perhaps, at the very least, the three children could become friends. 

—

“Have you heard anything from the Dothraki or Unsullied?”

“The Dothraki language is difficult considering I studied it rather than actually speaking it with others who were raised in the language, but I will tell you they hate the fucking cold.”

Sansa glared at her sister. 

Arya held up her hands. “Their words, not mine.”

Sansa sighed. “And the Unsullied?”

“They talk of burnings. They talk if no one here needs to be freed. The North is already free.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing that warrants your attention yet.”

“And what have you heard of Jon?”

“The Unsullied seem to respect him, the Dothraki have nothing to say.”

Sansa stood and went to the ledgers for food. “Her dragons have been eating too much. Have our people move grain and meat to a different cellar from the communal one. If anyone asks it is because we want to put them further down to keep them cold and fresh. The Dragon Queen will have to request for food. She is a guest and we are an independent kingdom.”

Arya smirked. “Of course. And this is Rickon’s order?”

“He left me in charge of the food.”

Arya snorted. “It’s better that way too. I have no doubt all our sugar and salt would be gone if he were in charge.”

—

Sansa was once more one her own. She was reading through letters from those who have been able to find shelter in the Vale and the Riverlands, and Whiter Harbor. 

A knock came 

“Come in,” she said. 

The door creaked open and shut and Sansa looked up to find Jon. She stood and set her letters down. 

“Lord Glover has met with a storm and he and his men are not able to make it back,” she told him. “They hope it will have passed even as the letter reaches us.”

Jon sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “That’s not good. The Night King brings a storm when he draws close.”

“Do you think we might have allowed the Glovers to go to their death?” Sansa said, her stomach dropping. Guilt slid down her back like ink. 

“Perhaps,” he replied and Sansa sat down. Jon went to her and knelt at her feet. “Don’t blame yourself.” She opened her mouth to speak. “Don’t. You are not at fault.”

“What if bringing Daenerys here was a mistake?”

“Her dragons will help take out many of the Night King’s forces. She won’t be any sort of grand hero that defeats the main villain. But she will make it easier for their army not to grow.”

“And will it be enough?”

Jon cupped Sansa’s face in his hands and brought their brows together. His eyes were closed but Sansa watched him carefully, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. “I promised you that I would never let anything happen to you,” he said firmly. “And I intend to keep that promise. The pack will survive and no one will ever hurt our family again. We will handle this together. We have so many enemies. We will do this together.”

Sansa nodded and Jon stood, pressing a kiss to her brow. 

—

That night, Sansa was alone in her bed. The children were with Jon, as they were want to do now that he was back. But now it meant that she was alone in her bed with her thoughts. 

The feel of Jon’s lips on her bro still burned as though they were still there. His hands on her cheeks, on her shoulders. She could still feel them. 

Sansa touched her own lips with the tips of her fingers. 

She loved Jon. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Chapter Text

“They still do not trust me,” Daenerys said, pacing her room where she and her advisors were meeting. 

She was livid. Why on earth did Jon Snow’s child not like her? Children loved her. Daenerys was certain that Sansa Stark was the reason for the girl’s hesitance. Who knew what Lady Sansa and her childish king had whispered to the lords and ladies of the North. No doubt the woman had been whispering things to cause the child and the lords to distrust her. 

“Khaleesi,” Jorah said gently. “The North is naturally distrusting. They do not care for strangers and you are a stranger that holds the name of a king who dragged them into a war that brought the Lannisters into power.”

“I am not my father.”

“Then let them see that,” Jorah said gently. “Show that you are a queen who will reward those who are of great service.”

“I highly doubt that they will appreciate her rewarding her own men,” Varys said. 

“I speak of another,” Jorah replied. “He is the one who brought me back to you, Khaleesi. He healed my greyscale. That is quite a feat and I do not think that he was rewarded for it. He is close to the Starks as well. If they learn of a reward given to their friend, the North might view you with kinder eyes.”

Daenerys scowled but nodded. “Take me to him.”

—

They were told that Samwell, the man who had helped Jorah and allowed him back to her—defying the will of the gods because he was needed by her. 

The man was so absorbed into his book that he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching. Daenerys cleared his throat. 

“Oh!” he stood up quickly and brushed off his clothes and bowed his head slightly. “Your grace.”

“So,” Daenerys said. “You are the man.” He certainly looked the part. Large with rounded cheeks. 

“Um…” the man said. “Which man am I, your grace?”

“The one who saved Ser Jorah when no one else could.”

“They could,” Jorah said. “They just wouldn’t try.”

It was then that Samwell noticed Jorah. “Oh! Oh, right. Yes, I am glad I could help.”

“I’ll have to make some changes in the Citadel when I take my throne,” Daenerys said proudly. “A great service merits a great reward.”

“Oh, it’s my honor to serve, your grace,” he said, dipping his head in a slight bow. 

“There must be something I could give you now,” she said. “You have done such a great service, how could I not reward you.”

The man nodded. “If it's not too much trouble, I could use a pardon.”

“Pardon?” Daenerys asked, a small smile forming on her lips. “For what crime?”

“Well, I… I borrowed a few books from the Citadel.”

Daenerys glanced at Jorah and they exchanged a smile. 

“And a sword.”

“From the Citadel?” Daenerys asked. She did not think they held weapons in the Citadel. 

“From my family,” Samwell amended. “It’s been in House Tarly for generations.”

Something cold coiled on her belly at the name of Tarly. Her smile dropped. 

“It would’ve been mine eventually,” he said. “Had I not joined the Night Watch. I need to return it to my younger brother. He is the last heir to my house. My father is rather proud of him.”

“Your father,” Daenerys said slowly. “Not Randyll Tarly?”

Samwell Tarly blinked. “You know him?”

Daenerys felt the cold sinking into her skin so much so that her bones felt warm. “I offered to let him retain his lands and titles if he bent the knee.” That would have been his reward had he only done as she asked. “He refused.”

“My mother might be able to reason with him, your grace, if she is allowed to speak to him. My brother as well, since he would be acting lord. I could also try to speak to them both once I am able to return home.”

Daenerys’s lips formed a tight line. “Your brother stood with your father,” she said. “And I took no prisoners. I do not believe in keeping a man in chains. I am sorry, but it needed to be done.”

Samwell Tarly’s lip began to quiver and his eyes grew moist. “Yes,” he whispered. “Thank you, your grace. For telling me, that is.” He glanced at the door. “May… May I?”

“Of course,” Daenerys said as the man fled from the library. 

Daenerys felt a cold fire burn inside her. 

“Your grace,” Tyrion came. 

“What?”

“My brother, he’s arrived in Winterfell. Alone.”

—

Daenerys felt her blood heat at the sight of Jaime Lannister in the great hall of Winterfell. She was certain that the Starks, at least, must feel the same as she did in that regard. In that, the other Starks might be united with her. 

“When I was a child,” Daenerys said as she stood by the fire, its warmth wrapping its arms around her. “My brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father.”

Jon Snow, the boy king, and their oldest sister sat at the head table. Jorah, Missandei, Varys, and Tyrion sat at a table on the left. At the right table was the advisors of the North, a Knight of the Vale, and the lady knight. 

“The man who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor.” Daenerys felt rage at how little the man seemed to feel remorse for breaking his vows. “He told me other stories as well. About all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him in our grasp.” She took a steadying breath. “Your sister pledged to send her army north.”

The one handed man nodded his head. “She did.”

“I don't see an army,” she continued. “I see one man, with one hand. It appears your sister lied to me.”

“She lied to me as well,” the man said. “She never had any intention of sending her army North.”

Daenerys glared at Tyrion who at least had the decency to look ashamed. 

“She has sent Euron Greyjoy to gather his fleet and twenty thousand soldiers. The Second Sons from Meereen have been bought and paid for.” Daenerys’ gaze shot to the man speaking. “Even if we defeat the dead, she’ll have more than enough to destroy the survivors.”

Daenerys was still reeling from the thought of Daario joining Cersei Lannister. “ We ?”

“I promised to fight for the living,” Jaime Lannister said. “I intend to keep that promise.”

Tyrion stood. “Your grace, I know my brother—“

“Like you knew your sister?” she snapped. 

“He came here alone,” Tyrion continued. “Knowing full well how he’d be received. Why would he do that if he weren’t telling the truth?”

“Perhaps,” Daenerys said, turning her ire to her Hand. “He trusts his little brother to defend him, right up to the moment he slits my throat.”

“You might be right, your grace.” It was Sansa Stark who spoke and Daenerys was surprised that they were in agreement. “We cannot trust him. He attacked my father in the streets. He also made promises to my mother, more vows, that he did not keep.”

“Do you want me to apologize?” Jaime Lannister asked in annoyance. “I won't. We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house and my family. I'd do it all again.”

“The things we do for love,” came Brandon Stark’s voice. Jaime Lannister’s face drained of color as though he had just seen a ghost. 

“So why have you abandoned your house and family now?” Daenerys demanded. 

“Because this goes beyond loyalty.” He looked to the side, at someone. Daenerys supposed it might be toward the lady knight. “This is about survival.”

The lady knight stood. “You don’t know me well, your grace. I am Brienne of Tarth. I first served King Renly Baratheon, then Lady Catelyn Stark, and now her daughter, Princess Sansa Stark.” She left her seat and went to stand beside Jaime Lannister. “I know Ser Jaime, perhaps better than anyone besides his brother. He is a man of honor. I was once his captor, but when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to rape me, Ser Jaime defended me. For this, he lost his hand.” The woman took a deep breath. “When the princess fled from King’s Landing, he armed me with a sword melted from the Stark ancestral sword, he armored me, and he sent me to find Princess Sansa and to protect her as he had sworn he would to Lady Catelyn.”

Daenerys’ hand tightened into a fist. 

“You vouch for him?” Sansa Stark asked. 

“I do.”

“You would fight beside him?” Jon Snow asked. 

“I would.”

The hall was quiet. 

“I trust you with my sister’s life,” Rickon Stark said. “If you trust him with yours, we shall let him stay.”

Daenerys pursed her lips. The conversation had circled around her and they made it seem that her opinion did not matter. “And what do you say, Jon Snow?”

“We need every man we can get,” he replied simply. 

“Very well,” she answered through gritted teeth. 

—

Daenerys stormed from the great hall when everything was done, her advisors following behind her. 

“Either you knew Cersei was lying and let me believe otherwise, or you didn’t know at all.” She turned to tower over Tyrion. “Which makes you either a traitor or a fool.”

The Imp paled. “I was a fool.”

“Not for the first time,” she sneered. “Cersei still sits on my throne. If you can’t help me take it back, I’ll find another Hand who can.”

Chapter Text

The forge was just how Arya remembered it. 

Her brothers had snuck her into the forge to watch things get made as she had watched in amazement how things could be transformed from a bloom of orange to cold steel. 

It was like the seasons, she supposed. 

The golden days of summer and fall would bleed into the chill of winter. 

And now she was back. Back with no Robb to rustle her hair. Theon was gone, somewhere far away, hopefully warm. Jon was changed but careful and not the brother she remembered. Bran wouldn’t be able to fit in the forge anymore. Rickon had better things to do now. 

The chatter of the forge though… it made her remember a time before she saw everything. 

She could see Gendry. 

She would recognize him anywhere. He had once been the only person she could truly rely on before he had been taken away from her and there he was now. They had grown, the two of them. They weren’t those children anymore. No matter how much Arya almost wished that they were. 

“The forge is no place for a lady,” he said, his eyes barely glancing at her before returning to his work. 

“It’s a good thing I’m not a lady then.”

“You’ll always be a lady,” he said. “Just because you don’t use the title doesn’t mean it isn’t yours. When you didn’t use that sword of yours when we were kids, it was still yours.”

Arya nodded. “You’ve gotten smarter.”

“Of course I have.”

She smiled sadly. 

“I’m going to start working on your weapon soon.”

“How do you know I’m going to fight?”

“Because not even time would change you enough to stop you from protecting what you care for.”

“We were family.”

“Yeah we are .”

She laughed. She went to him and kissed his cheek gently. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For coming.”

“It’s like your brother said. This fight is for all of us.”

—

Arya slipped into the Unsullied portion of the Dragon Queen’s camp. He was wearing the face of someone from the Riverlands. It was someone that no one would recognize there anyway. 

She slipped through the camp to help pass out their rations from Winterfell. 

They weren’t pleased that they were not being fed as they were used to. Arya dropped hints that the North was getting just the same amount. She dropped hints about the whispers of the Field of Fire. 

She ran into the general there too. 

Marselen, that was his name. He was the brother of the girl Daenerys kept at her side almost every hour of the day. She, at least, was better than the handmaidens she had left on Dragonstone apparently. 

Arya was glad that they had remained there. Less variables. She wouldn’t put it past the Targaryen woman to have her handmaidens use their bodies to find out more information. 

A hand clamped firmly down on Arya’s shoulder and she glared at him. She could show him, Marselen, her anger. Anger at what they had brought North and what they were making her people give up. 

“Here,” he said gently. Arya looked down and was surprised to see that he was holding bread out to her. “Give it to my sister or the little girl Jon Snow takes care of. Children should be given more since they are growing. I saw a woman with child. Give it to her if you wish.”

Hesitantly, Arya took it. “Thank you.”

He smiled sadly. “The North is better than the world I grew up in. And I will not be like the masters that made me.”

She bowed her head and left, glancing back at him as she reached the edge of the camp. 

—

“What did you notice?” Sansa asked. Her and Rickon had their backs turned as Arya peeled the face off. She shuddered against the change. 

It was still unnatural. It still itched at her skin when she was herself again. 

“The Unsullied are hungry but they understand that their queen isn’t the one providing them with food.” Arya thought of Marselen. “They want to leave the world a better place than they found it.”

“What should we do with that information?” Rickon asked. 

“Simple,” Arya replied. “Show them that their queen will make it worse.”

—

“You need to be quicker on your feet, wild wolf,” Arya said as she smacked her brother’s back with a wooden sword. 

“If I didn’t have to use a sword, I could do it more easily,” he growled. 

Arya smiled. “Forms are the basics you need to build on. Just like kingship, you need to practice and be advised. Unlike others, you will be a great ruler because you can be humbled and you are working hard to build a foundation of learning that some very much lack.”

That got her brother to grin and Arya smiled back. 

Chapter Text

Marselen hated the cold. 

The fact that people lived in this weather year round and for a majority of their lives made his head hurt and a shudder run through his bones. 

And they had all apparently just come out from the thumb of a man who sounded like the worst of the masters. 

The man had hunted women for sport and had burned keeps to the ground. And they had so little food left in comparison to the other kingdoms. 

And yet… 

Marselen shuddered at the memory of the field set ablaze but the queen’s dragon, of the man and his son screaming in agony. 

There had been food in that field, food they could have used. Food they could have brought instead of taking what little food the North had in its reserves. 

And they had to feed the queens two dragons as well.

He felt it was the least he could do when he gave that servant part of his portion. The Unsullied were no strangers to hunger. The North did not deserve to go hungry after all that had happened to them. 

—

His sister was on orders from the bald man, Varys. She had to ingratiate herself with the Starks and bring them more towards their queen’s side. 

Marselen wasn’t sure how that would be possible. The Starks had seemed to close ranks, especially around Jon Snow, once he returned to them. Marselen doubted his sister could do much to change how the queen and her armies were perceived by a people who had waited for their king’s brother to return and who now had to fret over the other side having a dragon as well. 

At least Missandei seemed to be making some sort of friendships with the boy king and Jon Snow’s child, whether she was actually of his blood or not. 

“She’s strange,” Missandei told him. “It’s like someone told her about manners but she doesn’t actually know what they are.”

Marselen shrugged. If she was raised by only a man, she doubted he would be able to tell her what was expected of him exactly. And he doubted that everyone had the same education as the Starks. He didn’t have the same education as Missandei because he wasn’t in the same place in the pecking order as she was in terms of their masters’ favoritism. 

—

The Dothraki were unsettled they had not been allowed to do anything that had been promised them, save for the field of fire. They would be more restless if it were not for the cold. The cold kept them close to their fires and they didn’t dare approach anyone else, fearing they would not be given food by the Northmen since their queen, they knew, had no food at all. 

All of their forces were restless. 

—

It was nice, seeing Missandei with the girl, Celia. 

They looked like children. 

He hadn’t seen his sister like that in a long time. 

Chapter Text

Rickon didn’t particularly like that he had to welcome Jaime Lannister to Winterfell. But Bran said that it was fine, that he was needed and Jon seemed to think so as well so Rickon let it slide. 

It did not mean that he liked it. 

He prowled around his room trying to calm his temper. Ghost watched him. His red eyes followed Rickon as the direwolf laid before the fire. It seemed that now Jon was back the wolf didn’t seem to mind wandering away from Sansa or Celia. 

The hairs on the back of Rickon’s neck were raised and he felt like his skin was too tight around his frame, too bare despite the fact he was fully clothed. He wanted to howl. He wanted to go on a run. However, he couldn’t do that. Not anymore. 

His mind wandered, searching for an achingly familiar connection that was no longer there. Shaggydog was gone. He was dead and Rickon had felt him die. He shuddered and flinched when he felt a hand on his back. 

He stiffened then relaxed when he realized who it was. 

“Come on,” Celia said, her smile bright as she looked up at him. “No brooding. That’s Jon Snow. Come on.” She took his hand and dragged him away and out of his room. “We have lessons.”

Rickon sighed, but let himself be led. The tension in his body began to ease and he squeezed Celia’s hand tightly. 

She squeezed it back. 

—

Rickon sat down on the roots of the weirwood tree. It was his turn to look after Bran as he tried to figure out their best course of action, even if he couldn’t directly tell them what to do. 

If I tell you, it won’t happen. The assumption that we will win gives too many people pride that will lead to their fall. 

However, his brother’s eyes were not glassy, they were not distant. Instead of facing the white bark of the tree, he was facing slightly off. 

Rickon heard unfamiliar footsteps and he stood gripping a dagger Arya had given him. He looked and saw Jaime Lannister enter the sacred space. The hair stood on the back of his neck and his fist curled tightly around the dagger’s hilt. 

The man looked a mess, nothing like the handsome knight he vaguely remembered his sisters whispering about when he was too young to cherish being in the presence of sisters not filled with their own darknesses. 

“I’m sorry for what I did to you,” the western knight said, stopping a couple feet from where Bran sat. 

Rickon glanced at his brother who turned his full attention to the knight. “You weren’t sorry then,” Bran said. “You were protecting your family.”

The knight took another step forward. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“Had you not pushed me out that window, none of this would have happened. And you wouldn’t have been the sort of man that would leave Cersei to do the right thing. You lost your sword hand, the hand you used to push me. And you could no longer be Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer, that part of you was cut away by doing what you couldn’t for Queen Rhaella. It is up to you now to decide what you wish to do with your life, now that those chains and expectations are no longer upon you.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“I have been angry, but anger will not bring back my parents or my older brother. Anger will not bring back my legs, just as it won’t bring back your hand or the ways things used to be between yourself and Cersei. Besides, we need you still in this fight.”

“And after?”

“If there is an after, we can decide then.”

—

Missandei had been dragged into the lessons by Celia and Rickon was half convinced that Celia was trying to start a pack of her own. 

Rickon wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the foreign girl. She was on the side of the dragon queen who seemed to have no understanding that she had kidnapped a man of the North, what’s worse is that she believed Jon had been the king. 

Rickon would keep Missandei at arms length, but he wouldn’t stop Celia from spending time with her as long as it didn’t put her in direct danger. He refused to be helpless again. He utterly refused. 

—

Rickon liked when Arya trained him, but he loved when Jon was the one to practice his abilities with a sword. It made him wonder if this was how his brothers felt when their father had trained them. 

Sometimes he felt like he remembered the faces of his parents, but then he would realize they looked more like Jon and Sansa and not the faces he saw carved in the crypt. 

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“When did Father talk to you and Robb about girls?”

“Uh… when I was about your age… maybe a little older.”

“Are you going to be the one to talk to me about girls?”

“Well… probably. I know Sansa will probably talk to you too. Lady Stark sat all us boys down and talked to us about being respectful to women and things like that.”

Rickon nodded. 

“Do you… want to talk about girls now or…?”

“Not now.”

Jon looked relieved. “Okay. Yeah. Okay. Good.”

Chapter Text

Jon was glad that he had not needed to explain anything about what happened between men and women to his little brother. He had blocked out most of what his father had told him because it had been too embarrassing and the things Lady Catelyn had told himself, Robb, and Theon had gotten the Ironborn boy to not even look at girls for a solid two months. He knew he would have to explain things carefully to his brother, but not with death snapping at their heels. He didn’t think he could handle that at the moment. 

When they all went for dinner, Jon couldn’t even relax as he was sat between Daenerys and Sansa. They were all exhausted. They were all preparing for a war that they couldn’t even trust in the outcome. There were too many variables and the odds that all of the people in this room would survive was impossible. 

He glanced at Sansa, ignoring Daenerys as Sansa spoke quietly to Celia. The young girl did not want to eat the healthier things on her plate, preferring the meat. Sansa was trying to convince her that it was all really good food but she looked upset that she was being forced to eat it. 

Celia looked up at Jon and blinked her grey eyes up at him and it reminded him of Sansa and Arya when they were children, begging him and Robb and Theon to get them food from the kitchens.

“Listen to your… Sansa. Listen to Sansa and if you eat everything, I promise that I’ll take you riding tomorrow.”

Celia perked up. “Really?”

“Jon,” Sansa chastised. 

He shrugged. “It’s how your father got you to eat your greens.”

“I didn’t need convincing.”

Jon smirked. “Oh, you most certainly did.”

Sansa’s cheeks colored and she turned slightly to look at Celia who was shoveling the remaining food into her mouth.

—

Jon woke up hard, images of red hair and singing echoing in his mind. He got up from bed, thankful that neither Celia or Rickon had stayed with him during the night. He splashed cold water on his face a couple times, but it didn’t work. 

The only thing he could do was take himself in hand and hope for the best. 

Jon braced himself against the wall with one forearm and pressed his forehead against the cold stone as he began to try and find release. He closed his eyes and imagined the red hair again, the melodious voice that whispered his name. He felt a coiling in his belly and he knew that he was almost there. 

“ Sansa— “ The name fell from his lips like a prayer as he fell apart completely and his release hit him so hard he stumbled back in shock. He landed on the ground and stared at his spend, spend that had come from his sister’s name on his lips. 

Oh.

Oh. 

—

Jon stood awkwardly beside Missandei as he shouted out orders to the Dothraki and Unsullied and she shouted them in their native tongue. 

They needed to learn how to fight in the snow. They needed to learn how to get their blood pumping in the cold. It was one thing for the Knights of the Vale who had experienced the cold. Jon was certain none of these men had even heard of snow before arriving North. 

He continued to shout orders and hoped that they might find their footing on the ice. 

They had no time for games. They had no time for trial and error. 

—

Jon was looking through the library at battle strategies. He had never helped lead so many people at once. Even though Daenerys thought she was the leader of her men, she didn’t know their enemy as well as she thought and none of her men had fought in these conditions before. They might be fantastic warriors in the fields and battle of summer, but this was winter, and the Night King brought the storms with him. 

“Jon,” Sam’s voice trembled slightly. 

He stood, seeing the concern in his friend’s features. “What is it?”

“There’s something I need to tell you. You—“

“Not yet,” came Bran’s voice. “Not yet. It can’t happen yet.”

Chapter Text

The dragons were frightening things. 

They were beasts of fire and they felt as unnatural as their mother and as unnatural as the Pale Ones. They were made of fire, she could see it glow in their bellies sometimes, just as she saw the ice in the eyes of the Pale Ones. 

She and Rickon were told to stay away from where the dragons were kept and Celia did so. But she could still see them when they flew. 

Their mother was just as distant from the North as the dragons. They didn’t belong there and neither did she. 

The Dragon Mother looked as though she belonged nowhere. She could easily slip from sight in her white and grey. Lady Sansa had said that the Northmen who wear brighter and prettier colors of blue and red and yellow. She had even shown Celia some of her old dresses that she might wear when she was older and winter had melted to spring. But it was winter now and the snow was harsh. They needed to wear dark clothing so that they could be spotted in the snow should the need arise. Even Celia knew that. Even the Dragon Mother’s people seemed to know that. But not her. 

She stuck out like a sore thumb and it made it apparent every day that she did not belong. Her hair and clothes changed daily, while the rest wore clothes until they needed washing so as not to waste fire and water to clean everything. 

A shriek pierced the sky and Celia pressed herself into Rickon as they studied their lessons and he slipped his hand into hers to make sure she knew that all was well. 

He would keep her safe. 

—

Celia stood with her cousin. The shieldmaiden looked exactly like Tormund and she couldn’t wait for him to return from the Wall. 

“You can translate, little friend?” Munda asked Missandei. “This is very important. Your people have never seen ice bears or spiders or giants.”

Missandei seemed nervous. However, she nodded. 

Munda sighed and took a deep breath before she spoke. “You will see horrors you have never imagined,” she said. Missandei repeated in the language that sounded like prayers to the Unsullied. “You think death is a sort of freedom where none might use you again, but that Night King takes away even that. Should you die and your body not be burned, death will not be your freedom.”

Missandei paused and began to speak. Celia could see the Unsullied look nervous as she spoke. Celia reached up and held Munda’s hand. Munda squeezed it tightly. Munda had told her she knew people with the same look in their eyes as the Unsullied. She had seen it in the eyes of Craster’s women. His daughters and wives. 

Celia had seen it sometimes in Gilly. 

Munda’s rough thumb stroked the back of Celia’s hand. 

Her aunt said that Celia and the little king and Gilly’s little baby were the future they were all fighting for. Celia wondered what future the Unsullied and the Dothraki were fighting for. 

—

“Come,” Lady Arya said, holding Celia’s hand tightly. “There is someone you need to meet. She will be roaming here and she needs to know your scent and know that you are one of us.”

Celia nodded and followed where Lady Arya brought her to the wood of wolves. A howl sounded and Celia knew it was not Ghost. Ghost did not speak. 

Lady Arya set her arm around Celia’s shoulder and pulled her down to kneel. “Hold your hand out like this and she will come to you and she will know you.”

She held Celia’s hand out and made sure she was holding it steady as a wolf as big as Ghost came from the shadows. This wolf had grey fur and golden eyes. She was wild. She was followed by a group of other wolves, a whole pack of them. 

Celia shuddered as the wolf grew closer.

“This is Nymeria,” Lady Arya said. “She is my wolf as Ghost is Jon’s.”

Celia nodded as the she-wolf drew close. She shrank back as the cold nose pressed against her hand and breathed in deeply. After a brief moment, she licked Celia’s hand and then backed away and fled back into the woods. 

“There,” Lady Arya said. “She can see that you are one of us.”

—

Celia looked up when she saw the door opened and climbed into the window seat and hid behind the giant curtains. She covered her mouth. She didn’t know who the people were. She had hidden before she could see. 

“Forgive me, Khaleesi ,” a man said. He was the bear man that followed the Dragon Mother. 

“Have you done something to offend me,” the Pale Woman asked. 

“Many things,” came the reply. 

A laugh came. “Long ahi and king forgiven.”

“But you did forgive,” the man said. “Despite my failures. When I heard you’d name Tyrion your Hand, it broke my heart.”

“When I named him Hand, I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

“You made the right choice.”

“I wasn’t under the impression you liked him very much,” the mother of dragons said. 

“I didn't. His mouth hardly stopped moving between Volantis and Meereen. It was all I could do not to throw him in the sea.” They both chuckled. “But the mind behind all those words—”

“He’s made mistakes,” the woman said. “Serious mistakes.”

“As have we all. He owns his and learns from them.”

“You're advising me to forgive the man who stole your position?”

“I am,” he said. “And one other suggestion, if you'll allow me.”

Chapter Text

Missandei was in a sewing circle with Lady Sansa and Celia. Irri and Jhiqui, who had finally arrived with a few more of the Dothraki forces, had joined at the queen’s behest. Even if Missandei hadn’t been told, she knew it was to listen in on what the women of the North were saying about everyone else. It annoyed Missandei a little that she didn’t seem trusted with that. Especially because Irri and Jhiqui were only interested with gossiping amongst each other about the other women in the circle and specifically Jon Snow. 

“ He’s so much handsomer in his element, ” Jhiqui giggled. 

“ Yes, ” Irri agreed. “ I imagine that the queen enjoys peeling off those layers as Jon Snow fucks her. ”

The two laughed. 

“What about Jon Snow?” Celia asked, her voice loud in the way Missandei knew most children who grew up free did. The two handmaidens looked at her and then back to each other and laughed. Missandei could see Celia’s cheeks turn rosy as she blushed in embarrassment. “I want to know!”

“Celia,” Lady Sansa said gently. She urged Celia to sit again and stroked her hair. “It’s probably nothing important or for little ears to hear or else they would be polite and share it with everyone so that we might all enjoy the gossip.”

Celia huffed and crossed her arms. 

Lady Sansa continued to soothe her as helped her continue her sewing. 

Missandei blinked. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought Lady Sansa was Celia’s mother. 

—

“If you teach me how to speak the language those women in the sewing circle were speaking, then I’ll teach you more of the Old Tongue,” Celia said, wrapping her arms around one of Missandei’s. 

She blinked. “What?”

“I want to know what they’re talking about. They said something about Jon Snow and I want to know.”

“Why do you call him that?” Missandei asked. 

“Call him what?”

“Jon Snow, you call him by his name. Why do you call him that?”

Celia blinked. “Why wouldn’t I call him that?”

“Because he’s your father?” The confusion on Celia’s face made Missandei’s cheeks warm. “Right?”

Celia thought for a moment. “Jon Snow is like my Pa, I think,” she said. “But my Pa died when I was little and I don’t remember him much.”

Suddenly, everything seemed to grow cold. “He… Jon Snow isn’t your father?”

“No, but he’s like my Pa. And Lady Sansa is like my Ma even if she isn’t.”

Missandei swallowed the lump in her throat. The queen had been wrong. “One moment.”

She rushed off to tell the queen. 

—

The queen had not been happy. At all. However, even if Celia wasn’t Jon Snow’s daughter by blood, it was obvious how he cared for her. 

“Naath girl!” a voice came from the forge and she turned to see a young man with piercing blue eyes come forward. “Sorry,” he said, kneeling. “Didn’t know your name. Here.” He held out the hilt of a small dagger. “The other children already have theirs and so do the people who will have to hide during the battle. Everyone deserves something to defend themselves with.” Before Missandei could say anything, he stood and began to head back to the forge. “Stay safe, kid.”

—

“How do you like the North, little sister?” Marselen asked, sitting down next to her at one of the tables in the great hall. 

“Well enough,” Missandei replied. “And you?” She glanced at her brother and saw that he was looking at someone. Missandei followed her brother’s gaze and saw that he was watching the younger Stark lady, the one that was a little frightening. “Marselen.”

He turned his full attention to her then. “Well enough.”

Missandei cocked an eyebrow and her brother looked flustered. She smiled though as he began to eat so as to not remain under her stare.

A future. That’s what they were all fighting for, wasn’t it?

Chapter Text

Sansa listened carefully to Yohn Royce as he went into detail over how to make the gates close more quickly. “The moment we can get the last infantryman out onto the field, we should shut the gates.”

Sansa nodded. They would need to barricade themselves in. So even if they failed… the North might be allowed to stand for a moment longer. “Keep them open for as long as you can,” she said. “There might still be some people coming who hadn’t been able to make it to Winterfell till now.”

She felt something in the library shift and she turned to see Daenerys Targaryen standing at the entrance. She had a slightly smug look on her face and Sansa wondered if she thought it made her look queenly. 

Royce stood and Sansa slowly stood as well. 

“Lady Sansa,” the dragon queen said with a smile. “I was hoping we could sneak alone.”

Yohn Royce looked at Sansa and she nodded, granting him leave. The man nodded to the other woman as he left. She watched him go before turning to look at Sansa. 

“I thought you and I were on the verge of agreement before,” Daenerys Targaryen said. “About Jaime Lannister.”

Sansa doubted this was what she wished to talk about. But Sansa would let her try to talk circles until she got to the point. “Brienne has been loyal to me, always,” Sansa said plainly. “I trust her more than anything. I am inclined to trust her judgment.”

Daenerys smiled. It was condescending. “I wish I could have that kind of faith in my advisors.”

“Tyrion is a decent man,” Sansa said. “Out of all the Lannisters that I know personally, he was the most decent. Not that it says much.”

“I didn’t ask him to be my Hand simply because he was good,” the queen said. Sansa had never said he was good. She made her way towards Sansa. “I asked him to be my Hand because he was good, intelligent, and ruthless when he had to be. “He never should have trusted Cersei.”

“An advisor is only meant to give advice,” Sansa said. “You chose to trust Cersei Lannister as well.”

“I thought he knew his sister,” Daenerys replied, her smile sickly sweet. 

“Families are complicated things.”

“Ours certainly have been.” Daenerys sat down and Sansa did as well, more slowly. 

“I suppose.” Sansa hardly thought her own family was complicated. They were a United front, but she supposed Daenerys didn’t know that. 

“We have other things in common,” the dragon queen continued. “We’ve both known what it means to lead people who aren’t inclined to accept a woman’s rule.” Did she think that she would usurp her brother's place just because she was older? Sansa took a steadying breath. There had been rumors that the dragon queen had murdered her older brother. “And we’ve both done a damn good job of it, from what I can tell.” She smiled proudly as though saying something of merit. 

Sansa wondered if this was how she charmed other people in power before. She wondered what Cersei had made of this act. The older woman had no doubt been bored and slightly insulted. Sansa gave a forceful smile. 

This seemed to give the other woman leave to continue. “And yet,” she said. “I can’t help but feel we’re at odds with one another. Why is that? Your brother?”

Of course, because the only reason the two of them were at odds was only because of Jon, not because the other woman wanted to take away the North’s independence. If that was what she thought, Sansa wouldn’t stop her from thinking it. 

“He loved you,” Sansa lied. The way the woman smiled made it apparent that she had no idea who gentle and kind Jon could be if she thought Jon’s current behavior towards her meant love. 

“That bothers you,” Daenerys said, not asking a question. 

“Men do stupid things for women.” He was putting himself in danger to protect their family if Celia was any younger, more trusting… she would have been an easy pawn for the dragon queen and her people. “They’re easily manipulated.”

She thought of Joffrey with Margaery. 

Baelish with her. 

Perhaps even Robb with his wife. 

Daenerys smiled, as though she could commiserate with Sansa’s thoughts, not truly knowing anything. “All my life, I’ve had one goal: the Iron Throne. Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family, and almost destroyed yours.” 

The Baratheons, true Baratheons, had done nothing to her family. And the Targaryens had murdered her grandfather, uncle, and aunt, and had also called for her father’s head. Either she had not been given a proper history of Westeros, or she truly believed what she was saying. 

“My war has always been against them. Until I met Jon.” She smiled to Sansa, proudly. “Now I’m here, half a world away, fighting Jon’s war alongside him. Tell me, who manipulated whom?”

So, she didn’t think the Others were her problem. She thought it was only the North’s. Which meant she didn’t care at all. Even the death of one of her dragons didn’t make it her war. Sansa knew that the queen apparently saw them as her children. Apparently, the murder of her children wasn’t reason enough to make this fight her own. 

Sansa leaned forward and took Daenerys’ hand in her own. “I should have thanked you when you arrived, that after all, you came all this way to fight our war, despite he has nothing to do with you.”

Daenerys placed her hand atop Sansa’s. “I’m here because I love your brother and I trust him, and I know he is true to his word. He’s only the second man in my life that I can say that about?”

“Who was the first?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Sansa sighed. “What happens afterwards?” she asked. “We defeat the dead, we destroy Cersei. What happens then?”

“I take the Iron Throne,” she said as though it were an easy thing to do. 

“What about the North?” Sansa asked. She leaned forward. “It was taken from us, and we took it back. And we said we would never bow to anyone else again. What about the North ?”

Daenerys frowned and removed her hand from Sansa’s. So, she didn’t have a plan at all. 

“Apologies, my lady,” Maester Wolkan said as he entered the library. “Your grace,” he added. 

Daenerys turned to look at the man in annoyance. “What is it?”

—

Sansa followed Maester Wolkan through the hall, the dragon queen following quickly as well. They entered the Great Hall to find Theon standing at the center, surrounded by men who looked like Ironborn. 

He looked good. He looked healthy. His cheeks were fuller and his graying hair had the familiar curls of their youth. 

Theon bent the knee as Daenerys stepped forward. “My queen.”

“Your sister?” the woman asked. 

“She only had a few ships and she was in no condition to sail them here. She is returning to the Iron Islands and preparing them for winter. Should it be necessary, she will have them ready for survivors if the undead can’t swim.”

The queen didn’t look pleased, but Sansa felt relief. 

“But why are you here?” Daenerys asked. 

Theon stood and glanced at Sansa. He stepped forward towards her. “I want to fight for my home, for Winterfell, Lady Sansa.” He bowed his head to bed respectfully. “If you’ll have me.”

Sansa smiled and rushed to him and wrapped her arms around him. His arms came around her as well. 

He was home. 

Once more, her family was more complete than she thought it was already. 

—

“Will your queen be pleased that you basically swore allegiance with the North?” Sansa asked as she took Theon to the kitchens to get something warm in his stomach. His men were bathing elsewhere. 

“She didn’t even try to get my sister out of that place. She didn’t even ask.” Theon shook his head. “Besides, she granted us independence, even if she doesn’t remember it. We don’t have to ally with her if she doesn’t treat us like allies.”

Sansa nodded. 

“Lady Sansa!”

She turned and saw Celia rush to her and press her face into Sansa’s stomach. “What is it?”

“The dragon mother thought I was Jon Snow’s child. She didn’t say so, but Missandei thought it so that means that she thought it too.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Sansa said, stroking her red hair. “I will talk to Jon about it. But first, I want to introduce you to someone.” She knelt down and motioned to Theon. “Celia, this is my friend, Theon Greyjoy. He helped bring me to Castle Black safely so I could meet you.” Sansa looked up at Theon. “This is Celia, she’s a girl of the North and the Free Folk and a member of House Stark similar to how you are.”

Theon smiled down at her and Celia smiled back as well. He knelt down and took her hand in his and kissed it sweetly, like a knight would. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Celia of House Stark.”

Celia giggled and Sansa smiled. 

All would be well. 

—

“Missandei?”

The young girl paused and turned to look at Sansa. “Yes?”

She bent down slightly and held out some furs. “This is for you. I was able to finish it more quickly than I thought. You need to stay warm but be able to move a little more freely. I pressed the symbol of House Targaryen into the leather as well. Stay warm, little Missandei.”