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Chapter Text

‘Jon.’ Robb’s voice came again, this time almost pleading, ‘Can you hear me?’

Jon locked eyes with Ghost, and was unsurprised to find his companions red eyes flecked with Tully blue. Jon hardly dared to hope.

‘Robb…’ He couldn’t keep his voice from cracking. ‘...You’re alive.’

- Jon

‘Mostly,’ Robb’s voice agreed, his usual affable tone strained by the effort. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for days, as soon as I was able to get this worked out. But until now there was something blocking me.’

It took a moment to parse that out but Jon got there quickly enough.

‘The Wall,’ he explained, ‘it is more than just a physical barrier.’

‘Right.’ Robb agreed. ‘I think you told me that before. I should have realised.’

Something in Jon’s chest clenched, at those words as it truly hit him that it was his brother speaking and he could not help but breathe the words:

‘Robb.’ his voice was hoarse with emotion, ‘I received word- It said you had died. What happened?’

‘You were right,’ Robb told him in a voice that was devoid of all feeling, ‘Your dreams were right. Frey and Bolton betrayed me. My wife, my mother, Grey Wind were all killed. I was dragged out by what was left of the bannermen. After that, well, I was in no state to do much of anything. It was safer that the realm believed me dead.’

Robb drilled this off like a battle report and Jon felt a stab of worry. His brother had always been the most joyful of them as children, now, even through Ghost, Jon felt like that spark had gone out and all that remained was a hollow gap where it had been. Then another thought struck him.

‘Where are you now?’

There weren’t many places in the world that could hide the fact they sheltered Robb Stark, but if he had gone North then perhaps…

‘I’m at Greywater Watch.’ Robb confirmed, though he had barely started the word when Jon cut over him.

‘Did you-,’ He stumbled over the words, ‘Is anyone there with you?’

‘Aye. Both Rickon and Sansa turned up out of the night.’ Robb told him. Though, and it was becoming more and more noticeable with each passing word, his voice still held no real tone. The elation that should have been there at having not one but two members of his family thought lost returned to him was missing entirely.

‘Robb,’ Jon couldn’t keep the anxiety from his voice. ‘Are you well?’

Jon looked into Ghost's blue tinted gaze and felt more than heard the deep sigh Robb gave before he started speaking.

‘I’m alive.’ He said, still not even beginning an explanation, ‘Missing a few parts. But I’m alive. That’s all that matters or so everyone keeps telling me. What about you?’

For the first time a slight hint of bitterness had crept into his brother’s tone, and Jon could not help the relief he felt at even that. He contemplated keeping from Robb the true extent of what he had been doing for the past years, not wishing to exacerbate whatever was wrong with him. But he knew that it would have to come out eventually, and better now than as a surprise later. It might even give Robb something constructive to think about.

‘Alive, and I’ve just brought a host of about forty thousand Wildlings south of the Wall.’

‘Right.’ Robb’s tone had returned to being expressionless and Jon waited for him to elaborate on that single word but after a moment it was clear that nothing else was forthcoming.

‘The dead are marching on the Wall.’ Jon continued, ‘The Others have returned. We need to gather all the men we can to drive them back.’

Still silence reigned and Jon wondered if perhaps Robb had buckled under the strain of the connection, in spite of the fact that there was no change in Ghost’s eyes.

‘Robb?’

‘I believe you.’ 

That was it. No questions, no queries, no surprise, just those three words.

‘What?’ Jon could feel his concern leaking into his voice.

‘I believe you.’ Robb said again. ‘You were right about the wedding, why would you lie now?’

Throughout their conversation Jon’s emotions had risen and fallen like the tides; starting at pure relief then bleeding into worry and now for the first time there was anger building.

‘I don’t need your belief,’ Jon snapped. ‘I need you to help me.’

‘From what little you’ve said it sounds as though you’re managing just fine. You’ve got forty thousand Wildlings to fight for you, what use would the scattered remains of my army be compared to that?’

‘The Boltons sit at Winterfell.’ Jon was truly shouting now. ‘Do you think they’ll look kindly on me? Will they help supply us? Will the other Northern lords?’

Jon allowed himself a breath before continuing in a lower voice. ‘I don’t need your army. I need all the armies on this continent if we’re to stand a chance. I need you to be the King in the fucking North to rally people behind us and rip the Bolton’s out of Winterfell root and stem.’

Once again silence filled the room, but this time, unlike the last, Ghost blinked and the blue receded from his gaze. Then as the last flecks faded away there came a whisper, as though it had been carried on the wind.

‘I am no king.’

- Robb

Robb jerked forward from his position, slumped against the headboard of his bed, pulling himself out of his brother's wolf with a sensation not unlike relaxing a clenched muscle. Blinking away the image of the ship's cabin from his eyes he went over what little Jon had revealed about events at the Wall and in the North. He knew that he should feel something after their conversation; relief that Jon was still alive, perhaps anger at the fact that he had allied with the Wildlings, or dread at Jon’s proclamation that the dead were marching on the Wall. But instead he felt nothing but numb. His whole being was filled with a deep hollowness, right down to the very soul, weakening his limbs and clouding his mind.

-

Robb knew that he had been in bad shape when his men had dragged his body north. In truth he had expected to die, yearned for it even. Everything he had worked for was gone. His army decimated. His family dead. Instead he had been dragged back to the waking world by the healers of Greywater Watch. 

The first few weeks had been nothing but a blur, a haze of barely remembered words and wounds being dressed, buried under the cruel bliss of milk of the poppy. When he had finally had the drug purged from his system Robb had woken to pain, and the loss of his left arm at the shoulder.

The healers had told him that there had been nothing to be done, one of the many wounds he had sustained had been left to fester for far too long before he came to them, and that had he been even a few hours later he would have certainly died. Whatever reaction they had expected to that declaration he hadn’t given it. Instead he hadn’t been able to do anything with the wreck of emotions that drowned him but burst into a ragged laughter, which continued for some time until each guffaw became rawer and rawer and he was sobbing with his face buried in his one remaining hand.

After that many people visited him, tried to talk about what he planned to do next, how the realm thought him dead and how they could use it. At first he was too weak to even begin to entertain solving his problems, but then as time passed and his strength returned crumb by crumb he found there was another reason to ignore such conversations. He had had ample time to think, and it was clear to him that with every action he had taken he had doomed the North to a worse fate. And so he began to turn all visitors away, ignoring the advice of those around him to get back into the yard or even to leave his room; in short he had become a recluse.

By the time a party arrived at Greywater Watch with not one but two of his missing siblings, Robb hadn’t left his room for months. Most days he remained abed, paralysed by the certainty that if he were to move to try and take any positive action, it would only lead others to their death. When the knock on his door came, he hadn’t even had the energy to shout them away, and instead just lay there ignoring it until the person on the other side left him be.

Instead the door had been pushed open, and Howland Reed had been standing there, flanked by two people he barely recognised. One thought dead, the other lost to the Lannisters. It was his surprise more than anything that had forced him to sit up, and run his remaining hand through his knotted, greasy locks.

He’d whispered their names, a spark of something igniting in him for the first time since the wedding. And then he had caught sight of their faces. Rickon looked at him with eyes filled with nothing but distrust, dressed in rags and pelts and looking ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Sansa… Sansa had somehow been worse. He had caught the hope plastered across her pale features as she stepped into his room, and he had watched it drain away with each passing second as she took in his crippled, underweight and unwashed form.

He had greeted them and told them that he was grateful for their survival, and then spared them of his wretched presence by dismissing them both and telling them to leave him be. He hadn’t even been able to bear watching them go, and so was surprised when after a few moments Lord Reed spoke up.

‘You know,’ He had said, ‘They are not the only members of your family that still live. From what I’ve gathered Jon Snow was able to warn you about the Freys all the way from Castle Black. There are ways for you to do the same, and there have been troubling reports from the Wall.’

It had taken a while. More than a while, Howland had visited him every day in an attempt to persuade him to do something more than just sit in a room ignoring the world. And in the end Robb had acquiesced merely to put an end to his pestering. He had also been aware that the other man was trying to help him and after he had saved his siblings Robb could hardly find the grounds to refuse.

At first it had been frustrating work, trying to see into the souls of animals. But ever so slowly he started to improve. He improved at barely a crawl to start with, but then after his first taste of true success he had thrown himself into the work with one goal in mind; Speak to Jon. Robb had become consumed by his efforts, spending every waking hour pushing his limits further and further until finally he was able to reach for Ghost.

Then he had found himself blocked, and his thoughts had immediately spiralled. Dark visions had filled his mind whispering that in the time it had taken him to master the skill Jon had died. Each day he had woken up and made an attempt to reach Jon, only to find him unreachable, and at this he would slump back down under his furs in defeat and wallow in his fears until the next morning came. 

Then finally he had managed to break through and have a conversation with Jon.

-

Robb stared at the Wall across from him, trying to summon an ounce of something. He’d placed all his hopes that his conversation with Jon would fix everything, give him purpose again. But Jon had asked for the one thing in the world he could not give and now he was left with nothing but aching emptiness.

Robb felt as though he was mere moments from tears, but at the same time as if he had never been further away from spilling them. Part of him wanted to rail and roar at the world, but each time he thought about opening his mouth to scream his throat closed over and he was unable to even whisper. He reached to pull the furs up over his head in a vain effort to hide from it all, and was disappointed when his one hand failed to capture enough of them, leaving him only half covered.

Robb couldn’t even muster the energy to sigh, and instead slumped onto his back, wishing for nothing more than to sink into the sheets and disappear. 

- Ygritte

Ygritte walked into Jon’s room to find him perched on the edge of his bunk staring at his wolf with such intensity that she almost didn’t dare speak up, unwilling to break the tension that filled the small space. But after a few moments of this, during which neither man nor beast blinked, Ygritte had had enough. She knew Jon Snow well enough by now to know that leaving him alone in his thoughts, especially after bad news, was a recipe for disaster.

‘I know you said you weren’t interested in men or women,’ She joked, ‘But I didn’t expect you to be the sort to stare lovingly into the eyes of a wolf instead.’

If she were honest with herself it was a weak joke, but it had come to her in a fit of pique during her stay in the ice cells, and she had been determined not to miss her chance to use it. However in spite of the jest, Jon Snow didn’t look round. In fact he hadn’t even acknowledged her presence at all.

‘Oi.’ She called out to him, louder this time. Meanwhile, stepping forward to flick him in the ear. ‘Were you even listening to what I said.?’

He jumped at her touch, and shook himself before tearing his eyes away from Ghost to look up at her.

‘Sorry what?’ He asked, blinking confusedly at her, answering her question quite clearly in the process.

‘Never mind,’ She answered, ‘Just assume I said something clever. It’d be a waste to repeat myself now.’

‘Right.’ Jon agreed, still not entirely present, ‘Was there something you needed me for.’

‘Not particularly. We’re about an hour out from Eastwatch, but I’m really just here to check on you, given that you spent most of last day dead to the world. Should I be worried about the fact you didn’t notice me arriving in favour of staring at your wolf?’

Ygritte watched as Jon swallowed nervously at her question and felt her stomach sink slightly.

‘No,’ Jon hedged. Then seeing her disbelieving look, he continued. ‘Well at least not about me.’

Ygritte remained silent and fixed him with a glare. And Ghost padded up beside her and copied it, so that Jon Snow was facing not one but two sets of baleful eyes.

‘It’s my brother Robb,’ Jon relented, ‘There’s something wrong with him.’

Ygritte took a moment to breathe, before even trying to work through that non sequitur.

‘You’re brother,’ She said cautiously, ‘The one who you dragged away from a wedding with three arrows in him?’

Jon nodded.

‘And you think that there is something wrong with him because…’

‘He spoke to me through Ghost. I mean-’ He took a sharp breath ‘-I didn’t even know he was alive, until…’ He trailed off, not willing to finish the thought, ‘But he is and he found a way to copy what I did with Grey Wind to warn him and we talked.’

Ygritte decided to ignore the implications that Jon Snow’s whole family were probably all exceptionally powerful wargs if both he and his brother could manage a feat like that and instead focus on the problem at hand. She needed Jon Snow at his best, not only because he was their greatest chance of stopping the Night King, but also because she hated seeing him down.

‘And so during this brief conversation with him, in which you found out he was alive, you concluded that there was something so wrong that it was worth moping about.’

Jon gave half a laugh, but nodded, ‘It seems stupid when you say it like that. But Robb was… it was like he was barely there, everything that made him Robb was gone.’

‘Alright,’ Ygritte decided, ‘I’ll admit that does sound like a concern, but be honest with me now; Is there anything you can do to help him?’

He shook his head.

‘Then stop worrying about him. Your brother’s alive. That’s great news. But right now we need to figure out the best way to defeat the dead. Once we do that you can worry about your brother as much as you like, because if we fail, we’re not going to live long enough to care either way.’

Jon took a shaky breath and rose from the bunk.

‘Aye,’ He agreed, ‘You’re right. I’d just thought, or perhaps hoped, that he could help us.’

‘Maybe he can. Maybe he can’t.’ Ygritte told him brusquely, ‘Right now we’ll have to assume he can’t. So with that in mind what’s our move?’

Jon took a breath to steady himself and Ygritte could feel her eyes rolling at him before he could even speak. 

‘Next we need to take Winterfell from the Boltons.’

Ygritte sighed, feeling entirely justified in her eye roll, in spite of the slight wince of a look Jon gave her for it.

‘Winterfell is the heart of the North.’ Jon ploughed on, determined to explain his reasons, ‘If the Boltons hold it we will get no aid from the South whatsoever. And we need aid from the South.’

‘And this has nothing to do with the fact that it was your childhood home and the Boltons betrayed your brother.’

‘I won’t deny I hate them.’ Jon argued fiercely, ‘but if I thought we could trust them I wouldn’t hesitate to ask for their support.’

Ygritte felt the surprise flash across her features at this admission but Jon paid it no mind.

‘You saw the army of the dead, the Free Folk can’t face them alone. We need allies, and we need to find them before the Night King finds a way through the Wall.’

‘The Wall has stood for thousands of years,’ Ygritte replied, but even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

The Wall may have stood for hundreds of generations, but it had never faced an assault like the one they were facing now. After what she had seen at Hardhome, she was in no doubt that the magic to bring down the Wall existed. And if it did, then the army of the dead would find a way to use it.

Jon’s frown mirrored her own, as it was clear the argument was won. And Ghost fixed his ruby gaze on her as well in a wolfish imitation of the expression.

‘Do you think Mance would help?’ Jon asked, breaking the tension.

Ygritte took a moment to ponder this.

‘He owes you a debt.’ She offered, ‘But Mance won’t like the idea of Free Folk dying for your Southern Wars.’

‘Aye. I’m aware.’

‘He’s not the only one you could convince though. There were plenty others at Hardhome who owe you their lives. If you ask, some will follow you.’

Jon remained silent and Ygritte felt compelled to add.

‘I, for one, will help you.’ She told him. ‘I’m not letting you die again.’

Her reward for this statement was a flash of a half smile from Jon, but unfortunately it was swiftly wiped away as his face returned to its almost ever present frown.

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.’ He decided, ‘First we’re going to have to deal with the Crows I left at Castle Black. I doubt they're going to accept that I’ve fulfilled my vows after I used my position as Lord Commander to force them to agree to rescue you.’

- Davos

Davos hadn’t managed to speak to Jon at all during their Journey back to Castle Black. The man in question had been so busy organising groups of Wildlings; breaking up fights and trying to find them all places along the Wall to set up a permanent camp.

As it were, only a small group of around two hundred remained to make the final leg of their journey from Eastwatch to the Castle itself. Of the remaining forty-odd-thousand, about half had already found castles to inhabit or other sites to set up camp, and although the other half were planning to settle west of Castle Black, most had given it a wide berth. Jon himself seemed deep in conversation with the red headed Wildling girl, but from what Davos could see the conversation was more for both of their pleasure than a discussion of anything of great importance. Because of this he chose this moment to approach the Lord Commander, lengthening his stride to catch him, and clearing his throat to announce himself; the two of them had matters to discuss after all.

The easy smile that seemed so out of place on Jon’s almost perpetually sombre face, slid away into a more recognisable frown as Jon read the tension on his face.

‘The Free Folk are south of the Wall.’ Davos stated.

He was careful to keep any accusation from his tone. Jon had thousands upon thousands of worries to deal with and there was only so much time in the day. He didn’t doubt his word, Jon would turn his eyes to Winterfell. But with each passing hour Davos could feel the muscles in his back tightening as he imagined Shireen, alone but for the company of a monster. He needed something more, even if it was just when they would start to move.

Jon, for his part, caught on instantly to Davos’ meaning, his own frown deepening into a scowl at the thought.

‘They are.’ He agreed, ‘Ramsay Bolton has sat at Winterfell for too long. We’ll need a day at least at Castle Black, but after that We’ll be heading south.’

Davos nodded at that, relief pooling in his gut, even as he voiced his next concern.

‘What of the Free Folk.’ 

It seemed foolish to have let them go if they were planning to use them to take Winterfell.

‘They are needed at the Wall.’ Jon said carefully, as if expecting an argument, ‘I’ll ask Mance and the other clan leaders once they’ve spent a night at Castle Black. But I can’t promise what their answer will be.’

Davos took a moment to digest this, parsing out the detail that Jon was resolutely not saying. They both knew that the Free Folk wouldn’t want to go further south. Well, he expected some would, but not to fight and die at Winterfell. But if Jon gave the Night’s Watch a chance to antagonise them before asking, then the number who would be willing to leave the Wall would rise dramatically. At least he hoped that would be the case.

‘I can.’ The Woman -Ygritte, he thought- interrupted his thoughts, sharply enough that it took him a moment to place her statement, during which she continued, ‘Mance may not, but enough of us saw what you did at Hardhome. You could ask for the moon out of the sky and some of them would start building a tower to get you there.’

Davos blanched a little at the intensity of that statement. There had been stories aplenty about exactly what Jon had done, but after listening to a few and seeing the similarities to Melisandre’s magic Davos had been resolutely ignoring them as much as was possible.

In that time Ygritte had turned to his and asked him bluntly;

‘What are you so interested in it for, anyway?’ She jerked a gloved hand at Jon, ‘I get that this one grew up there, but I thought you were from even further south.’

‘I am,’ Davos agreed, ‘But someone very important to me is being held by the man who holds Winterfell.’

Ygritte looked him up and down, and Davos caught Jon watching her slightly warily as she did so, but he made no move to intervene.

‘You’re daughter?’ Ygritte guessed.

Davos felt his throat close at the words, but nodded and managed to get out, ‘In every way but blood.’

‘If she was stolen…?’ Ygritte asked shooting Jon a look, which Davos failed to decipher as she trailed off.

‘Not like that,’ Jon interjected, ‘She is only ten and one.’

‘Too young,’ Ygritte agreed, turning back to Davos, ‘Bring up that you want to save her and people will listen. Enough of them know the boats were yours.’

Davos felt like he had missed a great deal of the subtext of that particular exchange, but felt a stab of gratitude nonetheless, as he nodded his thanks at Ygritte. She gave him the barest of nods in return, before turning back to their path.

As they rounded a bend in the road Davos recognised the final stretch towards the castle, and though he knew that it was probably still too far away he strained his eyes eager to see confirmation that he was almost over another hurdle in the path of saving Shireen. 

He stopped. 

So did Jon and Ygritte, the three of them taking in the sight before them.

As he had suspected, they were still too far away to see the buildings. But that did not stop them seeing the thin plume of soot grey smoke that rose from where Castle Black stood. Behind it, dark against the almost pristine white of the ice, the Wall was stained as black as a brother’s cloak. A strip of ash that divulged the fact that the blaze below must have been set hours, maybe even days, earlier.

Davos glanced at Jon, and saw his jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes were dark with fury. It could have been an accidental fire, perhaps that was what most of their party would think, but at the moment Davos knew the both of them were thinking of the same thing. 

The letter in pink, calling for Jon’s head and promising retribution if it wasn’t delivered.

Chapter Text

- Dacey Mormont

Dacey felt herself jerk awake from where she was slumped in the corner of her small cell. The scent of stale urine and her own unwashed body caused her to choke slightly, as it always did when she woke. She quickly took stock of her situation, glancing around her cell told her nothing as it was shrouded completely in the constant darkness she had become used to. Then she recognised what had caused her to wake, and drew in a short sharp breath, composing herself as best she could, as she heard the bolt slide across the outside of the cell door.

Setting her jaw and fixing a glare, she turned towards the sound, squinting in preparation for the dim light that could still be blinding after months and months of darkness.

Part of her, the part of herself she kept coiled deep inside of her, locked where no one could reach it, couldn’t help but wonder which of them it would be today. All of them were bad, each Frey that came to her cell, each one that pawed at her with hands that murdered her king, but there were a few that she could admit she would not like to see step out from behind the door.

It hadn’t been so bad at first. Not after the first of them came to visit her in her cell, breeches already around his ankles, cock already hardening at the thought of her. He had thought himself untouchable, with her chained to the wall as she had been, bound wrist and ankle. She had feigned weakness, drawing him close, and then she had struck. She regretted to this day that she hadn’t managed to bite clean through his member, but in that moment there had been nothing more satisfying than the taste of blood on her lips.

In that moment she had been certain that she was going to die, sooner rather than later, and she had relished every ounce of pain she could cause her captors. It was only days later, all of which she had spent alone in the dark waiting to die, that she had truly realised what she was being held for. 

It was then, as she had been expecting death, either by execution or as she resisted another man’s advances, that Roose Bolton had walked into her cell and told her why she was alive; As a hostage to his rule in the North. Against both her kin on Bear Island, and her uncle at the Watch.

Having been ready to die, the knowledge that she was going to spend the rest of her life in the same dark cell had nearly broken her.

But she was a Mormont, and she had known that even in a cell she had to stand strong.

In spite of that it was getting harder and harder with each passing day. The food they were giving her was barely enough, and she could feel in the dark how much muscle she had shed. And even worse than that was the way she could feel her mind slipping more and more into a heavy fog. Each time that bolt slid across the door, the effort required to keep her thoughts clear almost doubled.

Worse than that though was that the Freys were getting bolder; after Bolton had explained her purpose they had backed off, but now… He was so very far away in Winterfell. Too far away to care. And out of all of them Black Walder was the worst, it wouldn’t be long now she knew, before he went further.

Already he had grown bold enough to grope at her, and even by the dim light of the lamp he had brought with him, she had been able to recognise the glee in his face as she had snarled at him, gnashing her teeth at his fingers whenever they got too close for comfort. However the last time he had come he had done nothing but stand and stare at her, for minute after minute, his small eyes gleaming, until finally he had given her a slow smile, one that one any other face she might have called indulgent. That had been days ago now, perhaps even a week judging by her meals, and no one had visited her since.

Dacey forced herself to shake her head, drawing herself out of her thoughts as the door started to creep open. Even as she tried to project confidence, she was fervently hoping that whoever the door opened to reveal it was not Black Walder.

The light hit her eyes hard, and though she was looking through the barest slits in her eyelids, she was still blinded for a horrific moment. When she did manage to blink her eyes into something that resembled focus, she almost sagged in relief when she realised the figure before her was too small to be who she feared.

It took her several more seconds to focus on the face, and when she did she could do nothing but stare, an impossible name on her lips, and the thought that the isolation had finally driven her over the edge towards madness.

‘Lyanna?’

Standing before her was the spitting image of the girl she had known all those years ago. Lyanna Stark had not been that much older than she was, but she had been old enough that it had only taken one look for Dacey to want to imitate her. Her whole family had loved the Stark girl, so much so that their youngest member shared her name. And now she was standing before her looking as though she hadn’t aged a day since she died.

‘Hmm,’ The imposter hummed, obviously ignoring her whispered word, perhaps thinking her delusional. ‘You aren’t a Frey.’

It was in this moment that Dacey was able to observe the girl more closely, and note the subtle differences in the person before her and the woman she remembered. She may have been wrong, but she could have sworn Lyanna Stark were taller, and though there was still a wildness in her gaze, it was tempered by something cold and hard. The eyes that were taking her in did not belong in the young body of the girl before her.

‘Well,’ She asked, losing patience at Dacey’s lack of response, ‘Do you feel like telling me who you are and what you did to end up in a cell at the twins? If I like your answer I’ll let you out. If not, well I don’t think there will be anyone to come and feed you anymore.’

Dacey swallowed at that turn of phrase, upping her estimation of the girl before her. She was in no doubt that she was a killer, like recognised like after all, but the person before her could kill her coldly; leave her in her cell to die, and think nothing of it. Not if she thought Dacey deserved it.

‘I’m Dacey of House Mormont,’ she hedged, after a moment's indecision. Gambling that an enemy of house Frey would likely feel sympathy with the Starks especially with the girl's looks.

‘I was imprisoned during the wedding.’

‘House Mormont,’ The girl inquired sharply, ‘Of Bear Island? What are your words?’

Dacey felt herself swallow as she shifted and the chains binding her rattled.

‘Here we stand.’

‘Your mother?’

‘Maege Mormont.’

She considered for a moment before asking, ‘How far west of Sea Dragon point is Bear Island?’

‘It’s to the north of it.’ Dacey shot back, after barely a moment of hesitation. ‘Though it would be about a hundred miles east as well.’

The girl tilted her head slightly, weighing her answers, then, without so much as a rustle, she produced a ring of keys from the back of her belt and started unlocking Dacey’s chains.

Emboldened by her success, but unwilling to pry before she had tasted freedom, she waited until the last chain fell from her ankle before declaring.

‘I don’t know who you are, but that face is not yours to wear.’

The girl didn’t react to that immediately, just stepped smoothly back and only then did she allow herself a half smile, as though what Dacey had said amused her.

‘Oh I assure you it is,’ The girl said confidently, ‘I would know after all-’ another twitch of her lips into that semblance of a smile ‘-but why don’t you tell me who you think I’m pretending to be.’

‘...Lyanna Stark?’ Dacey replied, losing confidence even as she spoke.

Now that caused a reaction; Dacey watched both eyebrows raise in surprise, before the girl’s face set quickly back to a neutral expression. She may have been wrong, but she thought there was something unnatural about the gesture, some hesitation. Dacey was in no doubt that the girl would have no trouble keeping a perfectly blank face, but for some reason she was choosing to show some hints of emotion, as if trying to play a part.

‘Close,’ She answered without answering at all, ‘I was told that I resembled her. Never did believe it though.’

‘Then…?’ Dacey floundered. 

‘Lyanna Stark was my aunt.’ The girl revealed, clearly enjoying Dacey’s confusion.

‘But,’ Dacey's mind whirled through the possibilities, ‘that would mean you’re Arya Stark?’

‘Just so.’

‘You’re presumed dead.’

‘Well,’ Said the girl claiming to be Arya Stark, ‘That’s why you’ve got to make sure.’

She flashed Dacey a true smile, the first one without a hint of simulation behind it, and reached out to take her hand. Dacey, almost flinched, but caught herself in time and allowed the girl to drag her from the cell. It almost came as a surprise how warm the girl’s skin was as she gave what Dacey assumed was meant to be a reassuring squeeze.

It was only then, as they made their way to the door of the next cell on the block, and the girl dropped her hand to once again reach for the keys, that a new thought occurred to Dacey.

‘What about the Freys?’

The girl stopped in the process of turning the key, her voice icy and cold. ‘They’re dead.’

Dacey felt herself shiver at the tone and had to ask; ‘What, Walder? And his sons?’

‘All of them.’

‘All of them…’ Dacey was having trouble believing it. ‘How?’

The girl turned back to her, keys forgotten. ‘Poison mostly. Though some I made sure suffered.’

She looked Dacey in the eye and almost dared her to challenge her. When Dacey gave in and looked away, unable to bear the intensity of that gaze, she continued.

‘I was here you know.’ She confessed, ‘The night of the wedding. I escaped King’s Landing and had been travelling for months trying to get back to my family. I was on a cart not fifty yards from the gate when they barred the doors to the great hall.’

Dacey looked back at her and saw her eyes had turned glassy as she relived the memory.

‘Then the song started,’ She continued, voice hollow, ‘the Rains of Castamere. I watched as the Bolton soldiers turned on the Stark men. I tried to help, tried to get to the hall, the Man I was travelling with had to knock me out and drag me away. But that didn’t stop me from hearing the screams... I heard them in my sleep for months after.’

She took a breath, and seemed to try and shake off the memory. ‘The Freys killed my family, so I killed all of theirs. They were names on my list, and they weren’t the last.’

Dacey felt helpless, there was nothing she could say in response to that, so instead, on impulse, she stepped forward and enveloped the girl -Arya Stark- in a hug. Arya stiffened in her arms, seeming unsure what to do with that gesture. And, after barely, a moment Dacey was forced to let go as she felt the edge of a blade at her ribs. Alarmed she stepped back as Arya quickly palmed the knife she had produced into a less threatening position. Dacey saw a glimpse of a well of pain behind her eyes, but it was gone in a flash; replaced once again with a poised emotionless mask. 

Arya didn’t apologise for the knife, just dismissed the moment, turning back and finishing unlocking the door as she said; ‘Tell me if you recognise this one, I don’t want to play the guessing game with every prisoner if I can help it.’

- Arya

Arya busied herself unlocking the cells, trying resolutely ignoring what Dacey had just done. Later perhaps, when she was alone again, she thought she might look back and think about how her instinct had been to defend herself, and the fact that she had very nearly stabbed an ally. She would dismiss those thoughts quickly, after all her muscle control was impeccable, she would never stab someone unless she wished them dead. Then much later, perhaps before she went to sleep she would look up at the sky and wonder who the last person to hug her was, and how long ago it had been. Then she might allow herself to bask in the memory of the hug from someone who was almost a complete stranger, as brief as it had been. But now, in the moment, Arya knew that she couldn’t afford such thoughts. She was still on hostile ground, and as such, she tucked everything away in the back of her mind and focused on freeing those who deserved it from the Twins.

She could feel Dacey still watching, analysing her, as she got to the last cell. Thankfully all the others had been empty of prisoners, which saved her the process of trying to decide what to do with them. This door however showed signs of life behind it; there were fresh scratches on the floor that revealed it had been opened recently, and wafting through the crack beneath it was the lingering smell of an unwashed body.

Steeling herself, on the off chance that whoever was in the cell might use this opportunity to attack their captors, Arya pulled the door open. 

The cell, as she had suspected, was occupied. Said occupant was slumped in a corner, feet and ankles chained to the Wall, like Dacey had been. However, unlike Dacey, he barely had the strength to raise his head at their entrance. It was obvious he had not been treated kindly by his captors; Arya could see evidence of broken arms, not set right at left to heal wrong. Moreover, despite the fact the man had a truly massive frame, he looked beyond thin, and it seemed almost as if his skin was hanging off his bones. There was purple bruising blooming across his face and his nose had definitely been broken, perhaps more than once. His eyes had a fogged quality that spoke of a recent blow to the head, or as though his captivity had sapped his spirit entirely; though which it was, Arya could not tell at a glance.

Behind her Dacey let out a gasp at the sight of him as she followed Arya in. She glanced at her and saw her brows furrowed in obvious distress, recognition clear in her eyes.

‘That’s the GreatJon.’ She declared in a whisper. Clearly seeing Arya did not know the name she added, ‘Of house Umber.’

‘Right,’ Arya answered, carefully trying to avoid comparisons between what she saw before her and the well built giant she had been introduced to once when she was very young. ‘Let's get him out of the chains.’

This was easier said than done. The GreatJon did not appear entirely rational, and even as she tried to fit the keys into the locks, he thrashed violently, desperate to get away from her. In the end it took a combined effort to free him, with Dacey pulling the chains taught as Arya struggled with the key. However, after the first chain fell from his arm the GreatJon stilled entirely, as though he feared that this taste of freedom would be withdrawn. Then he watched, breaths ragged, as Arya worked her way around his damaged limbs, freeing each one in turn. 

When the last manacle clicked to the floor, he stared at them for what had to have been nearly a full minute. Arya was pleased to note that his eyes had lost some of their dull sheen as he did. Then finally, his voice scratchy from disuse or screaming, he asked, ‘Dacey is that really you.’

‘It is.’

The GreatJon seemed to swell at this reply, taking a deep breath and pulling his shoulders back from their previous hunched position. Then his gaze turned to Arya, his confusion evident.

‘And who…?

‘I’m Arya Stark,’ Arya replied, putting a hint of challenge in her voice. 

The GreatJon did a double take at this. Looking first at her, then Dacey, looking for confirmation in her face, then back at her. He studied her from head to toe, and nodded in apparent agreement.

‘Aye. You have the look,’ He said, ‘But that doesn’t explain how you’re here.’

He stood awkwardly, using the chains that had once bound him to pull himself to his feet. Dacey did lean forward to offer a hand, but he waved her off, clearly wanting to rise under his own power. Once he was up, it became apparent how huge he was, towering over Arya by what must have been around two feet. However Arya could see the tremors in his hands and how his legs struggled to support his own weight. Getting him out of the Twins, she realised, would not be an easy task. And beyond that, she had no idea what she was to do with him and Dacey because, if one thing was certain, they were in no state to join her on her journey South.

‘She was here for revenge on the Freys.’ Dacey said, answering the GreatJon’s unspoken question. ‘We were just an afterthought.’ 

The GreatJon gave her another look, this one more appraising, before he spoke, part admonishing and part full of grudging respect.

‘I don’t blame you girl,’ He chided, ‘You have more reason to hate them than anyone in Westeros. But that was no reason to throw your life away to go after a few Freys. You’re the last hope of House Stark, what if you’d died? Would it have been worth it?’

‘I was never going to die.’ Arya bit back waspishly, ‘And I certainly made the journey worth my while.’

Seeing the GreatJon’s expression Dacey added from beside her, ‘She got them all, or at least she says she did. And I’ve seen no reason to doubt her.’

He turned back to her, his eyebrows rising into his matted overgrown hair. ‘All of them? Alone?’

The question of how was evident in his disbelieving tone.

‘Well yes.’ Arya responded, pulling a knife and picking at her fingernails. It was clear that the GreatJon couldn’t seem to grasp that concept and it was nice to be able to show off some of her abilities to people who she would tentatively name as allies. ‘As for how; it wasn’t that hard.’

‘Oh?’

‘You said you used poison.’ Dacey prompted.

‘I did,’ Arya agreed, ‘But first I disguised myself as a serving girl, and spent my time learning the routines of those who stay here-’

‘What if you’d been recognised?’ The GreatJon asked, still unable to entirely suspend his disbelief.

‘That would have been impossible.’ Arya countered, and when it looked like he might argue again she spoke over him. ‘I’ve picked up more than a few tricks over the past few years, trust me.’

They still looked sceptical, but Arya turned away from them, sheathing her knife as she did so. ‘We should get out of here; I’ll explain as we walk.’

She glanced over her shoulder at them, shooting them a questioning glance; The GreatJon was in no great shape to be moving, after all. However Dacey threw his arm over her shoulder and allowed him to lean on her as they walked.

‘It can’t be that far,’ he groused much more goodnaturedly than Arya would in his situation, ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Anyway,’ She continued once they were well on their way, ‘Once I’d done that, I lured Black Walder into the kitchens, killed him and baked part of him into a pie for Lord Frey. I served it to him for dinner one evening, before revealing what he was eating and slitting his throat. As for the rest I used Walder Frey’s seal to summon every Frey I could to a feast, whereon I poisoned the wine. Their bodies should still be cooling in the great hall if you don’t believe me.’

She looked at them and was surprised to see that both of them had come to a halt, their already pale faces had lost a few shades of colour at her tale. That may have been partially from the exertion of moving, it was hard to say; however, their aghast looks showed her the truth of their reactions.

‘The Freys broke guest right at a wedding. They killed my mother and my brother.’ She defended her actions, ‘I thought it a fitting response.’

In the end it was Dacey who spoke, ‘I would never claim they didn’t deserve it. Black Walder in particular.’ Arya watched as she suppressed an almost unnoticeable shudder, ‘But it’s one thing to believe you killed them, it's another…’

She trailed off and the GreatJon continued for her, ‘It’s another for you to kill them like that and then to hear you speak of it as though you were describing an afternoon ride.’

‘They aren’t the first people I’ve killed and they won’t be the last,’ Arya declared stubbornly moving through the doorway ahead of her. Then her mind caught up with the reason why they were looking at her with such horror. ‘I didn’t enjoy it.’ She protested against the unspoken accusation.

‘I never said you did,’ The GreatJon argued, a bit breathless as he and Dacey followed her out of the dungeons, ‘but you did it.’

Arya allowed herself a moment to consider that. It was true that what she had done to Black Walder could be construed as particularly monstrous, but Arya hadn’t thought of it like that at the time. As she had learned; dead was dead, it didn’t matter to her how it happened. 

She tried to see it from the eyes of her companions; being locked in a cell for months on end, only to be rescued by, in their minds, a young girl. A young girl who then claimed to have baked a man into a pie. She could see how they might view her as a sadist, and struggled to articulate how wrong that was.

‘I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.’ She started, ‘Or at least in self defence. I’ve never killed anyone for any other reason.’ She thought of the actress in Braavos. ‘I don’t think I could. I had the opportunity to once, and I knew failing to do so would likely result in my own death, and yet I still couldn’t do it.’

‘Well that’s…’ Dacey struggled to find a word, before finally settling on: ‘Reassuring. But how do you decide who deserves to die?’

‘I have a list.’ Arya replied, stopping to give them both a break before they made their way into the servants quarters. ‘Of people who’ve hurt me.’

‘Oh, and who’s on this list?’

‘Most of them are dead by now.’ Arya admitted, ‘The only ones left are Cersei, the Mountain, the Red Women, and Beric Dondarrion.’

‘Aye,’ The GreatJon interjected, still puffing a little, ‘A Lannister and the Mountain; I can understand why you want them dead, but who were the last two.’

‘It doesn’t really matter. They’re on my list because one sold my friend to the other; he’s most likely dead because of it.’

The pair of them gave a solemn nod of recognition at that, and then the GreatJon prompted them to keep moving. Saying that he had been in the Twins long enough already and that he’d rather rest on the outside.

- The GreatJon

He hadn’t quite believed it at first when his cell door had opened to reveal Dacey Mormont and a girl claiming to be Arya Stark. She’d looked the part, he’d allowed her that much, but he was still immensely sceptical of the circumstance. Then she had started talking, each detail she revealed more harrowing than the last, and his scepticism had faded. 

It wasn’t just in looks that the girl was a Stark, it was also the stubbornness that they were known for. And beyond that there was something more; she had that strange sense of otherness about her that only the Starks seemed to exude. He didn’t know what it was, but every Stark he’d known had had something of it. From Ned Stark and his immutable sense of duty that made him seem more than human whenever he doled out justice, to Robb Stark and his wolfish nature both on and off the battlefield. He supposed that it was a residual trait of the family that had been kings of Winter for thousands of years.

The GreatJon couldn't quite put his finger on what it was about Arya Stark that made him feel this way, but if he had to articulate it; there was something in her body language that was too precise, every move looked too honed and deliberate.

This feeling was exacerbated when she’d finished leading him and Dacey out of a side door of the Twins without encountering a single soul. And that was saying nothing about how she had attempted to wipe out the Frey line.

However when they finally did make it out, all of these thoughts were purged from his mind. Instead they were replaced by the almost forgotten sense of feeling sunlight on his skin. After months in his dark cell, it was too bright for his sensitive eyes and he could see nothing but light. But even his temporary blindness paled in comparison to the feel of the wind whispering through his hair and the warmth of the sun that warmed him to the bone.

When his eyes finally adjusted, he opened them to find the three of them standing on the banks of the green fork. Dacey, it seemed, was having the same experience he was after so long imprisoned, and Arya was looking at them with an almost hidden fondness clearly revelling in their joy herself.

‘So,’ Dacey asked, finally breaking the moment, ‘we’re out. What now.?’

Arya looked at him critically, and despite himself the GreatJon felt himself bristle under her sharp gaze. ‘You won’t be able to move very quickly, and it’d be best if you could find some sort of maester, which doesn’t leave you many options.’

‘You?’ He questioned, picking up on the fact she wasn’t including herself in their plans.

‘Any ideas.’ She looked to Dacey now, resolutely ignoring his question. 

‘The closest place to here that might have what we need would be Greywater Watch,’ She answered after a moment’s pause, ‘But that’s a difficult journey on foot, especially without supplies.’

‘I can get you food from the kitchens,’ Arya told them, ‘enough for the pair of you for two sennights at least.’

‘And where will you be going?’ The GreatJon asked, more firmly this time.

She met his gaze, hers full of challenge, ‘South.’

Then she promptly turned on her heels and made her way back into the Twins, calling over her shoulder. ‘Rest here. I’ll be back soon with what you need.’ Leaving him sputtering protests to the empty air.

He looked at Dacey, silently asking her for help, but she just snorted at him. 

‘She’s a Stark,’ She told him full of derision, ‘You’ll never get her to come north by butting heads with her. You know what she did there.’ She pointed up to the tower which loomed over them, ‘If she wants to go south I doubt there’s anything you and I could do to stop her.’

‘But she can’t,’ He protested gruffly, ‘It’s too dangerous. The North needs a Stark.’

‘It does,’ Dacey agreed, her tone solemn.

‘Then how do we get her to come with us?’

‘She’s a Stark,’ Dacey repeated to him as though he were a child, not several decades her elder, ‘And she may be ruthless but she seems like a good person. If she thinks we need her, I think she’ll help us.’

The GreatJon gave her a sceptical look, once again thinking of the castle full of dead bodies beside them.

‘Just act like you’re worse off than you are.’ She directed him, ‘Leave the talking to me.’

-

And so that was how the GreatJon found himself hobbling North through the forest about fifty paces from the road, accompanied by nought but two women. He had done as Dacey requested and remained silent while she wheedled Arya into travelling with them by fuelling her pity for them and all but begging for some company after so long alone along with news of what had happened during their imprisonment.

His pride couldn’t take forging an injury as Dacey had suggested, but after beating after beating at the hands of the Freys he wasn’t exactly in great condition to start with. His arms ached if he tried to carry too much, his bruises pulled his skin tight, and his legs felt thin and watery beneath him. So when the pain hit and he struggled for breath, he did nothing to hide his own discomfort like he normally would have.

After he tripped over one root too many and his arms failed to catch his fall, he let out a groan followed by a string of expletives and made no attempt to rise immediately. When he looked up, he found Arya already there, her small hand reaching out to take his own, concern in her eyes as she observed him. Over her shoulder he caught Dacey’s smirk, and had to admit to himself that she had been right about the girl’s character. He sighed internally, and watched Arya’s face go from pitying to analysing in a flash as she pulled him halfway to his feet.

The GreatJon pulled himself up the rest of the way, leaning on a tree for support, and gave her what he hoped was a friendly smile. Arya looked between him and Dacey carefully, but chose to to voice whatever it was she had parsed from their actions. Instead her head swivelled towards something to her left and she peered into the gloom of the forest.

She stayed like that for a while, as though waiting for something, though for what felt like the longest time nothing appeared. However, the GreatJon wasn’t relieved in the slightest when, almost a full minute later, the undergrowth did rustle and part to reveal a wolf. He shivered at the sight and a thrill of fear shot through him when it was joined almost at once by another, then two, and before long the three of them were surrounded by a pack of the animals.

At his side he felt Dacey inch towards him, her own posture tense, but in front of them Arya showed no signs of distress. Not even when the pack parted to reveal a truly huge beast with mottled grey fur, and beady black eyes that were focused on their group with a shocking intelligence.

Slowly he inched for the long bladed knife that Arya had scavenged for him at the Twins, careful not to make any sudden moves that might provoke the pack.

The wolf approached them with an unhurried prowl, and the GreatJon felt himself stop breathing as his hand closed on the hilt of his knife and he watched the animal take a cautious sniff at Arya’s now raised hand.

For an instant nothing in the forest moved, even the wind felt like it had gone still, and then Arya breathed a single word.

‘Nymeria.’

And all at once the spell was broken, the GreatJon could breath, he could relax his grip on his knife as Arya’s hand disappeared into the thick fur of the wolf’s neck and the wolf leaned into the gesture.

‘This…’ The GreatJon said, still wary of speaking in anything more than a whisper, ‘Is your wolf?’

‘It is.’ She confirmed. ‘And this is her pack.’

The wolf took another step forward and Arya leaned down to whisper a few quiet words into its ear. When she was done she turned back to him and Dacey.

‘The woods should be safe for you now,’ She told them, ‘Nymeria knows you’re friends of house Stark.’

Dacey gave a strangled half chuckle at this but neither of them contradicted this statement. Both of them had seen Robb with his wolf and there was no doubt that if Arya shared the same sort of bond with this one it would never attack them unless she wanted it to.

Arya gave the wolf one last pat behind the ears, and the GreatJon marvelled at how she had to reach up to do so. Then she turned to the rest of the pack and said in a voice of quiet command, ‘You can go now.’

And so they did; one by one the GreatJon watched them disappear amongst the trees until only Nymeria remained. She held their gazes for a few long moments, and the GreatJon was once again reminded why the Starks had ruled the North for so long. Beneath that look he could feel like nothing but prey.

Then she too melted back into the forest, vanishing into the greenery like she had never been there at all.

He stood transfixed, watching the space she had disappeared into, and was only broken from his reverie by a sharp gasp from Dacey. It was then that he realised that it was not just the wolves who had vanished. Arya too was nowhere in sight.

Chapter Text

- Robb

Robb groaned and turned sharply away from the harsh light that spilled into his room as the person who had just entered pulled open the shutters. His visitors, as few of them as there were, had recently abandoned the courtesy of knocking, knowing too well that he would demand they leave before they could enter. Now they just barged in, apparently on a whim, without a care for his wishes.

With his face still buried in the furs he listened as the person, who had yet to announce themself to him, bustled around the room. He was hoping that they would do what they came here to do, and then leave without disturbing him further, but he had no such luck; After a few moments the sounds of movement ceased, but it was not followed by the click of the latch on the door which would have signified their departure.

‘I know you’re awake.’ It was Howland, his thin voice coming from somewhere above him.

For a long minute Robb struggled with himself, working up the will to turn and look another of the people he had failed in the eye. Howland at least was familiar, after all that time working together, if instead it was Sansa standing over him he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear facing her.

In the end the choice was taken out of his hands, when Howland hauled him upright with surprising strength for such a small man. 

‘Can’t you just leave me be?’ he sighed. Wouldn’t that be better for everybody? He didn’t say that aloud but Howland knew him well enough by now to read between the lines of what he did.

‘No,’ Howland responded calmly, ‘you’re still my king, and you need me.’

‘Would it not be better at this point to just crown another?’

‘Perhaps,’ Howland agreed. And this in itself shook some of the fog from his mind, it seemed like for the first time since they had met his words were getting through to his host. This thought was dashed immediately however when he added, ‘But you’re the only one we’ve got right now.’

Robb let his head loll back in defeat at that, not dignifying it with a response. Howland had tried to have this conversation with him any number of times since the healers had finished with him. Each time he would try and guilt Robb into action, and each time Robb would feel himself spiral downwards, caught between the terror of acting, and the hopelessness of inaction. It was not a cycle he was desperate to repeat.

‘You spoke with your brother.’ It wasn’t a question, in spite of the fact that Robb had not spoken to anyone of his success in reaching Jon. His confusion must have shown on his face as Howland added, ‘I guessed as much from your reaction.’

Robb felt his brows furrow at that, the small lord’s explanation not helping him in the slightest.

‘You haven’t spoken to anyone in days. I take it it wasn’t good news?’

Had it truly been that long? It felt like only yesterday that Robb had found himself talking to Jon. Since then he had been lost in his own thoughts, unable to compare what his brother had done to his own failures. Jon had apparently made peace with an enemy of thousands of years, and was preparing to face creatures of legend after joining the Watch with nothing a scant few years ago. Robb had been given everything, and yet all he had managed to do with it was lose it. The first Stark in eight thousand years to lose the North.

Howland gave a loud cough from in front of him, drawing Robb from his thoughts, though from the concerned look on Howland’s face Robb had been lost in them for longer than he ought to have been.

‘What did Jon Snow say?’ He asked pointedly.

It took another moment for Robb to collect himself, before he answered in barely more than a whisper. ‘He brought the Wildlings south. He said the dead are marching on the Wall.’

Howland did not betray shock or disbelief at this news, as Robb had expected he would. Instead he crossed his arms and nodded shortly. ‘I had feared as much.’ 

He stayed like that in silence, his arms folded deep in contemplation, staring at nothing for a long while. Then his slightly watery eyes fixed intently upon Robb’s own, ‘If the Long night is upon us the North needs a Stark,’ He told him firmly, ‘We need you. There is no one else. You must have realised this.’

Robb, however, had reached a different conclusion. ‘Jon is as much a Stark as me. He’s been at the Wall. He’s the one you need to follow.’

Howland gave him a look that was almost wistful, ‘Jon Snow is not a Stark,’ He refuted gently. ‘He has a different role to play.’

Robb sat there in silence, and watched as Howland rubbed an old scar on his neck almost absentmindedly.

‘You are all we have,’ He told Robb, ‘I just wish…’

And with that he trailed off and made his way out of Robb’s room, leaving his unfinished desire hanging in the air.

- Sansa

A scant few years ago Sansa would have hated Greywater Watch. What with its low mouldering walls, the constant smell of damp and the lack of anything that could be considered finery. Had someone told her younger self how she was now thriving within its walls, thankful for an escape from the Red Keep and the Eyrie, she would have laughed at them and called her a liar. Yet thriving was exactly what she was doing.

It had been months now since she had arrived and she had long since settled into her place as a lady of the household. Sansa knew she would never find herself among the many woodswives who scoured the swamps on small rafts with long spears in hand with which to fish, but nevertheless there was work for her to do here.

After breaking her fast she spent most mornings sewing, mending clothes for one of the hundreds of men and women who now resided here. Once she was done with her pile she allowed herself some time to work on some more delicate embroidery, and then she would take her midday meal with Lord Reed and Rickon. He didn’t say it but Sansa could tell the man was missing his own children and it always seemed to brighten his mood to see them. 

Sansa had also taken it upon herself to do the rounds; spending a part of the afternoons with what few bannermen of house Stark remained, listening to their stories, their plans and their hopes for the future. It had been tough, at first, Northerners had never been the most approachable, and those that were left had lived through horror after horror in these last years. However Sansa didn’t think she was deluding herself when she thought she saw their lips twitch towards a smile whenever a group saw her coming.

The hardest part of the day always came with latemeal; Without fail she would take a tray of food up to Robb’s room, and sit and try to pry some conversation out of him. Often this proved to be a hopeless endeavour, but Sansa recognised in part what was happening with him. She could see the same hopelessness in him that she had felt in the Red Keep when it had become clear that no one was coming for her. Then, she too had lost appetite and spent much of her day doing very little. She imagined that the only reason, at first, that she didn’t spend her whole life abed, like Robb had taken to doing, was the constant fear forcing her to keep moving. However what had helped the most, with both the fear and the listlessness, was having people to share it with, even just Shae and Tyrion had made a difference with their kindness. Sansa was determined to make a difference to Robb, and as such she refused to leave until he had at least finished his plate.

For the past few weeks, she had thought he was getting better, he still didn’t smile, or if he did it felt like an empty gesture with no feeling behind it, but there had seemed a tad more life in his eyes. However the last few times he had visited him, he hadn’t been able to even look at her. Taking the plate she all but forced into his hands and mechanically eating bite after bite until it was empty and then setting it down without a word. She still tried, evening after evening, but nothing helped. 

Once she had finished with Robb she made a point of spending the remainder of the evening with Rickon and his wildling friend Osha. Sansa could tell the women had thought very little of her at first, as delicate as she appeared, but she had at least begun to appreciate how her presence seemed to soothe her brother. Quite often she would read aloud to him until his eyes drooped, and he fell asleep curled up against her side. Then she would gently mark the page of whatever book she had been reading and close it noiselessly, before picking him up and carrying him to his bed, where Shaggydog was always waiting, and tuck him under the furs. 

This always made her go to bed with a smile on her face, and she often thought that if only Robb got better, she would be content to spend the rest of her life here.

It wasn’t to be, however. 

-

Sansa stepped into the small dining hall, having finished her sewing for the morning, and was met with the unusual sight of Howland sitting alone at the table.

Her brother’s absence was quickly explained as she sat down and Howland told her without preamble, ‘We’ve had news from the North.’

Sansa could feel her spine stiffen at these words, but she maintained a placid facade almost out of reflex.

‘What have you heard?’

‘Several things,’ Howland sighed wearily, ‘The first of which is that Roose Bolton is dead; killed it would appear by his son Ramsay who now holds the North in an iron grip of fear.’

That was the man Littlefinger had been going to give Sansa to as a bride, and not for the first time was Sansa thankful for the crannogman’s timely intervention on their journey North.

‘The second,’ Howland continued, oblivious to her thoughts, ‘is far more dire, and will be hard for you to believe.’

Sansa was silent at that as Lord Reed gathered himself for whatever he was about to announce.

‘There is a threat rising beyond the Wall. The Night’s Watch headed by Jon Snow will not be enough to turn it back, they will need the support of the North and it wont come from the Boltons.’

‘My brother?’ Sansa asked rhetorically, momentarily surprised at the news of another member of her family before focusing on Howland’s more salient point. ‘Is it the Wildlings?’

‘No it is not the Wildlings. In fact your-’ He stumbled slightly as he searched for the words, -brother has… granted the Wildlings passage past the Wall to help guard them against the threat.’

‘But,’ Sansa felt lost, ‘The Wall was built to keep the Wildlings out?’

‘No,’ Howland refuted, cold certainty in his eyes, ‘It was not.’

She stared at him, trying to find a lie or a hint of a jest in his face but coming up empty.

‘Winter is coming,’ He told her, ‘The longest for generations, and when it arrives we’d better pray to all the gods the Wall holds firm.’

‘You’re not…?’ Sansa said, her voice hushed, ‘You’re not talking about the Long Night?’

‘Aye. I am. The dead are rising beyond the Wall. The signs have been growing for years, and the realm has ignored them. We can afford that complacency no more.’

Sansa wanted to laugh, scoff and tell the crannogman he’d spent too long in the swamps and that those stories were just tales meant to frighten children. It’s what Cersei would have done. She would have called him a liar, told him that if he was so concerned he could go support the Night’s watch himself, then she would have laughed at his foolishness. Sansa was not Cersei, she had grown up in the North on the stories of the fierceness of Wildlings, if they were running then there was something truly wrong. It was just that after so long amidst the political quagmire of the capital, watching small men murder and plot all in a struggle to take even the slightest step up the ladder of power, the idea of dead men rising seemed too far fetched.

Howland seemed to read her scepticism on her face and so he added.

‘Jon Snow believes it. And if that is not enough for you; know that he means to retake Winterfell. Whatever his reasons; to do so he needs us, he needs Robb. And I do not have the means to rouse him from his current state.’

And so I need you to do it for me. Sansa finished for him inside her own head.

She was about to reply, to tell him that for the past few days that Robb had not even so much as looked at her. To tell him that surely there was someone else who he could turn to.

She never got that far, however. As at that moment the door to the small room which they were dining in was thrown open to reveal a small crannogman, followed by two people. One of whom was enormous, large enough to rival the Hound in size in spite of his clearly malnourished figure. The other was a woman, with an axe at her side and hard boiled leather clothes that could have been a man’s. Both of whom caused Howland’s face to break into a smile of recognition. 

‘Dacey Mormont and GreatJon Umber. It is good to see you alive’ He greeted them warmly by name, partly Sansa suspected for her own benefit. ‘I hadn’t expected you for another few minutes at least. But no matter. News of your arrival was a welcome surprise. I’ve heard parts of your story already, but I thought you might retell it for the two of us.’

‘Howland.’ The huge man, now identified as the GreatJon, returned, while Dacey Mormont shot a questioning look in her direction.

Lord Reed cleared his throat, ‘Allow me to introduce Sansa Stark. We intercepted her as she was being transported North into the hands of the Boltons.’

Dacey gave her a smile at this, and Sansa curtseyed to her in response, flashing a small smile of her own in return. 

‘Sansa Stark.’ The GreatJon gave her a puzzled look. ‘Starks seem to be sprouting behind every tree at the moment. I heard your youngest brother is here too, are you both well?’

‘As well as can be, given the last few years, Lord Umber.’ she replied, eying the twisted way he was holding his limbs, the hunch in his shoulders, and the sallowness of his skin. ‘Better that you have been it seems.’

‘Aye girl. The Freys were not kind captors.’ He agreed. ‘Though I fared much worse than Dacey once they realised they didn’t need me to control my son.’ He grimaced, ‘Quite the opposite in fact from what little I’ve been told.’

Sansa couldn’t quite find the words to reply to that and found herself doing nothing but wincing in sympathy for the man. However her life since leaving the North had taught her much, and two supposed allies who appeared as if out of nowhere when they were meant to be being held captive did not fill her with confidence in her ability to have faith in their honesty. Howland seemed to trust them implicitly but Sansa felt that she needed some confirmation of her own so she directed the conversion back towards their unlikely escape.

‘So,’ She asked, ‘Howland insinuated that your escape was quite the tale.’ She didn’t glance at the GreatJon’s injuries, but the implied- in spite of the state of you- was there.

‘Aye.’ She confirmed, ‘What you must understand is that we did not escape, but were rescued. And only as an afterthought at that.’

She drew a shaky breath, ‘If you have not heard already you will soon. Walder Frey is dead. So is most of his house. They were killed, poisoned at a feast as revenge for the red wedding-’ She looked Sansa dead in the eye. ‘-by your sister: Arya Stark.’

Emotions flitted across Sansa’s mind like water over a mill. First a savage pleasure at news of the Frey’s deaths, then shock which quickly turned to anger as she registered that they were using her the name of her sister, who no word had been heard of for years, to sell their tale. She quickly got over that however, the more analytical part of her mind rolling over their claims; and she came to the conclusion that it was too far-fetched, too easy to verify as false to be anything but the truth, or at least what they believed to be.

She let none of this play on her face, as returned Dacey’s gaze allowing her own to turn sharp. ‘There has been no news of Arya since Joffrey killed my father. She’s dead.’’ She almost spat the next words to cover the way her heart had broken over the last two, ‘Why should I believe it? Why did you?’

It was the GreatJon who answered her first, ‘Now there’s the Stark in you. I’ll admit you had me disappointed for a moment there, thought you were nothing but a pretty flower.’ He nodded approvingly at her abrupt change of attitude, ‘As for your sister, I was hesitant to believe her at first, but I have no doubt it was her.’

‘She was the spitting image of your aunt Lyanna for one thing,’ Dacey continued, ‘But it was the wolf that truly left us in no doubt.’

‘The wolf…? Nymeria?’ Sansa knew Arya had chased her off not far from here all those years ago.

‘Aye.’ He agreed,  ‘That’s what she called it. It was massive; taller than I am, and leading a pack of smaller wolves. And your sister went up to it like it was nothing and just told it to leave and it did. No one but a Stark could do that.’

Sansa frowned at them. It seemed an unlikely story, but it was an odd one to tell, especially without the girl they were claiming as her sister with them. In fact it was that detail that, as she allowed her mind to turn, fed credence to their tale. Why after all make such a claim, as obviously absurd as it was, unless it was true.

‘And yet she is not here with you?’ Howland asked, echoing her thoughts, though his tone was much more conversational than Sansa thought it ought to be. If they had had Arya, how had they dared let her go.

‘She gave us the slip on our journey North,’ The GreatJon told them morosely, ‘We spent a whole day looking for a trail, but came up with nothing. And well-’ He gestured down to his ruined figure, ‘I couldn’t spend too long on the road.’

‘Besides,’ Dacey added, before Sansa could even open her mouth to begin to berate them for claiming to have lost her sister, ‘She was… I fought beside Robb and Greywind in battle, and that was terrifying, but Arya was…’ 

She trailed off, unable to quite find the words to describe Sansa’s little sister.

‘She was incredible,’ The GreatJon said.

‘She told us she spent weeks infiltrating the Twins, she fed Walder Frey one of his sons baked into a pie before she killed him,’ Dacey explained. ‘Wherever she’s been all these years, she was not idle, and I doubt there was anything we could have done to keep her with us once she had decided to leave.’

Sansa’s knees felt a little weak as the two adults before her talked of her younger sister with such awe in their voices as they described what she had done. But that didn’t stop the fire pooling in her sternum, warming her at the thought that the Freys had met their end.

‘Do you at least know where she is heading?’ She asked, ‘We could try to head her off. If she knew I was there…’

It was Sansa’s turn to trail off, losing confidence in the fact that after all these years, after what she had done in King’s Landing, Arya would even want to see her.

‘We couldn’t even if we wanted to,’ The GreatJon told her, ‘She told us she was heading south, and that she planned to kill Cersei herself, and I wouldn’t want to bet against her.’

‘She’s going to King’s Landing?’ Sansa felt queasy at the thought of the place, even having escaped it long ago. To her it was nothing but a gilded cage, full of death and destruction; not a place she wanted any of her family.

‘She didn’t say outright,’ The GreatJon told her, ‘But she dropped enough hints to make a fair guess that was where she was headed.’ He took a hard look at her face and seemed to guess her thoughts, ‘There’s no point worrying about her now, she chose her path and there’s nothing we can do to change it now.’

‘That’s right,’ Dacey put in, ‘We could send people, but as no one currently knows she’s coming it would probably put her at greater risk than doing nothing.’

They spoke together well, putting their argument together in such a way that Sansa was sure they had had this discussion between themselves while trying in vain to pick up a trail. However, whoever had been in favour of continuing the search then had clearly changed their mind since.

‘And besides,’ Said the GreatJon, with what sounded like resignation, suggesting that it was he who had wanted to follow Arya ‘You’re alive, free and the eldest surviving Stark. It must be you who we rally behind to take back the North.’

Howland gave a quiet cough pulling his attention away from Sansa, ‘That is not quite true.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dacey asked,

‘King Robb lives,’ Howland revealed, ‘But he is in no state to lead.’

- Jon 

Jon’s rage had been building with every step he took towards Castle Black. A fire fed by each new turn revealing more and more of the damage done to the Castle, The collapsed roofs. The soot blackened walls. The gate, pulled from its hinges and lying broken across the entrance. By the time he stepped through the ruined entrance into the courtyard it was an inferno raging inside of him. 

All around him the dying embers of the blaze that had gutted the castle sprung to life, growing with each passing second as he took in the sight before him.

In the courtyard standing tall above the rubble around them were five huge crosses, each hung with the grisly remains of his brothers, a black cloak draped mockingly over their skinless shoulders. The corpses of the men he had served with had been flayed pink, their faces had been ruined, noses cut off, eyes gouged out, and lips sewn together with thread. Scattered around the base of each cross, impaled on thick wooden stakes, were the bodies of what had to be every brother stationed at Castle Black in his absence.

All around the yard carrion eaters were picking at the dead; crows, ravens and rooks along with a plethora of other creatures were feasting on the slowly rotting flesh of what had once been his brothers in arms. They had scattered as the group entered the yard, but one by one they were slowly returning, half an eye on them but once again focused on their meal.

From his side he vaguely heard Ygritte’s muttered, ‘Fuck.’ But the word felt like it reached him from a great distance.

Jon could feel the fire rising inside of him, the desire to burn swelling with each passing moment. If Ramsay Bolton were in front of him Jon had no doubt that he would burn what was left of Castle Black to the ground to destroy him. The only thing keeping him grounded, reminding him that there were people and animals he cared about standing mere yards away. His huge direwolf, sensing his anguish, had trotted up beside him and leaned his huge body on Jon’s shoulder, grounding him.

With a great effort Jon clenched his fist, forcing his boiling rage down to a simmer. But still it wasn’t enough. He needed to do something, to act, to release some of the fire inside of him onto the world. Without even a word of warning and with the barest of gestures he pulled at the flames now flickering around the courtyard, dousing each macabre cross in fire and setting the bodies of his brothers, his friends, alight. As one the flock of corvids rose in fear of the flames, but many of the less mobile animals were consumed by the fire, unable to flee in time, and Jon couldn’t deny that he felt a savage sense of justice at that fate. Then, once the flames had taken hold, and the last twitches of the dying rodents had stilled he let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding and turned away, burying his face into Ghost’s fur.

It took him longer than he would have liked to regain his composure, and when he finally did look up, blinking his vision into focus, he found the faces of two hundred Free Folk staring at him in shock and fear. All of whom had taken several steps back from the renewed blaze he had set. At their head, Mance was eying him speculatively, his Valyrian steel blade half drawn.

‘Are you in control.’ Mance asked him, his tone clipped.

Jon allowed himself a calming breath before he answered, and all around him he could feel the fires rise and fall with him.

‘Aye,’ He confirmed, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand; those he could still save. At some point when he was alone, he would allow himself to mourn his brothers, all those he had unknowingly killed with his actions, but for now had had to push those thoughts out of his mind.

‘The Night’s Watch is no more. There will be nothing to discuss with them. We need rest and food, and we won’t find it here. Once we find a suitable place to camp I want to speak with every clan head.’

Mance nodded at him, sheathing his sword, ‘Alright. But I warn you, many among us will rejoice that the crows have met their end.’

‘And I can’t stop them,’ Jon agreed, ‘But if anyone celebrates this-’ He gestured to the wreckage behind him ‘-too close to me, they’re going to wish I had left them at Hardhome.’

Jon didn’t wait for a response, just turned back to the blazing bodies of the former members of the Night’s Watch. From behind him he could hear the sound of the group leaving what remained of Castle Black, Mance having recognised his dismissal and harrying them on their way. Until, in no time at all, all who remained were himself, five brothers, Edd among them, and Davos; watching their friends burn.

For the longest time they were silent, watching as the flesh was consumed, watching as everyone in their life turned to ash before them. Only when all that was left were bones, and even these had started to crack under the heat at this point, did Edd start the dirge.

‘And now their Watch has ended.’

‘And now their Watch has ended.’ The rest of them echoed back in hollow tones.

‘They came to us from White Harbour, from King’s Landing, from all over Westeros,’ Jon continued after a long beat of silence which had stretched achingly as they all struggled with the scene before them, ‘They came to us as thieves, as criminals, as volunteers. They were sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch, they protected the realms of men, and-’ Jon felt his voice crack on the final line. ‘-they did not deserve to die like this.’

Some of these men had killed him in his previous life, and he had hanged them for it. Some of these men had deserted the Watch after Jon's death. However, most of them had lived to fight at Winterfell, playing their part in shielding the realms of men in that final battle. Some of them may have even survived it; Jon didn’t know, he’d done his best to purge those weeks from his memory and now they were nothing but a blur. Whatever the case, he was certain none of them deserved death at the hands of Ramsay Bolton; and it was clear beyond all doubt that this had been his doing.

‘What will you do now?’ Davos asked the smokey air, breaking him from his thoughts.

The others looked at him with varying degrees of expectancy and uncertainty. Clearly each of them was lost, standing in the ruin of what had been their home, unsure of what paths even lay open to them. Jon for his part could see his stretch clearly before him, the only course of action he could even consider taking.

‘I will avenge them.’ Jon told him, his fiery anger having now given way to a burning cold calm, ‘I will root Ramsay Bolton out of WInterfell, and put every Bolton man to the sword.’

He met Davos’ gaze and found it filled with the same cold passion he was feeling, ‘I will save Shireen and then I will kill him for this, with or without the Free Folk.’

‘But our vows?,’ One of the men interrupted, ‘Surely after what we’ve seen…’

‘You can’t leave.’ Edd finished for him gesturing hopelessly at the ruin that surrounded them, ‘We need you here, Without Castle Black the Wall will be weak.’

‘You should stay,’ Jon reasoned, he had forced himself to detach himself from the immediacy of the tragedy around him; all that was left now was to plan for the future, ‘You should be able to scrounge enough for the five of you to survive. Plug the tunnel, do what you can.’ He pulled his cloak off his shoulders and presented it to Edd, exactly as he had once before. ‘The Wall is yours. Make sure it holds.’

‘But you’re Lord Commander,’ Another protested, ‘You’d be deserting.’

‘I will be doing what is best for the Watch.’ Jon said, ‘Or at least what little of it remains. The dead are coming, and with Ramsay Bolton and Winterfell the North will never be prepared to stop them.’

‘He is breaking no oaths,’ Davos put in, ‘His watch was ended. By one of your brothers no less. He is free to do as he wishes.’

‘I will return,’ Jon promised, ‘I know what the real fight is. But first we need men and supplies, I need you to make sure the Wall is still standing when I get back.’

In the end it was Edd who finally relented, ‘We’ll do our best. But you’d better not die before then. You’re the best hope we have.’

‘I don’t plan on it.’

- No one

A man stepped off a ship onto the docks at white harbour. At first glance you might miss him, at a second glance you would take in his messy brown hair and half inch of stubble, and tired looking eyes and dismiss him as a weary traveller glad to be back on solid ground. At a third glance, however, he would be gone entirely. In his place, though none would associate the two, was a tall man with long red hair marred by a white dragonstreak.

Jaqen H’gaar left the city of White Harbour atop a sleek black horse, heading north at the command of his god.

Chapter Text

- Sansa

Sansa paused outside the door, hand raised automatically to knock before she stopped herself. She knew that if she gave Robb even the illusion of choice he would dismiss her before she could even open her mouth. Yet she could not help the muscle memory ingrained into her very bones, and the idea of barging into someone’s private chamber unannounced still caused her to cringe with guilt. Nevertheless she pushed the door open wide, and strode into the room as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

She wrinkled her nose as she entered the room; in spite of the windows being open the air was stale and held the slight pungence of unwashed fur. Compared to the capital could still be called fresh, but it was noticeably different to the air that filled the rest of Greywater Watch. 

Robb was as he always was these days, curled in bed. His eyes were open but he was currently shielding them with his remaining hand, and as she entered he noticeably shifted away from the door.

‘Robb,’ She called softly.

However, after several moments when it was clear that this would not be enough to rouse him, Sansa let some of her frustration bubble to the surface.

‘Would you at least look at me.’ She bit out the words, harsher than she intended, but they did their job. 

Robb startled just enough that she was able to catch his eyes and hold them. That, it seemed, was enough, as once she had locked eyes with him Robb appeared unable to look away, even as Sansa crossed the room and roughly pulled him upright.

‘I bring news.’ She told him, once she had him in a sitting position, and only then did his gaze drop. ‘Good news.’ she clarified, and then stopped, perching herself on the edge of his bed and dangling that in front of him with no intention of continuing until he showed some willingness to participate in a conversation.

‘...What?’ The word was slow in coming and Robb’s voice was hoarse with disuse, but Sansa was just grateful he had spoken at all.

‘It’s the Frey’s,’ She revealed, watching as his eyes shifted into sharper focus at the name, some of his listlessness replaced with fury. ‘They’re dead. Lord Walder and the rest, any of them who were involved in-’ She hesitated not sure how to finish that sentence, calling it the Red Wedding, despite that being widely popularised, seemed irreverent.

Robb squeezed his eyes shut at the words and inhaled sharply, ‘How?’ It came out as barely more than a whisper.

‘Apparently,’ Sansa said, not quite sure how to phrase it in a way that would be remotely believable. ‘It was Arya.’

‘Arya?’ He echoed, ‘But she’s…’

It was his turn not to finish the sentence, but Sansa could fill in the blanks herself. ‘She’s been running,’ she corrected, ‘since she escaped King’s Landing. From what I’ve heard she’s picked up more than a few skills along the way.’

‘And more than a few friends if she managed to get to Walder in the Twins.’ Robb agreed.

Sansa felt herself bite her lip to hold her tongue and did not at once disagree. Howland had put her up to this; talking to Robb, bringing him the good news before using it to try and break him from his stupor. But the discretion of what exactly to tell him fell to her, and she was unsure if knowing that Arya had apparently taken on the Twins alone would be more help than hindrance. After another moment's thought, taking into account how tales of the so-called silent Stark were already circulating around the keep, she decided that Robb would find out eventually and that it would be better to hear it from her.

‘She did it alone.’

Robb stilled instantly.

‘The GreatJon and Dacey Mormont escaped with her,’ Sansa added, hoping to curb his reaction.

‘So… she freed them and then-?’

Sansa felt herself swallow, but she had committed to the truth now and there was no backing out now. ‘She infiltrated the Twins, poisoned every Frey she could get at a feast, and then freed them as an apparent afterthought.’

Robb took a moment to digest this and then slumped back into his furs hand pressed over his eyes.

‘Robb,’ Sansa told him, sensing she was fast losing her grip on the conversation, ‘Don’t you see what this means. ‘You’re alive, I’m alive, Arya’s alive, Rickon’s alive, Bran is alive.’ She had no proof of this but that seemed foolish to point out when there was no proof otherwise, ‘We’re all alive. The Stark name means something with us here to continue it. The North needs us, Jon needs us, he needs you.’

‘You’re wrong.’ Sansa barely heard the words.

‘What?’

‘You’re wrong,’ Robb repeated, ‘You don’t need me. You’re alive yes,’ Anger filled his tone, ‘But do you think that’s down to me? You’re alive because you were never with me. Mother, my army, Talisa-’ He almost choked over the word, ‘They were with me. Where are they now?’

His voice had risen to almost a shout with the last words, and Sansa felt herself flinch back.

Seeing this, Robb winced, ‘I’m sorry.’ He said spiritlessly, ‘Everyone around me dies, you’d be better off leaving me here and forgetting about me.’

Sansa felt her heart sink. Robb’s words echoed in her heart resonating with her experiences at King’s Landing. The realisation was cold, and caused her insides to twist, but at last she had an answer to how to begin to motivate Robb into action.

‘Do you want to die?’ The question came out harsher than Sansa intended it, but if she was being honest with herself that was probably a good thing.

Mutely Robb shook his head, resolute, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

‘No.’ Sansa answered aloud for him, ‘No you don’t. You wish you had died, perhaps, or at least some part of you does. You wish that they had never managed to heal you, that your injuries had simply claimed you.’

She didn’t look at him, didn’t want to see the truth written on his face. She already knew what she was saying was true and his silence was confirmation enough for her to continue.

‘You don’t want to die,’ She repeated, ‘But you don’t want to keep living. You want to fade into nothingness; death would be a relief, but it isn’t something you can seek. That would be too selfish, it would harm the people who helped save you, it would dishonour the memories of those who died for you, and it would hurt your family.’

She finally met his gaze, seeing the hollowness of her own words reflected in his eyes. ‘Am I right?’

He didn’t so much as flinch, just blinked placidly at her.

‘Am I right?’ She demanded, leaning into his space and jabbing his shoulder.

He nodded desolately, and she could see his lips forming the beginning of a question but no sound came out. He was trembling now; she could feel his legs shaking beneath the furs as she forced him to face the truth.

‘You want to know how I know this?’ She intuited.

‘Yes,’ The word was scratchy and hoarse, and her brother’s voice broke over the single syllable. 

She knew she was being cruel, putting words to feelings he hadn’t the energy or inclination to explore himself. Giving voice to the very worst parts of him, parts that he knew were there but hadn’t the benefit of hindsight to piece them all together like she had. What she was about to do next could break him, would break him she suspected. But, at least she stringently hoped this was the case, it would leave foundations on which to build.

‘I am describing what life was like for me everyday in King’s landing.’

Now he flinched, well aware that it had been his decision to leave her there.

‘That was how it felt having told Cersei Lannister that we were planning to leave. An act which led to the death of our entire household including our father. That was how it felt knowing that I was going to marry Joffrey, but knowing that I could not die because you were waging a war to get me back.’

He reached out to her, the older brother in him wanting to do nothing else but protect her from events long in the past.

She pulled away from his touch and she saw his face fall as she continued, ‘That didn’t mean I didn’t come close. Though for me it was the fear that nearly pushed me over the edge. I can’t tell if that made it better or worse for me than you; it kept me moving at least, but I was never allowed to feel safe as you are.’

‘Sansa.’ Robb croaked, ‘I… You…’

‘But the closest I came to it,’ She talked over him, twisting the knife deeper, feeling tears springing in her eyes as she relived each memory. ‘Was just before Howland found me. Our carriage had been attacked. I’d just watched the last person I had to protect me abandon me. I thought that Howland’s men were bandits, and I knew what they would do to me.’

There were tears pooling in Robb’s eyes now, shallow droplets threatening to spill down his cheeks. Sansa took a shaky breath and forced herself to blink away her own. Robb needed to cry, but she needed to be strong for him when he did. So she lifted her chin and, as she had done hundreds of times before, refused to let her tears fall.

‘I was holding the knife to my throat when someone stopped me. A few moments longer and I would have done it.’ 

She bit her bottom lip in an attempt to contain the emotions threatening to spill out of her. Robb was really crying now, fat droplets spilling over his lashes as she talked, and Sansa knew that she had to remain cold and clinical in her retelling or she would break down too.

‘Part of me still regrets that I didn’t,’ She confided. She hadn’t told anyone this, had barely admitted it to herself. ‘I can’t help but thinking that if they had been bandits I would have been too slow. If I’d managed it I would have known no different, and would have died thankful that I at least had the strength to choose my own end.’

Robb choked a little on this, his cheeks now marred by numerous glistening tracks, which disappeared into the stubble around his mouth before the tears dripped off the point of his chin.

‘I wouldn’t have known what I missed. That you were alive. That Rickon-’ Sansa felt her own throat constricting at the thought that Rickon had been moments away from watching her kill herself. She swallowed painfully and forced herself to push through. ‘That Arya is alive. All that time wishing to fade out of existence in King’s Landing, I never could have imagined this; That I’d find somewhere I could be happy.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that it will get better?’ Robb asked her thickly.

‘No.’ She denied, ‘I can’t promise that. No one can.’

‘Then what,’ Robb questioned, he looked utterly devastated. ‘Was the point of telling me that?’

Sansa had set out to get him to feel something, to force him to acknowledge some emotions and recognise that despite the fact he had suffered she had suffered too. She had hoped to awaken the brother she remembered who had gone out of his way to protect her. But she couldn’t tell him that. She had pulled down his walls, coerced him into giving her access to his heart, something he hadn’t even allowed himself since the Red Wedding. Now she had put his heart to use.

‘To show you that if you don’t act nothing will change; for better or worse.’ She decided on after a moment's pause.

‘But I can’t.’ He almost whispered, ‘I know it will only get worse.’

Sansa stood, and then as quick as she could she roughly pulled on Robb’s good arm. She was well aware that she wasn’t strong enough to pull Robb up with her own strength alone, but had hoped that the shock of her action would spur Robb into action. She was half right, as Robb allowed himself to be tugged up, out of the furs, before he promptly collapsed over Sansa.

He was thinner than she remembered, and she was surprised how unbalanced the loss of his arm had made him, but nevertheless she still struggled to support his weight. Without much grace, she forced him off her, putting him at arm's length and idly noting that they were almost of a height now. For a second they stood there face to face, then Sansa spoke.

‘Alright.’

‘Alright?’ He didn’t seem to quite understand the word.

‘If you won’t act I will.’ Sansa didn’t bother hiding the fear in her voice at the prospect. She had heard Stories of Ramsay Bolton since arriving at Greywater Watch, and she would be the first to admit the resemblance to Joffrey terrified her. ‘Jon needs us. And if I have to, I will march our forces to Winterfell and face Ramsay Bolton myself.’

‘You can’t.’ He protested, fixing her with an unblinking look, trying to determine if she was bluffing.

She met his gaze calmly, burying her doubts, ‘I don’t want to. We’ve all heard the stories about him. But if you won’t there is no one else who can but me.’

And without another word she turned and made to leave the room, leaving Robb standing there clutching at empty air.

It was only as she lifted the latch that he spoke.

‘No.’ The word was soft, barely reaching her ears. But Sansa surreptitiously allowed herself to let out the breath she had been holding nonetheless.

‘No.’ He repeated his voice stronger, ‘I’ll do it.’

There was a pause, in which Sansa turned on her heel to face him. His face was decidedly blank and he had his jaw set in a grimace. His eyes were dry but she could still trace the tear tracks on his face.

‘I won’t allow you to suffer- to die in my place.’

Not when I can die instead. He didn’t say the words, but Sansa still heard them.

-

Sansa made it two corridors away before her own emotions caught up to her. She felt her breath quicken and her pulse hammering in her chest, and she could do nothing but collapse against the nearest wall and sink onto her haunches as she did her best to ride out the wave of fear and anger her memories had brought up.

It didn’t help. The mask which she had been forced to wear in Robb’s room cracked, and she buried her face in her arms as the tears started to flow.

She didn’t know how long she stayed like that, but by the time she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder she felt wrung out and exhausted. Looking up, she found Howland standing over her, a kindly smile on his face. 

‘I don’t know what you did.’ He told her, ‘I can see it took a lot out of you, but I thought you should know it worked.’

But instead of the relief or happiness he was probably expecting, the only feeling Sansa could muster was dread. Robb was up, but her work didn’t stop there; now she had to prevent him from marching himself willingly towards his own death.

- Davos

Davos could not help compare Jon Snow to Stannis when he stood before the clan leaders to say his piece. In many ways they were similar, Stannis had been a competent commander leading his men by example and demanding respect because of his clear ability. Jon Snow held both these traits. What Stannis had lacked, however, was anything verging on charisma; he could not convince a person to fight for him through charm or clever words. Davos would have thought Jon Snow would be of a similar vein, having gotten to know him well during his time at the Wall. The former Lord Commander would never blow people away with his eloquence nor use subtle words to sway people to his side, but Davos found he had to alter his assessment as he watched Jon speak.

When he spoke to the Free Folk he spoke with absolute certainty that his path was the right one. Stannis had done the same, and while this brought many to his side it alienated those who disagreed with him. The difference, Davos decided, was that Jon Snow lit the fire of that belief in others. Stannis had commanded loyalty, Jon Snow put forth his plan, told the people before him why he thought they should join him, but gave no orders and made no demands. He showed people the road, and his conviction enticed all who listened to walk down it.

The fact that with a huge white Direwolf at his side also meant he cut a much more impressive figure than Stannis ever had. And no doubt the Free Folk still had the image of his rage at Castle Black burned in their minds.

To Davos’ surprise he didn’t even mention what he had done at Hardhome, but nonetheless when he had finished speaking the mood in the crowd around him was definitely in his favour. It was then that he gestured to Davos and bid him to speak, and Davos had another realisation as to why he was so effective as a leader. Jon Snow did not need to speak for himself when he had an abundance of respected individuals to speak for him.

His tongue suddenly dry Davos stepped forward into the gaze of several hundred Wildlings.

He swallowed wetting his mouth with saliva, then he began. ‘The dead are coming. None of you know these lands better than Jon Snow. He grew up here, and if he says that we need Winterfell to survive the coming winter I believe him.’

‘Without him,’ He continued, ‘many of you would have died at Hardhome. Thousands of your clans would be nothing more than meat in the army of the dead. He fought for you, he died for you, what would it say if you were not willing to do the same.’

There was a murmur of agreement around him.

‘But if that is not enough to sway you,’ He added, ‘Let me tell you of the man who now sits at Winterfell. A man who has taken a girl-’ He let his voice wobble as he spoke ‘-who is my daughter in every way but blood, a girl of barely one and ten.’

There was more noise from the crowd, though this time Davos could tell that while many were for him there were some dissenters. And so he hurried on.

‘You saw what was left at Castle Black,’ At his right shoulder Davos could feel Jon’s muscle’s clench at the mention, ‘Many of you might even celebrate the crows’ death. But before you do, remember that they had no quarrel with Ramsay Bolton, and yet he took pleasure in skinning them alive. Think what he would do to one of you, a people he considers to be his enemy.’

‘He is a man who enjoys hunting women and girls through the woods with a bow and arrow for sport.’ Jon put in, ‘It is said that he never makes a killing blow as he enjoys watching his hounds tearing them apart still living.’

‘He doesn’t have the men to face you, not if you remain at the Wall. But every day he lives my daughter will suffer, people will suffer, and soon enough the Free Folk will suffer as he starts to pick you off one by one.’ Davos looked at Mance as he finished, waiting for his response.

The former King beyond the Wall cut an imposing figure, dark sister at his hip, with an angry red scar over a now milky eye, but Davos met his gaze and held it while he considered his words.

‘I will not command my people to die for you.’ He stated plainly, and Davos felt his heart sink, in spite of the fact that Jon had warned him that this was the most likely outcome. However, Mance did not stop there. ‘But we owe both of you, I owe you my life; If any wish to join your cause I shall not stop them. No one shall.’

Davos inclined his head in thanks and Jon raised his voice to make it clear he was addressing everyone gathered before him.

‘Who will join me?’

It was Ygritte who spoke first, almost before Jon had finished speaking, ‘I will. And I won’t be the only one.’

The last words were delivered as a challenge, and one it seemed that many of the Free Folk could not refuse, as one by one they declared that they would be willing to follow Jon. By the time silence reigned almost as many as half the gathered clan heads had pledged their support. Jon nodded at this, and though he kept his face neutral Davos could tell from the way his shoulders had relaxed that this had turned out better than he had expected.

‘Thank you,’ He told them gravely, ‘Now go. Gather your clans. See those who will remain at the Wall settled. In a Sennight we shall begin our march south.’

-

By the time night fell the last of the smoke from Castle Black had disappeared from the sky, and their party had been whittled down to no more than thirty. With Castle Black inhospitable, and no one but Wildlings in their camp, Davos found himself sharing a meagre tent with Jon Snow and, at irregular intervals, his direwolf.

Thankfully the wolf had made a kill of a deer earlier in the day, so neither of them were lacking for food. But Davos noticed that Jon Snow still seemed ill at ease as the last of the sunlight dwindled into darkness, and the noise of men and women talking around the campfires faded.

‘You know,’ Said Davos, breaking the silence that had fallen between them, ‘I half expected you to be sharing a tent with the redhead; Ygritte.’

He wasn’t sure if he truly believed the words; the pair did seem to spend a great deal of time in each others’ company but from what he had seen of them they lacked much of what he would associate with romance.

‘It’s not like that,’ Jon refuted, echoing his own thoughts, ‘In truth I’ve never really been interested in the concept of bedmates.’ He added, as if in explanation.

‘Fair enough,’ Davos responded. He could sympathise with that. He liked his wife well enough, but from his experience a pretty woman led to trouble more often than not. Stannis and Melisandre being a prime example. ‘How many do you think we’ll have?’

This was the question he had really wanted to ask and Jon Snow cocked his head as he considered his answer. ‘I’d say eight thousand, would be a reasonable estimate. Though many of them will be women.’

‘Will that be enough?’ Davos knew Stannis had planned to take Winterfell with only six thousand, but he was also aware that Stannis had viewed his odds as long.

‘On its own? No.’ Jon answered bluntly. ‘Not If the Boltons do the smart thing and stay inside the Walls.’

‘Right.’ Davos felt there was much Jon was leaving unsaid and his silence was rewarded when Jon continued.

‘We may get more. There are Northern houses who will support us.’ He met Davos’ eyes fiercely, ‘I have not forgotten my promise. Whatever force we muster, it will be enough to distract the Bolton’s forces. I know ways into Winterfell that are unknown to all but the Starks; If it comes to it I will use them to get Shireen out myself.’

Jon paused, contemplating his own words. ‘I doubt it will come to that though. Ramsay Bolton is both prideful and impatient. If he thinks he can beat us in the field he will try.’

‘Thank you.’ Davos could feel something in him relax at Jon’s words. It wasn’t that he had doubted him, it was just that with what could be the end of life as they knew it he could easily see Shireen’s life being disregarded. He knew Stannis had been close to making the same choice after all.

‘Think nothing of it,’ Jon seemed to read his thoughts, ‘After all if I can’t or won’t save one person from a monster, albeit a human one, what chance do I have of saving Westeros.’

‘That is not your task alone.’ Davos thought that perhaps Jon had lost sight of that with the Free Folk looking to him as their saviour.

‘Isn’t it?’ His reply was soft and probably not entirely meant for Davos’ ears, ‘I think the Gods would beg to differ.’

- Ygritte

Ygritte was keeping a close eye on Jon Snow. His fall at Hardhome had hit his confidence hard; where before he had seemed almost to embrace his self appointed role as champion of the living, now he shied away from all talk of fighting the army of the dead. Instead he deflected, telling all who asked that they would have to take one thing at a time and that he would look north again only once they had taken Winterfell. And then they had found Castle Black. Walking into the courtyard to find the bodies of the crows mutilated and on grisly display. Ygritte had had to admit to herself that in that moment Jon Snow had terrified her. 

His anger had been swift and destructive and completely without warning, and she had not faulted Mance at all when he had asked him if he were in control. There had been a moment when she feared he would raze the whole structure to the ground and them along with it.

It had been days since then, and most of the Free Folk had gotten over their initial wariness, or at least acted like they had, chalking his actions up to his gift from the gods, given to defeat the Night King. Ygritte on the other hand knew where his power came from, and the fact that Jon Snow was but one man albeit an impressive one. His fire was not a gift from the gods, or at least any that she knew. If Jon Snow wanted he could be a tyrant worse than the world had seen for generations and no gods would prevent that, and so she watched him carefully,trying to gauge his mood.

On the surface he seemed to be his normal self, forcing himself into conversation with her and others once he recognised their fear, and doing his best to put them at ease. To be honest it didn’t come naturally to him, but the fact he was trying and failing seemed to do more to reassure people than the act itself. However, whenever he was alone, or even in a moment between sentences, Ygritte could see the flame of anger rise in his eyes. 

He spent hour after hour drilling with his blade, repeating and re-repeating forms that at first seemed prissy and pointless until he got them to a speed that was beyond blistering. It was only when he assented to spar with others that she truly saw the benefit, as he seamlessly slid past her peoples guards in as little as two strokes of his sword. She saw, as she watched, the way that he’d pick and choose what piece of what form he used depending on his opponents weapons, their size, even how they minutely shifted their weight. He was nothing short of deadly, and yet still he honed himself to a sharper edge.

The sparring was common knowledge, and several people had tried to get him and Mance into the ring; the latter refused every time and Jon had not forced him. However, what most people hadn’t noticed was the way fires flared in his presence. The way that everyone had to shuffle back a foot whenever he joined the circle around the campfire. The way that meat cooked too quickly whenever he was near, sometimes burning if it wasn’t being prepared under a watchful eye. Mance had noticed, she could tell by the way his eyes followed him whenever he was too near the fire, and she suspected that was among the reasons he was wary to meet the others blade, but none others had that she could discern. Not even Jon Snow himself.

It was only when they were walking side by side, several rabbits in their hands from a successful hunt that she broached the subject, confident that Jon would be more open with only her eyes to hear him.

‘Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?’

He looked at her for several seconds, caught off guard by her question out of the blue, and she added in explanation,  ‘You’re angry. I’ve seen you angry before, but never like this. Never for so long.’

He turned away from her, but not before she could see the fire rise in his gaze once again. For a long moment he looked south.

‘Aye. I’m angry.’  

‘But not just at this Ramsay Bolton.’ She had noticed that his drills often descended into what could only be described as self punishment, as he worked himself into the ground.

‘I’m plenty angry at that bastard,’ He bit back harshly. Then he sighed heavily, ‘But you’re right, there are others who must share the blame for Castle Black.’

‘Yourself included?’

He gave a grunt in response but Ygritte couldn’t tell if it was meant to be agreement or disagreement. 

‘You can’t control the world,’ She added, ‘I know you were sent that message, but you had to save my- our people. And how could you have known what was coming, I could tell from your reaction you hadn’t foreseen it like you did Hardhome.’

He turned to her, and there was something broken in his eyes. ‘But I could have known it was coming. I knew how Ramsay Bolton operated, I knew he was insecure about his hold on the north.’

‘That’s a lot to know considering you never met the man.’

He caught her gaze, and for a moment it felt like he was weighing her very soul, for an instant he seemed to swell with something as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice and was about to take a step. Then he deflated, ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

Even he must have realised how empty those words sounded, but his face gave nothing away.

She was about to call him out on it, to demand he share some of whatever burden he was holding, but at that instant Jon stopped in his tracks, going stock still. The only movement she could see from him was the swaying of the rabbits in his hand. Then out of the forest, true to his name, Ghost appeared as though from nowhere and fixed Jon with his crimson gaze.

The moment stretched, and something seemed to pass between the pair before Ghost sharply turned his head away, and disappeared, as noiselessly as he had arrived, back into the undergrowth.

When she looked back at him Jon’s face had broken into an almost canine smile.

‘Good news,’ He told her, ‘It seems that it won’t be us alone who wish to take Winterfell. My brother and three thousand Northmen are going to join us.’

And with that he strode off towards the camp, ‘We’d better let the others know.’

Ygritte hurried to keep up with him, feeling as though she had missed her chance to find out exactly what was going on in Jon Snow’s head. He had his prey in sight now, and from experience she knew that meant he would have no time for his own problems until he had them in his jaws.

Chapter Text

- Arya

Arya entered the capital at midday, unobtrusively slipping through the main gate among the throngs of people. She was unusual, if only for the fact that she was entering the capital not leaving it like most she saw. Otherwise she was completely unremarkable, wearing a face no one would recognise; a thin face girl with mousy brown hair who no one would look twice at. A girl whose name was Lillian.

She had gathered from the people on the road that many were leaving King’s Landing due to the recent destruction of the Sept of Baelor, with what people whispered was wildfire. According to rumour, which most likely held the truth, Cersei Lannister had ordered it to kill all who opposed her, including the high Septon and his army of sparrows. Apparently they had forced her to walk through the streets naked, a sight Arya was glad she had missed. However she wasn’t able to get much more detail than that, apparently there were tales of a monstrous man roaming the streets and killing any who spoke of it, and even outside the city many were unwilling to chance fate.

It was almost Ironic, she mused, that the Lannisters had destroyed the Sept of Baelor. In her mind it had always been a symbol of their power; It was where they had executed her father after all. If she believed in fate and omens she would have amused herself with the idea that the fact that they had destroyed it themselves foreshadowed their own coming fall from power. However in spite of all her thoughts, nothing prepared her for the ruin she found where the huge building had once been.

There was absolutely nothing left. Only a ragged scar in the landscape of the city, a gaping wound that no one seemed willing to fix. For hundreds of yards, in every direction from the former sept, Arya could see signs of destruction; shutters had been shattered, walls collapsed onto themselves, and roofs caved in under the flying debris. Almost three hundred paces from the site of the explosion the huge bell that had once hung at the top of one of the towers lay half embedded in the street.

-

Having spent most of the day wandering the city, and with night rapidly approaching Arya set herself to the task of finding lodgings for the evening. It turned out to be a much more difficult process than she had imagined as, though money wasn’t an issue, what with all she had lifted from the Freys at the Twins, she struggled to find somewhere she would consider suitable. Much of the city was slums, and even though she was sure she could find a room without much effort, she doubted she would be anywhere near at ease, especially with the face she was currently wearing. She tried several of the higher class establishments, but many had been closed recently, and the remaining ones turned her away at the door, taking her for a street rat in spite of the fact that she had flashed a coin or two in their direction.

In the end she was forced to choose a seedy looking place at the very bottom of the street of steel, that despite its looks offered more than anything else she had seen that evening. It was run by a portly woman and her brutish looking husband. Though Arya could detect a hint of worry in his gaze as he watched her negotiate with his wife that, accompanied by his glance over her shoulder at the darkening alley behind her, betrayed the fact he was not as thuggish as he appeared.

In the end room and board cost her three silver stags, an exorbitant amount, but judging by the woman's attitude she would get no better deal anywhere else.

‘You’re paying up front,’ The woman told her severely, and all Arya could do was give a timid little nod in return. It was what the girl she was pretending to be would have done. 

Then out of a pocket on the inside of her jerkin she pulled out the small purse she kept sparsely stocked for her day to day transactions, and made a show of counting out the coins.

Having watched her do this and taken her money the woman’s face softened some.

‘Your room is the first door on the left up the stairs.’ She told Arya, ‘I’ll bring you food to break your fast in the hour after the morning bell tolls.’

‘Thank you.’ Arya responded gratefully, making her voice thinner and reedier than perhaps was entirely necessary, before trudging up the stairs and into her room.

Weary from the day's travel, and longing for the relief of being in her own skin for a change, Arya bolted the door as soon as she entered her meagre room. Then pulling at the almost invisible seams at her neck she pulled Lillian’s face free and tucked it carefully into her satchel. She had never quite gotten used to that feeling, the way the echoes of the person she was impersonating flowed out of her leaving her feeling empty and alone. At the house of Black and white they would have taught her not to question how their magic worked, but she suspected in hindsight that the reason that they were so insistent on becoming no one was to allow those echoes to fill her up completely to allow for near perfect mimicry.

Stripping down to her underclothes she carefully inspected the bed for any sign of infestation. Thankfully finding none, she began to take stock of her possessions. Two knives, one of which she placed under her pillow the other she stashed in the drawer by the bed. Her satchel, full of faces and the potions and herbs she needed to make them. A heavy cloak tied to the side of her shoulder pack, with needle carefully concealed inside; this she leaned against the bed in easy reach once she lay down. And finally the pack itself, filled with smoked meats and tough biscuits which she could ration for a week or more if needed, along with her true money bag still nearly full of her stolen gold dragons along with some smaller denominations.

Confident that everything was there, she carefully repacked the bag and placed it under the bed, and only then did she allow herself to settle down under the thin covers and seek the comfort of sleep.

-

Arya woke, as she usually did, alert, hand already reaching for the dagger under her pillow. It took her less than a second to identify the sharp knocking on her door as what had broken her slumber, but a few more to allow herself to relax, as she remembered where she was, and that the noise was not a threat just the woman who ran the place telling her that there was food for her.

Feeling well rested for the first time in weeks, Arya called back carefully. ‘I thought you’d bring it after the bell?’

‘Ah sorry lass,’ The woman called back, ‘There ain’t no bell anymore. I still haven’t gotten used to it, so I still tell people that out of habit.’

Having seen the wreckage of the bell herself Arya could accept that, and said, ‘No problem. If you could leave it outside the door, I just need a few moments to dress.’

‘Of course,’ Came the reply, accompanied by the sound of a tray being set down, ‘Don’t be too long though or it’ll get cold.’ And with that her footsteps receded further down the corridor.

It took Arya ten minutes to dress and apply the face she had been wearing yesterday, Lillian's features moulded carefully over her own, and when she did finally get round to eating the cooked grain she had been provided for breakfast it was merely lukewarm and threatening to congeal. However, not one to waste food, Arya ate it quickly, and mopped out the bowl with the hard bread crackers. 

Following her meal she collected her possessions, and made her way unhurriedly down the stairs.

‘Will you be staying another night.’ The voice was deep and sounded a little hoarse from disuse, and Arya felt herself tense, though she ensured that there was no noticeable change in her posture.

‘I’m afraid not,’ She answered, turning to find the woman’s husband sitting behind the counter. ‘I’m hoping to find work in the keep.’

‘I’d look elsewhere if I were you.’ He told her, his face darkening, ‘Nothing good up there these days.’

Arya gave him a polite nod, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

He gave her a once over, looking her up and down, concern flashing behind his heavy features, but said no more. And with another little nod Arya left behind the desk as she stepped out onto the street of steel.

It was as she was passing the shop at the very top of the street that she saw him. The flash of a familiar face disappearing into a doorway. Arya knew she shouldn’t stop, she needed to get into the keep and it would be easier earlier in the day as she knew the nobles inside had a tendency to rise late. However if it was who she thought it was then she couldn’t help herself from wanting to see him.

She turned, and for a moment dithered at the door, knowing Lillian would never have reason to enter an establishment like this, but then she stepped in.

Almost immediately she came face to face with a broad shouldered, bald headed man. He greeted her with a suspicious yet warm smile as she peered over his shoulder to confirm what she had seen. 

She had been right. Looking almost the picture of the day she had last seen him, aside from the scratchy beginnings of a weak beard, was Gendry. She very nearly called his name, but caught herself at the last moment. As it was he hadn’t yet noticed her yet, not that he would recognise her now, since he was too busy stacky swords.

‘You don’t look like you're in the right place miss,’ The bald man told her, drawing her attention away from her former friend. ‘I doubt you’re wanting armour or steel.’

‘No,’ She agreed in Lillian’s thin voice, ‘I wasn’t Ser, sorry, I just thought I saw a friend of mine, is all. I must have been mistaken.’

His smile turned into a half laugh as he followed her gaze to Gendry, calling to him as he did. 

‘Looks like you’ve got another one lad.’ He told him with mirth.

Gendry looked up, catching her eye and she could see the faintest hint of pink tinging his cheeks, as she realised what exactly the bald man was implying.

‘That’s not-’ she protested, resolutely keeping the blush off her own cheeks. ‘I mean…’ She trailed off aware that there was very little she could say in her defence given neither of them could recognise her.

‘It’s alright lass. He gets it often enough.’ He told her. ‘You’d think he would be used to it by now. Though if you could wait until he’s not working to look, I’d appreciate it. He’s a good lad, but does better without the distraction.’

Feeling mortified, along with a twinge of something she could place Arya nodded quickly, ‘Of course Ser. I’ll be on my way.’ 

And with that she all but fled the shop, making straight for the hidden entrance to the Red Keep that she knew would lead up past the dragon skulls. After that travesty of an interaction she almost preferred the idea of sneaking through a castle of Lannisters. However, whatever the circumstances she had seen Gendry, and against all the odds it looked as though he was doing alright.

- Jaime

Jaime’s first thought when he saw the smoke rising from King’s Landing had been panic. He hadn’t been sure at first why it had closed around his chest so suddenly constricting his ability to breath until he recognised the pungent smell and chemical taste in the air; one that was only caused by wildfire. It was then, as he thought a fear of more than twenty years had been realised, that his legs had turned to jelly and his vision had blurred.

He couldn’t recall what had happened in those next few moments, but the next thing he had been aware of was being bent double, leaning against a tree as he gasped for breath. It had taken a long time, too long, if he were being honest with himself, to ground himself, to remember that he was no longer in the court of the mad king. Bronn had laughed himself silly afterwards, but his gaze had been full of a judgemental sort of understanding nonetheless; the man had been a mercenary too long not to recognise the symptoms of panic, and he was smart enough to guess the cause of his.

Once he had managed to put himself together, the two of them left the rest of their infantry men behind as they galloped full tilt towards the city, determined to find out what had happened.

The truth was both better and worse than he had imagined. When he had first caught the scent of wildfire on the air, he had been worried that there would be no city left for him to find, and the relief he felt when it became clear that it was just the Sept of Baelor that had been destroyed could not be understated. Cersei also viewed it as a great victory, since in one fell swoop she had eliminated every single party opposing her rule in the capital. However it had come at great cost, hundreds if not thousands had died as a result of the blaze, including his last and sweetest son Tommen who had apparently taken his own life upon seeing the destruction.

Jaime up until this point had pushed most of the details to the back of his mind. His whole being had been focused on finding out if Cersei was alright and it had taken until now to reassure himself that she was fine and that she was right in her assessment of the threats to her person. Now though he was drilling in the privacy of the tunnels beneath the keep, his woeful swordsmanship doing little to distract him from the thoughts which were slowly creeping back into his mind.

Sweaty and exhausted, knowing that his bladework was still well below par but unable to do anything to change that, Jaime gave it up as a bad job. With a disgusted grunt he threw his sword aside in frustration and watched as it disappeared into the darkness of an adjacent tunnel. He considered leaving it there, but the baser instincts about weapon upkeep drilled mercilessly into him by his father in his youth stopped him, and so instead he took a breath to calm himself. Then he took another, wiping away the sweat that had collected on his brow as he did, and stepped around the corner to pick up his blade.

He was somewhat startled to come face to face with the skull of what could only have been Balerion the dread, not having realised how far down he had delved below the keep. It took him another moment to realise that he was not alone in the room, in fact sitting on the bench looking as startled by his sudden appearance as he was by hers, was a girl.

‘What are you doing down here?’ The words were out of his lips before he’d even had time to think them. The girl, a slip of a thing now that he looked at her, flinched at his voice.

‘I’m allowed to be here, millord.’ She said, her voice slightly slightly tremulous, ‘There are no rules against it, I checked with the kitchen head.’

So she was a kitchen girl, not one he had seen before, but that wasn’t saying much. He had never made any sort of effort to remember any of the servants in the keep. 

He allowed himself a sigh and bent down to pick up his sword. ‘I wasn’t reprimanding you,’ He told her, putting a hint of exasperation into his tone, ‘I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone else down here.’

‘Oh,’ She smiled tentatively at that, before catching his eye and looking hastily at her feet, but not quickly enough to hide the slight blush. ‘Well milord I like to come down here and look at the skulls. It helps me think.’

‘Right,’ He said, turning to take in the enormous head, and doing his best to ignore the emotions playing across her face, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

She gave him a curtsy in thanks, and Jaime couldn’t help but think that had it been Cersei in his place she would have insisted on a deeper show of genuflection. He wasn’t Cersei though so instead he simply turned and left the corridor, wasting no more of his time on a girl who was interested in dragons. Thinking about it, Cersei would probably have censured her as well, his sister was paranoid of any who might threaten her, and the whispers of the Dragon Queen to the east would surely have caused her to question the girl's loyalty.

Jaime ground to a halt, not fifty paces from the skull, if he had given it any thought he would probably have been thankful that he had already turned the corner and was out of sight. But as it was, his last thought had triggered something in his mind, and what had followed had almost been like a dam bursting. Everything he had been trying to ignore since his return to the capital flooded his thoughts.

He could no longer willfully ignore the similarities between Cersei and the Mad King. Her paranoia was remarkably similar to how Aerys had acted in those last few years. He had always known that she had the capability for great cruelty, but if what she had told him about what she had been doing, was still doing, to the septa in the dungeons was true then it had progressed to near sadism.

However between them he knew he wasn’t the clever one. She was his perfect mirror, the poisoned dagger to his sword, he himself knew he had been beyond heartless in his actions to retake Riverrun, how could he condemn Cersei for the same. The woman had walked her through the streets of the capital naked, if anyone deserved what Cersei was doing to her she did. Jaime doubted he could have done the same, but then if he had been around the septa would have been dead upon his sword the moment he laid eyes on her. And as for her paranoia, that Mad King had seen enemies everywhere, mostly imagined. Cersei on the other hand truly did have enemies everywhere, so any paranoia on her part was in all probability perfectly reasonable.

All those similarities were coincidence or simple products of the wars that had ravaged Westeros since Robert had died. The thing that truly bothered him was her use of wildfire. Though he knew it wasn’t just the substance itself which bothered him, Tyrion had used Wildfire to repel Stannis’ forces and he’d had no problem hearing that. No, it was the fact that she had used the very Wildfire that the Mad King had ordered placed himself, and that she had not used it only on soldiers but ordinary people as well.

It was a realisation that tasted bitter on his tongue. Cersei claimed that she had had no other option, that all who could defend her had abandoned her. Which was true enough, and made him cringe with guilt at the thought he had not been there when she needed him. But even so she had timed the explosion to do as much damage as possible, and even those who were innocent or allies, such as their uncle Kevan, had been caught in the blaze. Still, he tried to convince himself that she had been left with very little choice. If he had slaughtered all those who died in battle he doubted he would think much of it, he just couldn’t help but have issues with her method. But, as she had told him, that was his problem not hers. 

His mind settled, at least for the moment, he drew a slightly shaky breath and returned to the upper levels of the keep. Still resolutely ignoring the question that had begun to tickle at the back of his mind; what would Cersei have done if she had been in the Mad King’s position.

- Arya

So that had been the Kingslayer; Arya almost hadn’t recognised him. What with his once long and lustrous golden hair shorn close and greying, his bearded and lined face, and most of all his change in demeanour. No longer was he the same man who had ridden into Winterfell as if he owned the place, now all Arya had seen was a confused man, long past his prime.

For a moment she had considered taking his face, she knew that it would be simplest to kill Cersei from behind the face of her beloved brother, unfortunately two things stopped her. The first was that she had barely made it into the keep, and knew that it would have been a reckless decision without having learnt the lay of the land. The second was that as much as she hated the Lannisters, he wasn’t on her list. She was sure that being who he was he had committed many crimes, fathering Joffrey being perhaps the worst of them, but none affected her as far as she knew. And beyond that she had thought long and hard about what Dacey and the GreatJon had thought of her, and knew that with the training she had received there were probably very few people in Westeros whom, given the time, she couldn’t kill. However if she acted as judge, jury and executioner for every crime she heard of rumour or otherwise, she was well aware she could quickly slip into becoming the monster they had feared her to be.

Instead she had put on the show Lilian herself would have put on; claiming permission from someone whom the Kingslayer was unlikely to follow through with, and acting the blushing maid that from his expression she was sure he would quickly put out of his mind.

After giving him a few minutes to leave, Arya began to refamiliarise herself with the keep. It took her several attempts to find her way into the maze of secret passages in the walls, working as she was from the half remembered memories of youth. However once she had found an alcove with the tell tale grooves in the stone belying a hidden door and made her way into the dusty passage, she was forced to work on intuition alone. And so, with silent steps which still left noticeable prints in the dusty floor she made her way up towards where she knew Cersei would reside.

It took her the better part of two hours, and more than once she found herself at a dead end, or pressing herself against a wall when she heard a rustle of movement, unable to discern if it came from inside the passage or out. This alongside the fact that she resolutely avoided any passage which showed signs of regular use unless she could find no other path meant that, by the time she had found her way to a crawl space overlooking the royal apartment, she was filthy. And despite the fact that she was probably a mere two hundred yards from her start point and had only covered at most ten times that distance her calve muscles were cramping from being forced to navigate the tight spaces. However all discomfort was driven from her mind as she watched Cersei Lannister sweep into the room, followed by a weaselly little man she didn’t recognise and a hulking great behemoth that could only be the Mountain. With barely a breath to dispel the adrenaline shooting through her veins, Arya settled into as comfortable a position as she could find to watch and listen.

‘You’re grace.’ The unknown man said, his voice gentle, ‘The mood in the city is worsening. There simply isn’t enough food to go around, and with winter coming fast the likelihood of riots grows.’

Cersei turned, allowing Arya a glimpse of her face for the first time, and she was shocked to see how pinched and ragged she looked. It wasn’t just her now short hair, or the bags under her eyes, Cersei looked fraught and was biting worriedly on her lower lip and wringing her hands in a show of anxiety the like of which Arya had never seen in her. 

‘It cannot be helped.’ She told him severely. ‘Tell me, what news of the kingdoms.’

‘The Crownlands, the Stormlands and the Riverlands are ours, your grace. Though we will need to do something to ensure we maintain order there since the Freys…’ He trailed off deferentially as Cersei waved him away.

‘Yes, yes, you told me what happened. Have your little birds found any news about who the culprit was?’

‘Ah.’ The man seemed to hesitate. ‘Only whispers I’m afraid. Though the most consistent one is that and I’m quoting here ‘winter came for House Frey.’’

‘The Starks?’ Cersei asked, and Arya was gratified to see the twist of fear that flitted across her features. ‘But they’re gone.’

‘Yes your grace,’ The man demurred, ‘Though that is what I wished to speak to you about. I received this raven today.’ He pulled a tightly furled scroll from the innermost pocket of his robes and handed it to her to read.

She gave in a quick once over and looked up sharply. ‘Is this true?’

‘As far as I am able to determine it is.’ The man confirmed. ‘Though news from the North is most difficult to come by.’

Arya felt herself leaning in as the conversation turned towards her homeland. 

‘Then this is a boon.’ Cersei decided. 

The other gave her a politely confused look and Cersei leapt into an explanation at once, seemingly eager to display her thoughts.

‘This says Ned Stark's Bastard brought Wildlings through the Wall and destroyed the Night’s Watch?’ The man nodded though Cersei hadn’t waited for a response. ‘Well to me it seems that the Night’s Watch is no longer needed, since their only role was keeping the savages out which is now a moot point. And as for the Savages and the Bastard, they can throw themselves against Winterfell and we can put the whole thing out of our minds.’

‘That appears to be a wise decision, your grace.’ The man agreed. ‘Shall I take it upon myself to send a reply to the Bolton boy that the aid he requests will not be forthcoming.’

‘Yes do.’ Cersei told him, ‘Remind him that the Lannisters gave him the North, if he can’t keep it under control then perhaps we should have given it to someone else.’

‘Of course.’ He bowed. ‘If that’s all, your grace.’

Cersei gave him a wan sort of smile and nodded ascent, but just as he was turning to leave she called him back, taking one of his wizened hands in her own.

‘Qyburn.’ She almost whispered. ‘Thank you… for being the only person in this wretched city I can trust.’

The man, now revealed to go by Qyburn, gently extracted his hands from hers. ‘I live to serve.’ He told her and, with light steps, he departed, leaving Cersei alone once again apart from the silent hulking figure beside her.

Only once he was gone did the smile slip from Cersei’s lips; quickly replaced by a frown as she contemplated the space he had just vacated.

She turned to her monstrous guard, ‘Ser Gregor.’ She asked with a cold sort of sweetness. ‘If I asked you to kill him would you.’

The mountain didn’t move an inch, save for a slight inclination of his head which Cersei apparently took as agreement.

-

Arya spent the next several hours squashed in the small tunnel, observing Cersei, but she did very little but sit and stare out the window sipping on a glass of red wine to pass the day. It was during this time, as she watched, that she thought over all she had heard. 

It was pleasing to hear that the Frey’s deaths had been noticed but remained a mystery, doubly so that it worried Cersei. On the other hand, she didn’t quite know what to make of the news that apparently Jon, and hadn’t that been a surprise when Cersei had mentioned him, had abandoned the Night’s Watch and joined the Wildlings. Over the years Jon had never been far from the back of her mind, but she had still viewed him as lost, in much the same way she had viewed Sansa. He had been tied to the Watch and she knew, or at least thought she had known that his duty to them would always come before her, and moreover it would have been unfair to put him in a position where he had to choose in the first place because even if he would have chosen her he’d have been killed for it. 

The report that Jon had abandoned his vows and destroyed the Watch seemed wildly out of character. Then again, people changed over time and it had been years since she had seen him; she doubted he would have believed her capable of killing a feast hall full of Frey’s in cold blood if someone had told him.

Whatever the truth, it had her thinking about what she wanted to do once she had finished her list. Before now, she hadn’t really given it any thought, only having the vague notion that she would travel the country; she'd even entertained the thought of returning to the House of Black and White if Westeros held nothing for her. But now… now she had somewhere to go once her list was complete. To the last surviving member of her family. It was a pleasant goal to have, after the path she had been on.

-

Once her legs had well and truly seized up and Arya could take no longer without stretching she carefully extricated herself from the crawl space and out into the wider tunnel that adjoined it. Finding an alcove that was out of sight but still large enough to stand in she carefully put herself through a series of stretches designed to get her blood flowing, and when those failed to relieve all the stiffness she spent the next few minutes massaging her calves with her fingers. 

Arya allowed herself a hiss of satisfaction as the final knot in the muscle loosened, then stepped out from the alcove into the corridor, planning to retrace her route back to the dragon’s skulls and find a servants quarters in which to spend the night. She was forced to stop short, however, when she found herself face to face with a grubby little street rat who looked no older than ten. 

In a moment they observed each other, assessing their respective threat, then almost before that moment was over he had turned to run. Unfortunately for him Arya was a hair faster and had already pounced, pulling him into a chokehold before he could even think of screaming.

As she waited, muscles tensing and shifting in response while he kicked and screamed and clawed trying to break her hold, she couldn’t stifle the thought that this would mean a change of plan was in order. Then with a final aborted twist against her he went limp, leaving Arya to contemplate his unconscious form as the dust started to settle around her.

Chapter Text

- Sansa

Sansa stood there shoulder to shoulder with Dacey as the GreatJon bit down hard on a thick leather strap that didn’t quite muffle the agonised noise he made as the bone in his arm snapped. 

It had taken six men to do it; five to hold him in place and another to actually apply the force necessary to break the crooked limb. And once it was done he immediately spat out the gag and grimaced heavily as the healer prodded at it with gentle fingers, assessing the damage. Then with quick, precise movements she set and bandaged the arm, before putting it in a sling to hold it immobile against his body.

‘I’d have liked to have seen to the other arm too.’ she told him bluntly when he enquired as to whether or not she was done with him, ‘But I can appreciate that you want at least one working hand. Nevertheless, as soon as this one is done healing, in about two moons, we’ll deal with it.’

She spoke over his protests before they could even begin, ‘I don’t care if there’s a battle to fight. The longer you leave something like this the worse it gets and the more chance of complications. As soon as we can, we fix it.’

‘Fine.’ He replied grumpily, ‘As you say. Anything else you want to fix while you’re here?’

‘No.’ The healer replied, raising a brow archly at him. Sansa couldn’t help admiring the cool demeanour which she displayed as she did, ‘But I would recommend milk of the poppy. The first night is always the worst.’

‘Bah,’ the GreatJon spat, ‘I can deal with the pain. I managed alright the first time, and that was under much worse hospitality.’

At this Sansa took her cue to step forward. Strictly she didn’t have to be here to see his wounds being tended, but she had taken it upon herself to do so anyway. He had fought and suffered for the Starks, it would be wrong to turn a blind eye to his pain just because she could, and it was not like Robb would even think to in his current state. Also, she had experience with northern stubbornness, and knew a few honeyed words from a pretty face could do wonders to help those that refused to help themselves.

She took his good hand and met his gaze with her own, as the healer bustled out of the room, obviously wanting to check on her many other patients. 

‘But you don't have to,’ She argued placidly, ‘It will heal better while you sleep and milk of the poppy would help make that easier.’

He gave a grunt in response, and twisted his hand out of her grip, jostling his sling as he did so which caused him to let out an involuntary hiss of pain.

‘I doubt it would make all that much of a difference.’ he argued back, his expression dubious.

Sansa gave him a ghost of a frown, ‘Would you at least consider it. I don’t like to see you in pain if you don’t have to be. I’ve seen enough of that for a lifetime.’

He glanced down at his feet and chewed on his tongue in apparent indecision for a moment.

‘Alright,’ He acquiesced, albeit extremely grudgingly, ‘If it would make you feel better my lady.’

‘It would, Lord Umber.’

‘Have someone bring me some then,’ The GreatJon said, ‘And off with the two of you, I don’t need you fussing over me.’

Sansa exchanged a glance with Dacey, and in silent agreement they both gave him their goodbyes and left him alone waiting for the medicine. Though as they left the room Dacey couldn’t help but throw a parting jibe over her shoulder.

‘And here I thought you enjoyed our company,’ She groused, turning to Sansa, ‘I should have known better, we’re too pretty by half for the likes of him.’

‘Perhaps.’ She acknowledged, allowing herself a wry twist of her lips as she did.

‘Aye,’ Dacey continued bashfully, ‘You agree. You're just too polite to say it.’ She stopped then, now that they were beyond earshot of the GreatJon’s room, and put a hand on Sansa's shoulder, suddenly more serious. ‘And thank you for getting him to take the pain relief, he’d never have done it without your encouragement.’

Sansa caught herself glancing down at the floor to hide her smile and stopped herself, allowing Dacey to see it spread across her face. It had been too long since any joy she felt had to be hidden and she still struggled to stop herself concealing it, having to remind herself that no one would punish her for it. 

‘It was the least I could do,’ She answered, as the two of them continued down the corridor, ‘And it was no trouble.’

‘Aye, you seem to have a gift for persuasion.’ Dacey said, then she added in a careful tone. ‘I take it you did something similar with Robb.’

‘In a way, yes.’ Sansa agreed, feeling the smile slide from her face, ‘I got him out of his room at least. Though I confess I haven’t seen him since.’

In a reversal of the previous state of affairs it was now Sansa who couldn’t face Robb, and so she had been avoiding him, not wanting to see exactly what her words had done to him, and how they had changed how he saw her. Though from what she had been able to tell he had also been avoiding her, as she had seen neither hide nor hair of him even when Howland told her that he had been traversing the keep to aid with mobilisation of what remained of their army.

‘I have.’ Dacey admitted softly, ‘He was much changed.’

Sansa felt her stomach flip, ‘In what way?’

‘It’s hard to say. He was never a man of many words in the past, but he would always listen and then pass judgement with both eloquence and authority. Now… he watches all the same, but trying to get him to speak his thoughts is like pulling teeth.’

‘That is to be expected.’ She said slowly, ‘His choices led him to his fall, so now he fears making them all together.’

‘I see.’

‘Does he-’ Sansa started, stumbling over the words slightly, ‘Is he still a competent leader?’

‘I’d say so.’ she said after a moment's thought, ‘He’ll tell others if they're making mistakes, and he has the right people making decisions for him.’

‘And what about his demeanour?’

‘That is harder to explain.’ Dacey admitted, tilting her head in consideration. ‘I expected him to be angry, to be frustrated, he’s effectively having to relearn the sword to adjust to his injuries, but he’s not. He trains for two hours at least and does exactly what the master of arms suggests or he feels he needs to do until he can’t stand, without so much as a hint of discouragement. It’s not determination that drives him either, though it may seem that way to some, he acts as though he is blind to the option of anything else.’

Sansa hesitated to speak, thinking that it sounded like Robb was doing one of two things. ‘Is he- Does it seem like he’s punishing himself?’

‘No,’ Dacey seemed confident on this, ‘I wouldn’t say so. He’s working his body hard, but he’s had to. He was weak as a kitten when he started.’

If he wasn’t punishing himself he was working towards the goal of actually fighting to retake Winterfell. She said as much to Dacey who looked unconcerned with that pronouncement.

‘He’ll be in the vanguard.’ She told her, ‘He won't bear the brunt of the fighting but there’s always a chance that some soldiers manage to slip through the lines. He’ll need to be able to defend himself.’

‘What if he doesn’t plan on being in the vanguard?’ Sansa asked her.

‘That’d be stupid.’ She dismissed, ‘With one arm he’d be weaker than most and in the melee he’d be recognised by that trait and killed for sure.’

Sansa just looked at her, eyebrows raised.

‘You think that’s what he wants?’ Dacey said, incredulous. Still Sansa didn’t answer, but her thoughts were plain as day on her face and Dacey read them from there. 

At once Dacey pulled her into a small alcove at the side of the corridor and whispered, startlingly intense. ‘Do you believe Robb wishes to die?’

‘No.’ Sansa whispered back. ‘Or not exactly. But I do not think that he would be upset at that thought of dying fighting to take back Winterfell. It would make a martyr of him and release him from responsibility without him taking the coward's way out.’

‘He is truly that bad?’

She gave a nod of confirmation. ‘You didn’t see him when he was at his worst. It was… not pretty. And as much as he pretends he has gotten better, well, he’s not that much better.’

‘Right,’ Dacey swallowed, as if absorbing that information into her worldview. Then she paused and gave Sansa a quizzical look to match the thought slowly forming behind her eyes. ‘But why are you telling me this?’

‘Well you’re a woman for one,’ Sansa answered quietly, ‘And I believe because of that you can help.’

‘Are you…’ Dacey looked half way between amused and stricken, and Sansa realised that she had picked up on an unintended subtlety of her words. ‘I’m around a decade his senior, and you’re… suggesting I what? seduce him?’

‘Gods no.’ She exhaled in amusement at the way the words sat so unpleasantly on the other woman’s tongue, but that small inkling of mirth was almost immediately broken by another thought. ‘Do you truly think me so callous?’

‘No… Well I’d hoped not at least. But you did say you thought I could help because I’m a woman.’

‘I meant,’ she hissed as a soldier passed their alcove and gave them a curious glance, before quailing under the sharp look they both gave him and continuing on his way. ‘That I felt I could approach you the most easily because you’re a woman, but that you have fought with him as well.’

‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’

‘I want you to be the voice of reason at his side. I can’t be with him all the time,’ Sansa was resolutely ignoring the fact that at the moment she couldn’t spend even a moment in his presence. Once they were on the road to Winterfell, necessity would drive them together if nothing else. ‘You can. When I’m not there I want you to remind him of me and why he needs to live.’

Dacey still looked dubious at the thought, and so Sansa pressed on, wielding her words precisely and aiming to cut as close to her heart as possible. She had asked Howland about the houses still sworn to Robb shortly after she first arrived at Greywater Watch, and she put the information he had given her then to use now.

‘You have a sister.’ Sansa told her, ‘A young one at that. Only two and ten name days old, and currently she is the only Mormont on Bear Island. You must have heard the whispers of what is coming from the North. You probably don’t know what to believe; I don’t either. But there is a threat.’

She ignored the other woman’s sharp intake of breath, at this revelation, ‘You are fighting not only for vengeance, for justice, but to return to her. You cannot leave her alone to shoulder the responsibility that should be yours.’

For the span of several heartbeats Dacey was silent, but after taking a deep breath she admitted, ‘You’re not wrong. My sister is a Mormont through and through, she would manage with the help of those around her without me, but I do not want her to.’

‘No,’ Sansa agreed, ‘and this is what you must tell Robb. Compare your sister to Rickon, remind him why you need to survive for her, plant that thought in his mind.’

‘...That I can do.’ Dacey agreed slowly, ‘But why the subterfuge, why not tell him directly?’

‘Because that wouldn’t work.’ She replied, ‘Trust me on this. I know my brother.’

‘Aye, I’ll trust you. And I’ll do what you ask.’ She gave Sansa a sharp grin, ‘It seems your time in the capital taught you something the North couldn’t, no other Stark I know would think to be so devious.’

Something in Sansa wilted at that statement but she let none of her disappointment at Dacey’s suggestion show on her face.

‘It is not a lesson I enjoyed learning.’

‘No,’ Dacey agreed sombre once more, ‘I don’t imagine it was. But it will keep you alive, and keep us alive. You know how the southerners plot, if Robb had thought more like you then maybe the Red wedding would never have happened.’

‘Maybe,’ Sansa agreed, her head drooping to the floor to avoid the other woman’s gaze.

‘Chin up girl,’ Dacey chided, a gentle smile in her voice, ‘You survived the Lannisters, I survived the Freys, that’s all that matters. Even if I’m still half convinced you’re plotting a match between me and Robb.’ 

Her jibe did little to cheer Sansa up. In fact, coupled with the words before it, it made her feel distinctly worse, ‘You shouldn’t compare my experience to yours. I was a royal hostage, you were a prisoner in a cell.’

She looked up to find the older woman’s gaze filled with concern. ‘You’re right it is different. I was a soldier in a war. I was prepared to face death or capture. You were a child, still are a child, you should never have had to face a tenth of what you have.’

‘I haven’t felt like a child since my father died.’ The words felt plaintive and whining and Sansa could barely believe she had uttered them aloud, however true they were. Some part of her had died with her father she was sure, but that was years ago now; she’d move past it, had had to move past it.

‘No I don’t imagine you have,’ Dacey conceded with a frown, ‘And you are all but the acting lady of this keep, all the while trying to pull your brother out of his misery. There are very few women who could manage that, but it doesn’t mean that you have to act like an adult the whole time. You cannot be strong all the time.’

And then with slow movements, clearly not wanting to startle her, Dacey pulled Sansa into a gentle embrace. Instantly she felt herself stiffen, unused to the feeling, but Dacey’s grip remained light allowing her to escape if she wanted. Slowly, fighting her instincts she forced herself to relax and return the other woman’s hug. And within moments she had sunk into her arms, chin resting on her shoulder, and was gripping her back like a vice.

It had been so long since she had been hugged like this she almost couldn’t remember it. It had been before the Vale, before Kings Landing, before she had left Winterfell. Her mother had embraced her in a similar manner in the hours before they had departed with the royal party. And while Dacey could never replace her mother, Sansa took comfort in the memory and the warmth of her arms.

It took a long time, longer than she would have liked, before she let go. She had to choke down a sob as she did, and almost cringed in embarrassment, perhaps would have if not for the understanding in Dacey’s eyes.

‘You seemed like you needed that.’ Dacey told her, no judgement in her voice.

‘I did,’ Sansa admitted softly, the words barely a breath passing between her lips.

‘Well I’ll always be here if you need someone to talk to. Will you be alright now, I have duties to attend to, but if you wish I will stay with you.’

‘No.’ Sansa demurred, ‘No I’ll be fine.’

‘Alright,’ And with one last squeeze of her arm, she ducked out of the alcove. ‘I’ll see what I can do about Robb.’

It was only when she was ten paces away that Sansa managed to find the words she wanted to say, and called after her. ‘Dacey. I know I gave you a task as your lady, and I should have asked before now, but do you think that beyond that we could be friends.’

The other woman threw a glance over her shoulder, ‘And here I thought we already were.’

And with that she turned the corner, leaving Sansa alone in the corridor, a warmth in her sternum that fought against the cold ache in her chest that had been her constant companion since her father died.

- Dacey

Dacey urged her horse forward onto the Kingsroad, which had miraculously appeared out of the mist a few hours before, something she was deliberately not trying to think about too hard. Behind her three thousand Northmen streamed onto the road, off the various crannogs which had been gathering around the castle for weeks. It was a relief to finally be marching, to be taking action, but Dacey’s thoughts were currently far from the coming battle; instead she needed to speak with Sansa Stark, and having seen her tell tale red hair flash ahead of her she spurred her horse into a trot to catch up.

It had been a week now since her talk with Sansa, in that time the GreatJon had been complaining of his itching skin to all who would listen (though the healers just scoffed at him and told him that meant it was healing), the last of the preparations for the march North had been made, and Dacey had done her best to help Robb as Sansa asked.

It was in this period that Dacey truly began to grasp the reality of Sansa’s fears. She had been subtle at first, likening little Rickon with Lyanna as Sansa had suggested, and made note of the tension around Robb’s eyes when she did. Each day she asked the man who she had called her king for a spar, and each day he assented. The good news was that Robb was improving drastically, the bad news was, now she knew to look for it, she could see where he was taking a blow to land one, where in the past he would have been much more careful.

However, more damning than that was his conversation, which was still, as she had told Sansa, akin to pulling teeth. The few words she did get from him didn’t tell her much, however the questions he didn’t answer were more than telling. As a point of fact Robb did not mind questions about his arm, answering queries about his reach, his balance and his lack of shield without a hint of bitterness. If there was an emotion there Dacey would have to say it was resigned acceptance; it was this that had fooled her into thinking he was better than he was before. But now when she asked the question of what he wanted after the battles were over and he refused to answer she made a note of the way his remaining hand tightened on his sword and how he refused to meet her gaze.

The worst though was when they had both finished training in the yard and she had followed him, wanting to pull a few more words out of him, to the room where a statue of his wife was being carved at his request to find him standing there holding her cold stone hand in complete silence, almost as though he were a statue himself. She hadn’t disturbed him, sensing that he wouldn’t want her to intrude on what was clearly a private moment, but it was this that had truly convinced her Sansa was correct. 

With the memory of that moment fresh in her mind she slowed her horse until she and Sansa were riding side by side on the narrow causeway that the Kingsroad became in the swamps of the neck.

‘I wasn’t certain you’d be joining us.’ She called once she was sure she wouldn’t startle her with her presence.

In truth Dacey thought it would have been wise for her to remain behind, as Rickon Stark had. She hadn’t noticed until their conversation a week ago, since to all the world Sansa was all but the second coming of her mother, but the other woman was still barely more than a girl, only a scant few years older than her own sister. She might be competent, capable and wield no small hand of cunning, but war was not the place for her.

‘I had to,’ was Sansa’s curt reply, ‘Robb needs me.’

Dacey gave a hum of agreement, hardly able to find fault with her statement, but still wishing there was some way to tell her that the burden of the war should not have fallen on her narrow shoulders as it had.

Clearly seeing Dacey wasn’t going to offer any more than that in response Sansa continued, ‘And on that note, how fares your progress on the task I gave you.’

Dacey shot a glance over her shoulder, well aware that their voices would carry to others on the road. But since Sansa seemed willing to speak to her about Robb’s matter she took her cue from her.

‘I must confess it does not go well.’ She admitted, ‘Until you told me what to look for I hadn’t realised how bad it was.’

‘A shame.’ Sansa replied in a voice that could be described as airy, completely at odds with the sharp gaze she had fixed on the auburn curls on the back of Robb’s head, fifty paces in front of them. ‘Do you feel my suggested approach is not working?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Dacey replied carefully, still talking around the topic, ‘I believe that… that it offers some improvement. But alone I doubt it will be enough. Do you have any other suggestions?’

‘For you?’ Sansa asked, still speaking as though they were discussing nothing more than summer snows, ‘No I’m afraid not.’

Dacey reached across from her reins and gave Sansa’s shoulder a squeeze. She was making an effort to be more familiar with Sansa for both their sakes. This particular gesture was one she had learned from her mother, an offer of comfort that she thought the other girl had gone far too long without, and that wasn’t to mention Dacey's own isolation.

‘You don’t have to do everything yourself, you know?’

Sansa allowed the touch for only a moment, before slipping out of her grip, and tightening her own on the reins of her horse. Dacey had noticed that while she could ride a horse, she wasn’t as comfortable on one as she might have expected. However she was rewarded for her effort with a small half smile, once Sansa had gotten her animal firmly under her control.

‘I know.’ Sansa answered her, with a hint of coyness, ‘and neither will you. My half brother Jon has a force of his own to help us take back our home.’

‘Your father’s bastard? If I’m honest I can’t recall much about him other than that Robb spoke highly of him.’ Dacey mused, ‘I thought he had joined the Night’s Watch?’

‘Yes he and Robb were thick as thieves.’ Sansa replied, ‘The reunion should do them both good.’

Dacey saw now why Sansa felt she needed to ask no more of her; she was hoping that Jon Snow would succeed in pulling Robb out of his despair, where she was failing.

‘As for the Night’s Watch.’ Sansa continued, ‘Yes he did join them; became Lord Commander according to Howland. Apparently he considers taking Winterfell his duty to the Watch, as with the Boltons there he doesn’t think they’ll be able to face the threat from beyond the Wall.’

Dacey could hear the slight tinge of scepticism in Sansa’s voice, and voiced what the other girl was obviously thinking. ‘There will be many who will claim he has abandoned his vows, not just among the Boltons but among us as well.’

‘I am aware,’ Sansa said with a sigh, ‘but I’m hesitant to bring it up with Robb and Howland assures me that there is nothing to worry about in that regard.’

‘I notice that doesn’t stop you worrying.’

‘It does not.’ Sansa agreed readily, ‘But since there is nothing I can do about it now, I’ve got to focus on more important things.’ She cast another glance ahead of them, ‘Shall we go see how Robb is doing, I think this is his first time on a horse since his injury.’

And so, Dacey interpreted, they had better check on him to see how he was faring in both body and mind. 

She felt herself revise her initial assessment; she may not have liked the fact that Sansa had joined them, but it was clear that her presence was vital.

- Jon

He woke with a stifled gasp, instinctively forcing the sound down so as not to wake Davos, however he needn’t have bothered as the other man was already awake and watching him with a look of concern on his face which Jon could barely distinguish in the low light of dawn.

‘You should go back to sleep.’ Davos told him softly, ‘You’ll need all the rest you can manage in the days to come.’

‘I could say the same to you.’ Jon replied sitting up. ‘But I doubt either of us will be able to.’

‘No,’ Davos said gravely, ‘I expect you’re right. What was it this time?’

‘My siblings.’ Jon answered vaguely. In truth he had dreamed of Rickon’s death, of the cruel sport Ramsey had made it into for his own perverse pleasure. Davos didn’t ask for any more detail though. ‘You?’

‘Shireen.’ Was his succinct reply. 

Silence stretched between them, each caught in their own recollections of their nightmares, until Jon decided to break the silence.

‘We both know we’re not getting any more sleep, so we might as well break our fast. That is if you can stomach it.’

‘I’ll manage.’ Davos replied. ‘There should be some venison in the pack, but we may need some more water.’

Jon nodded in response, wrapping himself in his furs as quickly as possible to stave off the chill of the late autumn morning. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get some.’

It would be no chore, although he had only just woken, and from a poor night’s sleep at that, he could feel himself brimming with restless energy. He picked up the empty waterskin and hurried out of the tent to the meltwater stream that they had set up camp by. The water was freezing as he held the skin under the current to allow it to fill, and within moments he could feel his fingers going numb. Usually he would have been more careful, knowing that frostbite was an all too real threat, but this time he welcomed the feeling, or lack thereof. 

He was burning with the desire to act, and now they were only a day’s journey from Winterfell the anticipation was stronger than ever. The cold soothed him, and held no true danger to him; not with the way his blood had been boiling beneath his skin ever since finding Castle Black, and so he stayed like that for a minute, basking in the feeling. With the sun’s rays casting a dappled light over his face, he could almost imagine he was in the forests of the North again, before the gods sent him back.

The illusion, however, was broken as Ygritte materialised before him, roughly yanking his arm out of the stream. 

‘Oi,’ She scolded him, ‘Careful there, you’ll need your fingers later, don’t want to risk them now.’

‘As you say,’ Said Jon distractedly, not wishing to go into the details of why that wouldn’t have been an issue.

‘Here,’ She told him, taking his hands between her own, shrugging her bow onto her shoulder as she did, and rubbing them together over his to warm them. ‘Let me help.’

Jon felt himself sigh, and tugged his hands back, ‘There’s no need.’ He said, busying himself stoppering the waterskin to stop her repeating the gesture.

She hit him not too lightly on the arm in response, before stopping and giving him a thorough once over. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I didn’t sleep too well, is all,’ He replied, deliberately not answering the question. 

‘You’re full of shit,’ Ygritte decided after a moment's pause, ‘Are you worried about your brother or the Bolton?’

Ygritte it seemed was not to be dissuaded; she had been keeping a close eye on him since Hardhome, especially after they found what Ramsay had done to the Night’s watch, and he had learned the hard way that there was no use trying to hide his mood from her.

‘Neither.’ He admitted, ‘Or both I suppose. But really I’m just itching for a fight.’

‘Aye,’ She agreed, ‘I can see that. I’ve been able to see that since Castle Black. What’s different now?’

He scoffed derisively at himself, ‘Now we’re less than a day's march from Winterfell. If I wanted to I could be on a horse and at the gates before the sun had started to set.’

‘Aye,’ Ygritte said again, ‘You could. But you’d be without your army.’

And that was the root of the problem, Jon thought. After Hardhome, or perhaps after his death, his magic had only grown stronger. There was a part of him that believed that if he went to Winterfell alone, he could manage to burn it to the ground, Boltons and all. And worse, there was a part of him that wanted to.

In truth the reason he hadn't was his memories of a future not yet written, of how Daenerys had wreaked the same sort of destruction on King’s Landing, and how Winterfell had been a crucial stronghold against the dead. That and the fact that he had sworn to Davos he would save Shireen

Ygritte took it upon herself to interpret his silence. ‘You don’t think it would matter?’

‘Not for the people inside,’ Jon all but whispered back.

‘Then why don’t you?’ She asked, ‘Why not take a horse and go? Why involve us at all?’

‘You know why.’ He told her, his voice hoarse.

‘The girl.’ 

‘Aye,’ Jon said, ‘That and if or when the Wall falls, the Winterfell is where we must make our stand.’

‘And you fear you’ll destroy it.’ She surmised. Then she added, ‘You seem pretty certain that we need Winterfell; Have for a while in fact. Did you see something?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure.’ Jon hedged, still wishing he could find some way to tell her the truth, but unable to find the words. ‘But I think so.’

‘Right,’ Said Ygritte, appearing to steady herself against that proclamation. ‘Right,’ she said again, now steering the conversation elsewhere. ‘So what’s got you down is the fact that you want to do something that will make you feel better, but can’t because it would be the wrong thing to do.’

‘In essence… yes?’ It was a rather simplistic interpretation of the knot of emotions currently warring within him, but it wasn’t exactly false.

Ygritte hit him again, this time more playful than before. ‘It seems to me you need to get your head out of your arse. Everyone has trouble choosing between their wants and needs, you aren’t special.’

‘Oh but I am.’ Jon said, his tone joking, hiding the truth he knew lay behind those words.

This time when she hit him it hurt. ‘You’re just a man.’ She told him sharply, ‘What you need to do is distract yourself. Talk to Davos, he seems sensible enough for a Southerner. Or find someone to spar with, that always improves your mood.’

‘It doesn’t generally improve my opponent’s mood though.’

‘It’s good for them.’ Ygritte said dismissively, ‘And you’ve noticed that they keep coming back for more.’

‘That they do,’ Jon agreed with a smile.

‘Now go.’ Ygritte said with a grin of her own. ‘I’m going to find some food. If Ghost has left anything for the rest of us that is.’

She was twenty paces into the forest before Jon called after her. ‘Thank you Ygritte.’

‘For what. Hitting you?’ She laughed, ‘I’m happy to, whenever you need me to.’

And with that she was gone.

-

Jon was still sporting a grin when he entered his and Davos’ tent. However, it was immediately wiped from his face at the sight before him.

Standing hunched under the canvas, which was split by a slit behind him, Davos’ body held closed against his, was a tall man with red hair marred only by a streak of white holding a slender blade against Jon’s friend’s throat.

‘Jon Snow.’ The man said, in a conversational tone and an accent Jon struggled to place, ‘Or should a man say Aemon Targaryen. A man has come a long way to find you.’

‘And why is that?’ Jon replied, his voice tight, his hand aching to draw his own sword.

‘The many-faced god requested it.’ He replied, ‘And a man must always do as his god commands.’

Chapter Text

-Jon

Jon felt his heart lurch as he recognised the pattern of the man’s speech, the dragonstreak in his hair, his empty eyes. He could see the danger that was inherent in the man’s posture covered only by the illusion of a bland smile. There was something other about the man, and Jon had seen it before in his sister whenever she got too deep into her own head, too caught up in whatever Braavos had done to her. Putting all that together a name swam into the forefront of his mind, one barely whispered across a table by his sister during one of the most distressing conversations of his life.

‘Is a man using the name Jaqen H’ghar?’ He said, hoping desperately that he wasn’t wrong, and hoping also to divert all of the man’s attention towards him so at the very least Davos would no longer be under threat. ‘If you’re here for me then so be it, just leave Davos out of it.’

The only betrayal of the surprise the other man felt at being recognised was an amused twitch of his eyebrow, and his grip on the dagger at Davos’ throat remained just as firm.

‘You are dangerously well informed.’ H’ghar commented neutrally, ‘A man was under the impression that you would have no knowledge of this face. And yet you didn’t know a man was coming?’

‘No,’ Jon admitted, ‘But I know what you are and what god you follow.’

‘You do not know why a man has come here?’

Jon felt his jaw twitch, every muscle in his body was tense in anticipation of a fight he didn’t expect to win. ‘I can only assume you’re here to kill me. If that’s the case you can let Davos go.’

‘Perhaps,’ H’ghar mused, ‘If a man offered to spare him if you gave your life willingly, would you accept?’

Jon met Davos’ eyes and saw the same calculation in them as was going on in his own head. The right answer, of course, was yes, but he could tell that was an answer neither of them wanted him to give. Davos most likely because he believed that without Jon he would lose the Free Folk and any chance of saving Shireen, Jon because he still had a duty to fulfil. It would shatter him like glass, he knew, to lose Davos but there was too much riding on him to accept such a deal.

Before he could speak Davos interjected in a carefully calm voice, ‘I couldn’t let him do that.’

H’ghar’s eyes flickered down to Davos, and in that moment Jon palmed the hilt of the long knife in his belt in anticipation but didn’t draw it. 

‘Tch,’ H’ghar tutted at the movement. ‘A man would suggest you don’t do that.’

‘What would a man suggest he do instead?’ Davos asked, still with that tight calmness, ‘You’ve slipped into our camp and made a hostage out of me, and yet you’ve yet to make any demands.’

‘A man is simply interested to hear the answer to his question.’

‘I would gladly give my life for his,’ Jon answered firmly, ‘But I’m afraid that is not a deal I can make at this time.’

H’ghar twisted his lips in an approximation of a wry smile, ‘And why is this?’

Jon took a stab in the dark, piecing together what little he knew of the faceless men and their god, and gambling on the fact that they would wish to aid him against the dead.

‘What do you know of the threat beyond the Wall?’

‘A man has heard whispers,’ H’ghar admitted, face still blank aside from his carefully crafted microexpressions.

Jon gave him a hard look, trying and failing to get a read from that statement, before continuing, ‘You have heard of the Others and that they raise the dead.’

‘A man’s god tells him many things. But a man must ask, how does this affect the worth of your life.’

Jon swallowed, ‘You named me Aemon Targaryen.’ He told him, hoping that he wasn’t wrong in his gamble, ‘My mother was a Stark, my father a Targaryen, I am the Song of Ice and Fire. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I must defeat the Night King.’

‘And yet,’ H’ghar argued, ‘You should be dead. The first role of the faceless men-’ At that admission Davos stiffened in his arms, comprehension dawning on his face alongside  a renewed fear. ‘-is to prevent the use of the ritual that restored you, and offer the life of all those who perform it to the many-faced god.’

‘And yet,’ Jon replied mirroring the other man’s words, ‘You went to all this trouble to talk to me. If you had wanted to kill me I have no doubt I would be dead and no one the wiser.’

‘True,’ H’ghar admitted, and Jon tried not to think about what the consequences might have been if he had slipped into his tent and slit his throat while he slept. ‘A man was going to kill you, but then his god spoke to him. A mere five words: Do not kill Jon Snow. A man wanted to know why.’

‘And are you satisfied with my answer?’

‘A man is.’ He acknowledged. Then he added, ‘However a man must confess that once you have fulfilled your role your life must be forfeit.’

Jon gave a rueful smile of his own, voicing a thought he had barely allowed himself to think but had persisted in the back of his mind from the moment he returned, ‘If I’m honest with you I never expected to survive the experience.’

‘So it is agreed.’ H’ghar nodded a hint of approval showing through his expressionless mask, ‘You shall have your life and the life of your friend. For now. Until it is time a man will be watching.’

And quick a flash he sheathed his knife and disappeared through the slit it the canvas with not so much as a whisper.

For a long moment the silence stretched between him and Davos as they were both consumed by their contemplation of what had just happened. Absent-mindedly the other man raised his hand to his throat, as if checking it was still there, and Jon felt himself mirror the gesture running his own fingers over the trace of the scar tissue beneath his collar.

‘So,’ Said Davos with a forced cheer, ‘That was a faceless man. I must say I’ve had better experiences first thing in the morning.’

Jon gave a grunt in response, still struggling with the possible ramifications of having a man like Jaqen H’ghar dogging his footsteps for the foreseeable future.

‘And yet,’ Davos continued, ‘You knew who he was. Should I take it this is another one of those things you just know?’

‘Aye.’ Jon admitted absently, ‘It is.’

‘Are you ever going to explain to me how it is you know what you do?’

Jon looked up to find Davos observing him with a speculative gaze. And at once he brought his attention back to the present. Davos had been patient with him, had followed him far further than any other man would dare, but Jon would be a fool to take him for granted. It was a mistake he had made in his first life with Sansa, it was not one he wanted to repeat.

‘Do you want me to?’ He asked, cocking his head at his friend. Davos was a simple man, and as much as he had seen, Jon knew he preferred to ignore and dismiss what magic didn’t affect him personally.

‘Do you want to tell me?’ Davos answered, speculatively. ‘I’d like to know, but I’m aware you have more secrets than most.’

‘Aye.’ Jon said yet again with a slight sigh at the truth of that. ‘I suppose I do. But if it’s any consolation you know more of them than anyone alive or dead, save perhaps Ygritte.’

‘You trust me.’ Davos agreed. ‘I don’t know why. Hell in your place I doubt I’d trust me, but you do. Enough to tell me of your birth even. Surely this can’t be any worse than that?’

‘Define worse,’ Jon shot back, before deciding on what to say, ‘Look,’ He conceded, ‘I’ll tell you the same thing I told Ygritte If you want to know.’

‘But not the whole truth.’ Davos surmised.

‘No,’ Jon agreed, ‘Not the whole truth. That I imagine I’ll take to my grave.’

And that would be coming sooner rather than later with the deal he’d made with H’ghar, though he supposed that was moot if he didn’t find a way to defeat the Night King; A task that seemed more impossible the more he contemplated it.

‘Alright,’ Davos acknowledged, ‘I guess I can live with that. So where do you get your knowledge?’

‘The short of it,’ Jon said, struggling to find the words. Davos was no wildling who would hear the term greenseer and jump to all the right conclusions. ‘Is that the Old Gods grant me knowledge.’

He saw Davos wince, and moved quickly to dissuade him of the notion that was obviously making its way through his head.

‘I’m not like Melisandre.’ He told him, ‘I know that the Gods are fickle beings and I trust my own judgement not theirs. But I cannot ignore their warnings.’

‘What kind of things do you see?’

‘Hardhome.’ Jon admitted. Sticking with the truth or at least as much of it as possible. ‘The battle there has been burned into my memory for almost as long as I can remember. The Night King for another; I knew his face long before I faced him there.’

Davos gave him a hard look, weighing his words. And Jon could do nothing but watch him hoping that this man would accept this. His Davos would have, but then he’d never held secrets from the man. The relationship they held now was both closer and less trusting than the one they had had in his past life

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He conceded at last, and Jon let out a breath of relief, ‘I’d be a fool not to after all I have seen. But tell me one last thing; What is the song of Ice and Fire?’

‘I don’t truly know,’ Jon admitted crafting his words carefully, aware still that he was toeing a line Daovs was more than wary of crossing, ‘What I do know is that I am the first ever true mixing of the blood of the Starks and that of Valyria. Ice and Fire. It must be me that defeats the Night King, don’t ask me why but I know it is true.’

‘Hard to do when he can all but kill you with a twitch of his hand.’ It was said in partly jest but Jon could hear the worry permeating the undertone of Davos’s voice.

‘Aye,’ He agreed, wondering if perhaps Jaqen H’ghar might be able to offer some advice, ‘But that will be a problem for the future. For now let us focus on Winterfell and Shireen.’

-Dacey

There was a palpable tension in the camp as Jon Snow approached. The rumours about him had been widespread and numerous, though no one could seem to decide on which of them were actually the truth.

She knew more than most of course, having discussed the man at some length with Sansa, but even she seemed uncertain of some details, and neither Robb nor Howland seemed willing to share their thoughts. What Sansa was certain of was this. Jon Snow was a sworn member of the Night’s Watch. Jon Snow had an army of Wildlings at his back. And, most pertinent of all, it had been Jon Snow who had been the one to prompt the retaking of Winterfell.

Exactly what Sansa made of these facts Dacey couldn’t tell. Having gotten to know the girl, she took no shame in saying that half the thoughts in Sansa’s mind were beyond her. Not in that she couldn’t keep up whenever Sansa did explain her reasoning in detail, but in the fact that she could see paths, problems and solutions that would never occur to Dacey on her own. Dacey, on the other hand, had voiced her opinions, on the Wildings in particular, loudly to the other girl, and on several occasions too; memories of raids on Bear Islands spurring her to the edge of anger each time.

Sansa had sat and listened to her each time, and each time, afterwards, Dacey regretted her change of tone; nothing made Sansa wilt quite like a raised voice in her face after all. In spite of this their friendship had only bloomed on the journey North, and once she had even thanked her for not treating her delicately like so many others before her. However all she would ever say on the matter was that Jon Snow trusted the Wildlings and that Robb trusted Jon Snow.

Dacey had decided to reserve her judgement until she actually met the man.

Her first thought, on seeing him, was that he was like a dark mirror of Robb. His hair was black in comparison to her king’s red, as was his cloak though it failed to hide what was clearly a set of Wildling furs, which covered every inch of his skin save his face, half of which was hidden by a coarse black beard. When he dismounted his horse she was surprised to find that she was of a height with him, or maybe even a whit taller; He looked every part a Stark, and Starks tended to be on the larger side, or at least the men did.

Beside him was his white wolf. As big as Nymeria had been in the Riverlands, if not bigger, though it was hard to say as the wolves were all so massive that Dacey felt it was only natural for their size to shrink in memory when compared to the real thing.

‘Stark.’ He greeted his brother. Did not address him as king, Dacey noted. ‘It is good to see you alive.’

The two clasped arms, and Dacey watched as it was Jon Snow who roughly pulled his brother into an embrace. For a moment Robb stood there stiffly, as if unsure what to do with the gesture, but then his remaining arm closed around his brother’s back. When they stepped apart, it seemed as though Robb couldn’t find the words for what he needed to say, and instead of even opening his mouth and trying he gave a stiff nod in Sansa’s direction, effectively passing him on to her.

Dacey watched as he took a step towards them, unsure himself now how his sister would react to his presence. Sansa had told her that she hadn’t always treated him kindly when they were children. Glancing at her Dacey found her face decidedly blank of emotion in that way she sometimes got when she was faced with a situation she couldn’t control, and she found herself reaching out and taking Sansa’s hand to offer her some comfort and a reminder that she was among friends.

‘Jon,’ It was Sansa who spoke first, her fingers gripping Dacey’s own as she did.

‘Sansa.’ he echoed, still unsure, ‘I’m-’ His voice cracked a little over the words ‘-I’m so glad you're safe. I’d feared the worst when no news came of you when…’

He trailed off, and Dacey thought she saw a hint of self recrimination in his gaze, though what it was for she couldn’t tell.

The two eyed each other somewhat nervously, and Dacey took it upon herself to interject. 

‘Right,’ She said,’ let’s get you inside before you cause a scene.’ Or more of one at least she added to herself looking at the many faces watching the reunion. ‘I imagine you want a breakdown of our numbers.’ she added to Jon Snow alone, ‘I know the king would like a tally of yours.’

‘Aye.’ Jon Snow agreed, taking her in fully for the first time, eyes catching on the crest upon her leathers, ‘If you would lead the way Lady… Mormont?’

‘Dacey.’ She offered without a smile, still reserving judgement, and led him towards the command tent.

He gave a meaningful glance at his wolf, who cocked its head to the side as if listening, before bounding back out of the camp the way it had come.

Once inside Jon Snow quickly took in the assembled group of lords, of which Dacey was the only woman save Sansa, who had followed her in. Dacey couldn’t see his face but she could see the way his back stiffened at the sight of Howland Reed.

‘Lord Reed,’ Jon Snow, acknowledged in spite of the fact that as far as Dacey was aware the two had never met. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here.’

‘I had to come.’ Howland responded with solemnity, ‘I have words I need to share with you. Perhaps once we are done in here.’

‘In truth there is little you could tell me that I do not already know.’ Jon Snow responded cryptically. A look passed between them, though Dacey could only see Howland’s side of it; the crannogman looking surprised but after a beat seemed to accept this and Jon Snow added, ‘I do have news of your children, though it is many months old.’

Howland nodded gratefully, and Dacey caught confused glances mirroring her own thoughts at this revelation. They all knew Howland’s son and daughter had not been at Greywater Watch but the man had been surprisingly tight-lipped about what they were doing.

‘Bran was with them,’ Jon Snow added this time directed at Robb, ‘I’m afraid at the time there was little I could do to aid them, but they were all well enough.’

Robb gave a shaky nod in response to this, but aside from that showed no other outward sign of emotion at the news.

Dacey took this as a cue to speak up, ‘On the topic of missing Starks. I came across your sister in the Riverlands. Or she came across me-’’

Dacey was about to continue, to tell him that she had slipped her grasp, and to reassure him that his sister had the skills to survive in spite of this. But before she could he just nodded to himself, ‘So House Frey has fallen. I take it that as she is not with you she went to King’s Landing?’

‘Aye…’ Dacey confirmed. Feeling herself shift uneasily at this. 

The lords around the room were all silent and their faces were all twisted into frowns. Jon Snow was surprising them.

‘Jon.’ It was Sansa who broke the tension, turning the conversation back to her younger brother. ‘Where was Bran?’

Dacey saw the flash of contriteness in Jon Snow’s eyes but he answered in spite of it. ‘Beyond the Wall. The North wasn’t safe for them.’

‘That’s not the only reason.’ Sansa accused, and Dacey remembered what she had told her about Rickon. How he and his brother had travelled together but for some reason that Rickon couldn’t articulate, and his Wildling protector somehow wouldn’t, they had split up before, apparently, Jon Snow had found them and pointed them at Greywater Watch.

‘No.’ Jon Snow admitted. ‘It was not.’

There was too much that Jon Snow wasn’t saying for Dacey’s liking; there was something in his eyes, his knowledge of Lord Reed, the fact that he had known where to send Rickon in the first place, his proclamation about the Freys, the list could go on. However before she could voice her concerns Howland interjected, looking at Sansa as he did so.

‘It pertains to what we’ve discussed,’ he told her, ‘He is where he needs to be. Trust me on this.’

Dacey glanced at Sansa, who gave a slight dip of her head in acquiescence, but who’s expression betrayed that she wasn’t entirely happy with that pronouncement. Nor it seems were others in the room.

‘And what exactly have you discussed?’ It was Glover who spoke loudest though several other voices joined him.

Everyone in the room looked to Howland or Sansa, and then, when they were not forthcoming, to Robb. However it was not their king who broke the silence.

‘I imagine it was the same reason we chose to retake Winterfell.’ Jon Snow said, his voice quiet but commanding attention.

‘We’re retaking Winterfell because you broke your vows and brought Wildlings south of the Wall.’ It was the GreatJon who spoke, his voice booming, arm still hanging in its sling. ‘You’re King might forgive you for that because it brings us numbers boy, but mark my words they’ll be raiding soon and then we’ll have another problem on our hands. As Winter sets in, no less.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Jon Snow asked, and though his voice remained quiet and free of anger Dacey could have sworn the torches in the room flared and that his eyes flashed with something dangerous. He looked around the room meeting each of their gaze in turn. ‘That I’m an oathbreaker. That I have put the North in danger?’

No one around the room met his eyes and the answer hung clearly in the silent air.

‘I’m trying to save the North.’ Jon Snow grit out, ‘There is a threat coming from beyond the Wall.’

‘The threat is here.’ Lord Glover said with disdain, ‘And you are the one who invited it in.’

‘No,’ If anything Dacey would say that Jon Snow’s voice had gotten lower, and the room seemed to dim in response. ‘The dead march on the Wall. All I did was stop what few Wildlings I could from joining their ranks.’

Dacey’s immediate response was denial, followed quickly by fury, her talks with Sansa all but forgotten. It galled her that this boy would use legends of old to scare them, to try and bait them into forgetting that he had broken every vow that a member of the Night’s Watch could take. Almost without meaning to she reached for the hilt of her blade.

Jon Snow’s eyes followed the movement. Assessing her and everyone in the room with his dark gaze.

‘You don’t believe me.’ He said, ‘Or perhaps some of you know that I speak of more than legends but your hearts quail at the thought that I might be right.’

‘I believe you.’ Robb spoke up for the first time since they had entered the tent. ‘That should be enough for you all.’

He looked around at the assembled lords, but where before his words might have commanded respect in this case he was met by eyes filled with challenge, though no one contradicted him aloud.

‘It’s not.’ Jon Snow told him, then he added almost to himself, ‘I’d hoped to avoid this.’

Dacey felt her hand tighten on the hilt of her sword, ‘Avoid what?’ She questioned, ready to move the moment he did.

His eyes met hers again and for a moment she thought they flashed an impossible purple. 

‘Not that.’ He said, flicking a finger to indicate her sword. ‘I’m going to move, I’d appreciate it if you don’t stab me.’

Then with slow steady movements he raised his arms, not towards any blade, but towards his neck. Jon Snow pulled down the collar of his furs revealing the pale skin of his throat below his beard, and Dacey felt herself gasp aloud at the sight that met her there.

His neck was marred with a jagged red line of scar tissue, splitting it almost ear to ear. In the low light of the tent it looked more than weeks old, and yet held the colour of a wound that was almost freshly made.

‘What-’ Robb stuttered, then opened his mouth trying and failing to find more words. His right hand was clutching at the stump of his left arm, the knuckles of his hand white with the strength of his grip.

‘By the Gods.’ This was the GreatJon, as others in the tent muttered similar oaths.

‘You should be dead.’ Dacey accused, when she had finally managed to get over her shock.

‘Aye.’ Jon Snow admitted, ‘I was dead. Killed by one of my own brothers.’

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Robb flinch at the words.

‘Then how…?’ She asked.

‘Magic.’ He responded with a shrug that seemed to disregard the seriousness of what he was saying, ‘The Watch lit my Pyre and I rose from it alive.’ He took another long look around the room, ‘I have a matching scar over my heart if this is not enough for any of you.’

Silence reigned, as none of them could find anything to respond to that. Jon Snow let it stretch, then he said.

‘I fulfilled my vows and my Watch ended. You may not believe me about the dead but this is proof enough that there are forces beyond any of our imagination in the world. I’m not lying; Winter is coming. But for now can we focus on Winterfell? Ramsay Snow put my brothers of the Watch to the sword to the man.’ There was a rustle around the room as people shifted in response to this declaration and Dacey watched Snow’s mouth twist into a foul grimace, his eyes once again flashing with fury. ‘I want vengeance.’

He spread his hands towards the map on the table and the light in the room seemed to return banishing the shadows that had grown when Jon Snow spoke. ‘Tell me what we face.’

Dacey wasn’t sure she trusted Jon Snow, but she couldn’t deny that there was more to the man than she had initially imagined.

-Shireen

From her tower Shireen could see the sea of tents on the horizon well enough to make out the flags. She could see the Green of House Mormont and the red of House Umber among others, most prominent was the white and grey of House Stark come to reclaim their home. Nowhere among them could she make out the burning heart of her fathers sigil, nor any of the other Stormlander sigils. The army out there had come to take Winterfell, but no one was here for her.

She couldn’t help her disappointment, despite the fact she had told herself again and again that she was alone, she hadn’t been able to help hoping when she had first caught wind that Winterfell was preparing for battle.

Behind her she heard footsteps on the stairs outside, and with as silent steps as she could manage she made her way away from the small window back to the desk where a book lay open. Her heart was hammering in her chest, as it always did whenever he came, when she heard the lock twist in the door and the subtle creak of the old hinges as it was pushed open.

Ramsay Bolton walked into the room, his eyes cold and distant, his mouth twitching into a smile as he saw her. Shireen felt herself shudder at the look; as he had told her repeatedly each day he came to visit he hated the sight of her. He couldn’t stand to look at her scaled skin, it was, as had been whispered behind her back for years, unclean, dirty, and according to him she looked no better than a plague carrier. His smile couldn’t mean anything good.

This disgust had been a relief at first when he had dictated to her their betrothal, the blood of her father still fresh and dripping from his blade. She’d been his second choice, he’d told her as she’d huddled against the canvas of her tent, but what was one highborn girl compared to another. It was only when she looked full in the face at him that he stopped talking.

After that he had just stood there looking at her for the longest time, teeth gritted in disappointment.

‘We’ll have to do something about that first.’ He’d said, ominously gesturing to her face as she did so.

He’d ordered his guards to take her and her life became almost identical to the one she had lived before she left Dragonstone; only this time she was locked in Winterfell’s highest tower, and her only visitor was a man who she’d slowly realised was hiding unimaginable cruelty below the thinnest veil of courtesy.

‘My lady,’ He said with an open mouthed smile, once he had closed the door behind him.

‘My lord,’ Shireen responded with a slight quiver in her tone, rising from her seat at the desk as though she had not just taken it and giving him a low curtsy. She made sure that the right side of her face bore the brunt of his gaze as she did. 

‘None of that now.’ He told her with that faux gentleness that was somehow worse than anger, ‘Look me in the eyes when I talk to you. We are to be husband and wife after all.’

Slowly Shireen turned her face into the light and allowed her gaze to rise to meet his. However, instead of the usual revulsion she expected to find there, his eyes gleamed with excitement.

I have a solution to our little issue.’ He said, with an amused twist of the lips, ‘Having consulted with the Maester.’ Shireen watched his tongue dance over his lips as he took a breath, ‘It seems to me that the best course is to remove it.’

He pulled a thin knife from his back, and Shireen felt her heart stop. She felt the press of the desk at her back having backed into it despite having made no conscious decision to move.

‘It won’t make you any prettier.’ Ramsay continued, taking a step forward, ‘But I much prefer scars to scales.’

He was in front of her now pushing her down to sit in the chair. Shireen felt hollow, her pulse was beating in her throat like a drum, and her vision was starting to swim. 

‘Will you sit there and let me do it or do I have to call the guards. I warn you they’ll be much rougher than me.’

Shireen’s breath was coming in rough pants now, fear coursing through her veins. Her thoughts were coming thick and fast; too fast for her to catch and form into something coherent, but she managed to give a shaky nod.

‘Good girl.’

He raised the knife to her face and Shireen squeezed her eyes closed not wanting to see the blade open her own skin. The cold steel pressed against her skin, her unblemished skin on the right of her face, and she forced herself not to flinch as Ramsay slowly traced it over her face until she lost the sense of it entirely.

The next thing she felt was a light tugging coming from her left cheek. It didn’t hurt exactly, not at first, and she could feel both herself and her tormentor holding their breath, waiting for the pain. They stayed like that for a few heartbeats, though to her it felt more like minutes, and then Ramsay moved. Again Shireen braced for the pain, and again none came.

She was just starting to hope that maybe it wouldn’t hurt when something twisted and white hot agony blazed in her face. She let out a harsh breath and gritted her teeth, unable to prevent the tears spilling out of her eyes as Ramsay pulled off her skin, roots and all.

Then it was over, and she dared open her eyes to see him holding a single solitary flake. His face was filled with fierce glee.

‘I think that will do for today.’ He decided, ‘I’ll be back soon for more. Something for us both to look forward to, My Lady.’

And then he was gone, leaving Shireen alone in her tower once again, her face on fire and hot blood dripping slowly down her chin.

It didn’t matter who was in the tents outside Winterfell, she thought, all she wanted now was for them to win.