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Chapter Text

JON

It had been a month or so since he had felt the cold touch of the Wall, but its icy chill still made its presence known to the young man. He adjusted his scarf to cover the gruesome scar across his neck, and continued to make his way south, always south. He never spent time in the villages, or much time on the roads, resorting to hiding like a common outlaw in the woods as he fled the North like a coward. Like the oath-breaker anyone would rightfully call him.

"Only," he muttered to his ever silent, always present companion, "How can Jon Snow be an oath-breaker if he never even existed in the first place, right Ghost?"

That had been a bitter and horrible medicine to swallow, and he had wished for the daggers of Marsh and Yarwick many a night instead of the pain that came from the Crannogman. A mere week after the Red Woman failed to bring her King back, and instead brought the bastard of Winterfell back to life, Howland Reed had rode into Castle Black, destroying his life more effectively than the funeral pyre that they had built for him. It had all been a lie, one that honorable Ned Stark had forced him to live. He had almost killed the crannogman in his blind rage, his mind still half in Ghost, before he gave him letter from his Uncle. His excuse was paltry, and the explanation cold, and Jon wished he could have been at the Sept of Baelor to do nothing but watch. Then Jeyne Poole and Theon Greyjoy arrived, and he learned that his attempt to rescue his baby sister had failed before it had even begun. After taking the squid's miserable life, Jon had simply packed his things and left. Satin had tried to stop him, but he ignored his stewards pleas. When another brother had tried to stop him, Ghost had ripped the man's arm off.

In truth, he had no idea where he would go. For the longest of times he had believed the North was his home, but it wasn't. His home was Valyria, only that place was a ruin. His family was long gone, Aemon off in Braavos with Sam, and the stories of his Aunt had her stuck in Meereen or someplace. He had no idea where his cousins were, and frankly didn't really care about them too much. All his life he had wanted to be a Stark, and that choice had been taken from him before he was even born. In fact, that was never a choice. Before he could go off on another rage, Ghost walked up next to him, his muzzle pushing against his shoulder, centering him. He supposed he would have gone mad if he had not slipped into Ghost's mind the moment the daggers had struck. They had called him an abomination in the Watch for his gift, but he cared little for their opinions. He was Ghost, and he was Jon, although technically he was Jaehaerys truly. The name was a mouthful, and his plainer name was probably the only thing he could be grateful from his Uncle. Everything else that came from the man, especially his honor, he wanted no part of.

As the fog and clouds cleared around him, he finally saw the castle. The ruins of Harrenhal rose out from the fog like fingers reaching out to the sky, desperate to grab onto what was the domain of the dragons, but like so many others, falling short. Jon had made it down to the Neck and had almost passed Greywater Watch, when the crannogmen had practically ambushed him and dragged him to the home of the Reeds. There he had met Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont, who were just as surprised to see him as he was. Then they had shown him Robb's Will, and he had almost wept when he saw his brother's, no cousin's, handwriting. The Will however, was something he just couldn't accept. Accepting the Will would mean that he would have to return to the North, and would have to live in the castle and the shadow of his Uncle every day. He wanted it, there was no more guilt in his mind over wanting anything, but he couldn't accept it if it meant continuing the lie that he was the son of Ned Stark. Unlike him, he would tell the truth, and so he did to the shock of Lord Glover and Lady Mormont. Before they could even react to his news, Jon had reached up and tossed the Will into the fire, before walking out the door and into the marshlands. He continued walking the rest of the day, and the days after that. Eventually he found himself in the Riverlands, and once that had happened, Harrenhal seemed like the best place to go. According to Lord Reed, his parents had met there, all those years ago. Perhaps the ghosts there could give him some answers. If not, then he would travel to the ruins of Summerhall, where his father was born amidst the doom and fire that had brought his family's house to their knees. Then after that, the Tower of Joy, after all, it was where his mother died giving birth to him.

"It seems that all I have in me is ruins, so it seems fitting that those are the places I wish to visit. Would you like to see the ruins of Valyria Ghost?"

His silent companion seemed to shrug in indifference. It made no matter to him, he would follow Jon wherever he would go, and Jon would never let him out of his sight, no matter what. The rest of the day passed by in silence, seeing as no one was really guarding the castle. A passerby on the road had mentioned something about a Bonnifer Hasty being the castellan, but he barely led a force larger than a hundred strong, not nearly enough to hold the castle, ruined as it was. Eventually he made it to the shores of the God's Eye, and stood in the water, letting the waves crash over his legs. The mist covered the center of the lake, where the famous Isle of Faces was supposed to be. They had wed there, his mother and father. That place was where he was made trueborn, not a bastard, not the shame of a man, but trueborn, a source of pride and not dishonor. He wished he could go back in time and force his Uncle to live one year, one week, hell even one day as a bastard, and then to look him in the eyes and tell him he cared for him.

All of a sudden he felt a nudging at his legs, and looked down to see that a small boat had somehow appeared in front of him. There were no docks, nor anybody else around, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do, so he got into the boat, and as always Ghost followed him. Without any oars or currents the boat pulled him through the God's Eye and passed the wall of mist, crossing through it as smoothly as Valyrian Steel and butter. The island he came across was beautiful and seemed to be in the middle of spring. He and Ghost walked through the green trees and bushes, hearing the peaceful sounds of wildlife. For once Jon felt at ease, something about the famed Isle of Faces putting his mind and body into a peaceful, almost relaxing state of mind. After what seemed like hours, Jon and Ghost finally made it to a large clearing and came face to face with a massive Weirwood Tree, one larger than the Godswood of Winterfell. His eyes were drooping, and it felt like he had no control over his body as he made his way to the roots of the tree and laid down between between them, Ghost snuggling next to him. Sleep found the two of them instantly.

When Jon woke up, he realized a few key things. The first was that not only did his whole body ache, it felt completely alien and different as if he was somehow shorter. The next thing he realized was that it was bitterly cold, and he recognized the room as his old room at Castle Black. Feeling the weight of the Wall upon him, he managed to push himself to his feet, noticing the six open scars scattered across his torso. Only it wasn't his torso, it was someone else's. Suddenly he felt a cloak be pulled around his shoulders, and a kind and familiar voice began to speak,

"Easy, easy."

He looked up in shock to see the Onion Knight staring down at him with concern, but that was impossible. Last he had heard, Davos Seaworth was in White Harbor, or at least his head was. What in the seven hells was he doing at Castle Black. Actually what the hell was he doing back in Castle Black? His voice was hoarse and rough, but he shoved the words and questions out,

"Where am I, what happened?"

"Thorne and the others, they led a mutiny against you, but the Lady Melisandre brought you back."

Everything was wrong, but also the same somehow. He was back in Castle Black, but in the body of a different man. Even Davos was different. Why in the Old Gods and the New was he back here, and why was here a different place than it was before? Almost like a whisper, a familiar but long dead voice crept into his thoughts, and Jon could have sworn it was Bran.

"A second chance Jon. A chance to right the wrongs of this world the right way."

Chapter Text

JON

In a blind panic, Jon shoved the Onion Knight away from him, retreating to the corner of the room, looking for any sort of weapon. Everything was wrong, even his body. The scars across his chest were of a fatal sort, but where was Whittlestick's slash across his throat? And why did Seaworth say Thorne led the mutiny? Jon had sent him away beyond the Wall to be of use or to die, why was he in Castle Black? Did he come back? How? Where was the Queen's Men, and where were the King's Men? He looked over to see the door opening to reveal the wide eyed Melisandre, and he shrunk away again. He had done his best to keep Mance's child away from her, as well as Aemon, and had shed no tears when he later learned she and Selyse had killed themselves when it was he who came back, but now she was here, and a threat. At least he knew he could kill Davos, but why was he alive?

"I don't understand. Wyman Manderly put your head and fingerless hand on the walls of White Harbor weeks ago! How are you alive?"

Davos looked on in shock and fear, and spoke hesitantly,

"Wyman Manderly and I have never even met before, and the only time I was in White Harbor was decades ago. Are you feeling alright?"

Jon lifted and threw his desk across the room with a bellow of rage.

"Alright! Do you think I'm fucking alright? My own men murdered me and you ask if I am alright? Maybe since I'm back I can process what's happened instead of being dead, but now you keep saying things that don't make any sense!"

The Onion Knight's face would have been amusing, if Jon had felt like laughing. The man stepped a few inches closer, wary of him, but stopped suddenly in shock as he peered at his face.

"Your eyes, they're grey!"

Jon frowned,

"My eyes have always been grey, what are you talking about."

It was Davos' time to stumble back in shock, gasping out,

"No, they were brown but a day ago when we carried you in here. I swear it by the Seven, they were brown, not grey!"

A slight rustling from the corner of the room drew Jon's attention, and he almost wept in relief. Almost pressed into the corner was his faithful companion Ghost, who whimpered slightly in fear. Jon fell to his knees and opened his arms to let his oldest friend rush into them, covering his face with licks. This was his Ghost, he could tell it instantly, feeling their connection. It was as he reached out with his mind towards the calming presence of his only friend, he felt himself falling forwards into a deep pit, unable to stop or pull back. When he woke up once more, his face and body were still the same, and now Dolorous Edd, and Tormund Giantsbane were standing over him. A strange feeling overwhelmed him, and for some reason he felt like he knew them far better than he thought he did. It was the presence of the Red Woman that drew them away from the room, and it remained silent as they stared at each other. Finally, Melisandre looked away and spoke softly,

"I asked for a vision from R'hllor about what you were saying before, and he granted me clarity. I have seen a man baring your eyes and of the Stark look living the life of Jon Snow, which ended with daggers in the dark just like this one did, until he brought you back."

"That would be me, the real me."

"Perhaps they are both the real you. Perhaps R'hllor has blessed you with the knowledge of a different life in order to better prepare you for the coming threat?"

"Seems to me that since the White Walkers are real and you just brought me back from the dead, anything's possible," said Jon as he stood up and looked out the window, "And I would hate to waste a third chance."

Jon knew he had to play it carefully. Speaking of a different life would guarantee him being locked away in the ice cells and being called madder than his grandfather. The only problem was that he had no idea as to how to go about pretending to know each and every fact of his life. Sudden inspiration hit him, and he turned to face the Red Woman.

"Would you call for my steward, my lady."

"Your steward was one of the brothers who mutinied against you."

"Satin tried to kill me?" Jon gasped out.

"Your steward's name is Olly, there is no Satin here. You really are from a different life, aren't you."

Jon's mind began to race like horses galloping across the open plains. Who else wasn't here, who else didn't exist? Who could he trust? He turned to the Red Woman and growled out,

"Fetch me Ed, Tormund, and Ser Davos, and if you speak of this different life, I will not hesitate to kill you."

Melisandre stood up and looked at him for a long second, before looking away and quietly saying,

"I believe you actually would do that, though the Jon Snow I know would never have had the strength to make such a threat."

Jon frowned in confusion as she walked away, and moved to right his desk. After a few minutes, the three that he had summoned walked into his chamber, with hesitant looks upon their faces.

"At least your eyes aren't blue. The Red Woman just said that her magic may have changed your eyes, and at least they aren't blue." muttered Ed.

Davos was also looking at him with concern,

"She also mentioned something about you having trouble with your memory. Is that why you thought I was dead?"

Jon sighed and looked at each of them.

"I would like your help with reminding me of what has been happening. I fear that with everything that has been going on, my mind is having trouble accepting what is true, and what is false."

Rickon had told better lies to Lady Stark, but for some reason they seemed to just believe him at his word, something he took note of. The three were quick to speak of the past year or so and what Jon had done, and by the time they were finished, there was only one thing he wanted to do, which was bash his head against the Wall. He, or at least this Jon Snow, was a colossal idiot. No wonder his men had murdered him in this life. Not to mention his idiotic lack of a deal with the Free Folk. Where were the hostages, and why weren't they manning the abandoned castles on the Wall? How could he have just let them past and start farming on the Gift, with only the bare promise of coming back North when the Walkers came. He showed no reaction when they told him of Grenn and Pyp's passing, but it had helped that he had alienated them long before they left for Eastwatch. Eventually they stopped talking, and he looked up at them, letting the ice flow through his veins once more.

"Where are the traitors?"

The Ice Cells were cold and cramped, designed to be unlivable and inhumane. He briefly remembered how easy it was to break Alys' Uncle when he threw him in there for a week or so. The man was a shell, and had practically blubbered out his vows before the same weirwood tree that had overseen his nieces and Sigorn's marriage. The four of the six traitors were made of sterner stuff, having been on the Wall for awhile, but they were breaking. Jon had learned that the other two men who had stabbed him had died in the capture of Castle Black, which was good. He stared at them in silence until one of them looked up in fear and shock. It was Marsh, and soon enough he was blabbering like he had done the last time.

"For the Watch? Was that really all you had to say to me? For the Watch?"

For some reason only Thorne and the boy Olly didn't try to beg or plead their way out of the cells. Yarwick and Marsh were sobbing and on their knees, the tears freezing on their faces, but Jon paid them no mind. He had learned long ago to not cry on the Wall, nor to let any feelings show. Not that he had to hide the loathing and disgust he felt when he stared at the four in front of him. Finally Thorne pushed himself to his feet, spitting at Jon's feet and growling out,

"I've no patience for your gloating, Lord Snow, so just get it over with. By the Seven it was a curse serving under a bastard, and a Stark at that, but I am done. So grab the block and finish this."

Jon stared at Thorne for the longest time, keeping his eyes on him until the old and bitter knight had to look away. A thought had crossed Jon's mind, one that he was sure his other self would have been too wrapped up in honor to even consider, but not him. He had no time for honor, no time for mercy, and no time for anything but his mission. He had run away from the Wall, from Robb's Will, and from his name once before, but no longer. As long as the Boltons held Winterfell, the North would be divided, and the Walkers would just walk right over them. Jon allowed a small smile to come across his face before he said quietly,

"There will be no block, nor will there even be an execution. Such an event would serve no purpose for what I intend to do. You four will be taken a few leagues out beyond the Wall, where you will be tied down and killed, and then watched. We will not burn or bury your corpses, but rather wait till you come back as the mindless wights that I need to have to show the Northern Lords, and Westeros, that the threat is real. So be at peace, Ser Alliser, and know that even in death, you will serve me."

Jon walked away from their shocked faces, making his way back to his chambers, where he began to pack. Ed slowly walked into his room, Davos behind him. He waited until they began to speak to look at them.

"I'm not sure I would advise you to do that. Might make the men afraid of you more than they already are. Or might make them even more loyal to you, knowing you'll make them fight even after they're dead."

"Regardless of your feelings on what I did, I am ordering you to follow through with my command. If it makes you feel any better, it will be my last one here."

"What do you mean, last one?"

Jon shrugged,

"It shall not end until my death. That is the vow of the Night's Watch no? I died and therefore fulfilled my oath. My watch has ended."

Ed of course, like the last time, tried to argue against him leaving, but Jon, like last time, would hear none of it. Eventually he threw up his hands and stormed out of the room, leaving Jon and Ser Davos there. The older knight was quiet as he watched Jon pack his things, before he quietly asked,

"Is there anywhere in particular that we will be going first?"

"We, Ser Davos?"

"Aye, i reckon that since I was the one who convinced Melisandre to bring you back, I should probably stay with you. Besides, when they ask about why you're leaving, we can always make something up about Stannis releasing you from his vows and naming you a Stark in the event of his death."

"I'm not a Stark, not yet at least. I hope you're ready to move quickly, for our first destination is Greywater Watch. There's a letter waiting for me there, as well as a man with answers I am now ready to hear."

Chapter Text

JON

He watched in silence from the window as the two cloaked figures made their way back up the stairs towards their chambers, and he wanted to laugh at their attempt at stealth. Even old Uncle Aemon would have been able to tell that those two were women, of which there were only three currently in Castle Black. Since Melisandre had been confined to her quarters by his command, it had to have been his sister and her lady warrior. Of course he already knew that, and he turned to face the other man in the room, who was busy feeding a strip of meat to his bird, making Jon long for Mormont's old crow for a moment. He shook the feeling away and asked,

"Are you sure she said the name Baelish?"

"Aye King Crow, your sister called him Lord Baelish. Said he had an army of those Vale knights, as well as an uncle in some place called Riverrun, just waiting to help her cause."

"Do you know where Baelish is now? Did he have anyone else with him?"

"Probably still in Mole's Town, and he only had a few guards. They sure looked uncomfortable in the weather."

Jon nodded at that and went over to his desk. He paused for a second, going over his memories, trying to think of some way to do this. Finally he stopped thinking and spoke,

"Take three dozen or so men and ride for Mole's Town. Kill all of Baelish's guards, and do not let anyone, no matter who they are, leave the town. If they resist, kill them too. However do not kill Baelish, but do not bring him here. Keep him nearby in the woods. I also want you to go over every inch of his belongings and bring me everything, including all of his scrolls and letters. Tear the building apart if you have to. Go now."

Jarick the wildling raised his eyebrows in surprise, but said nothing as he walked out of the room, leaving Jon to his thoughts once more. He looked towards where his sister was staying, and scowled at her terrible timing. He and Davos had been all but packed and ready to go when she and the other two had arrived at Castle Black, forcing them to stay while they recovered. In truth, he was beyond grateful that someone from his family was still alive, but a bitter part of him resented that it was Sansa and not another of his siblings. They had had no relationship growing up, and it had stopped him cold when she moved to embrace him like she would with Robb or Bran. Perhaps this Sansa was different? Almost immediately a cold feeling enveloped his heart, stopping him from going down that path. For some reason he just knew that this Sansa wasn't different from the one he knew, and that she was only here because she had nowhere else to go. He could work with that though, and see exactly how much he could trust her, if she really trusted him. He quickly pulled on his gloves and armor before belting on his sword and daggers. Ghost was at his side constantly as he made his way across the silent courtyard. Brienne of Tarth was standing at attention outside Sansa's door, and only hesitated slightly before letting him in. As he walked in, he didn't miss the small frown that crossed his sister's face as he barged in without invitation. Jon didn't really care for the political niceties and continued that stance of not caring by asking her directly,

"What were you thinking, going to Mole's Town with only one guard?"

"Excuse me?"

Jon sighed, seeing her defenses raise, and decided to play this with a more patient style. He sat across from her, noticing her flinch as she saw his grey eyes.

"Sansa, you are aware that the Wall, and me, will be the first place that Roose Bolton will search for you, right? He probably has men making their way up here right now as we speak. No one knew where you were, and we began to fear the worst. Why did you go there?"

"I had business there."

Jon kept his eyes on her, not blinking.

"What business."

Finally he saw Sansa snap and spit out,

"Nothing that my half-brother needs to worry about!"

Something on his face must have shown, for a look of fear and a bare hint of regret crossed his sister's face, not that he cared. She couldn't be trusted.

"Jon, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Enough, it doesn't matter. That wasn't the reason I came to talk to you. When you were in King's Landing, did you ever come across a man called Janos Slynt?"

"Yes, he was captain of the Goldcloaks until Tyrion sent him to the Wall. Is he here?"

"No, I executed him for refusing to follow orders. He, like many others, hated me though, and always liked to brag about something very specific. It turns out he had been involved in the betrayal and arrest of our father."

"Then I hope he suffered."

Jon smiled, remembering Longclaw swinging down and seperating his blubbering head from his shoulders. It had been a clean kill, and he had been glad to have been given an excuse to do so.

"He liked to brag about it when he was in his cups, how he and Baelish had plotted with Cersei on how to turn on father the whole time."

Jon watched carefully as the words registered in his sister's mind, noticing how the cup she was holding fell onto the ground as she stared in shock at him.

"Did you say Baelish?"

"Aye, do you know him? Slynt said that he was the one who came up with the plan in the first place, to lure father into a false sense of security by giving him the City Watch. According to him and two other brothers that confirmed his story, Petyr Baelish was the man who held a knife to father's throat in the throne room."

Sansa stepped away, a look of horror on her face, but Jon kept his face emotionless, a skill he was quite good at. In truth, Slynt had never bragged about it to him, but Jon had overheard others talking about it, and had gotten Satin to confirm it with those who were around Slynt when he was drunk. Of course, knowing that the other Jon Snow was a terrible liar and viewed honor above anything else, he figured it wouldn't be hard to convince anyone of anything as long as he said it. The concept of his uncle lying and everyone believing him made a lot more sense nowadays.

"I need to go back to Mole's Town."

He waited until Sansa had almost made it to the door when he spoke softly, the words stopping her in her tracks,

"To kill Baelish, or to warn him?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Jon stood up, his gaze cold, and even with the fire in the room, he could feel the Wall around him. Strange, that such a terrible place could give him such confidence. A part of him would miss the Wall and the Watch, but that wasn't here or now.

"Stop lying Sansa. I know you went to see Baelish in Mole's Town, and I know what you talked about. I hope you know that he is dead by now, I sent some wildlings down there to kill him the moment you came back."

"Jon! He's the Lord Paramount of the Vale, you can't just go around killing people like that."

He chuckled, once again amused at how easy it was to fool his sister.

"It's already done, and to hell with the Vale. I don't need them, and I definitely do not want your Uncle's help."

Sansa was silent, her face growing from confusion to horror.

"Mother was right, you do want to take Winterfell from us."

This time he howled with laughter, the pain of being reminded of that woman turning into a dark humor. He barely noticed that Sansa took a small step backwards.

"I don't give a damn what your mother thinks or says, I mean, thought or said. Besides, the things she was wrong about could fill a thousand books in the Citadel. Just to make things clear, when we were children, I never wanted Winterfell, I just wanted a family. But now, I am taking Winterfell because I can and because I want to, and you can't stop me."

Surprisingly that seemed to strengthen Sansa's resolve, as she stood up straighter, making him once again annoyed at how much taller she was, before saying in that tone that he had always hated.

"No one will ever follow you, you're a bastard, a Snow. That name means nothing to the North."

"Three hundred years ago, the name Targaryen meant nothing to all of Westeros. Besides, do you expect them to follow you? They had their chance to chose you, I mean, everyone knows you've been in Winterfell this whole time. I guess you're just Sansa Lannister, or Sansa Bolton to them."

It was his turn to pause at the doorway when he began to walk out, his voice softening a fraction.

"I am glad you are safe, and I do weep for what has happened to you Sansa. Ramsay will die screaming for that, as will Roose. You have my word. But if you had trusted me with what you were doing in Mole's Town, I would have fought for you as Lady of Winterfell."

When he made it back to his solar, he found eight of the more trustworthy wildlings and had them stand guard at his sister's door. Not only did he not trust her, he also absolutely did not trust any of the brothers at Castle Black. Eventually another week or so had passed, during which the men he had sent beyond the Wall came back with the wight corpses of Thorne, Yarwyck, Marsh, and whoever that boy's name was. Everyone, including his sister, puked at the sight of them, and ceased questioning him on why he wanted to take back Winterfell. Sansa even tried to help as much as she could, and Jon was grateful for the second pair of eyes, but kept her at an arm's distance. She had too much of a southern view of things, and it was showing. One day he had enough, and had yelled at her so loudly, Brienne had rushed into the room.

"Sansa enough! This isn't the South. We can't just march to Winterfell, take it, and expect everyone to come to the castle and pledge their fealty then and there. The Starks have had the loyalty of the North because they earned that loyalty, not because they were called Wardens of the North. We need to earn it back, because like Snow, Stark doesn't mean what it used to mean."

Sansa was about to respond when Ed rushed into the room out of breath, holding a scroll with a familiar sigil upon it. Jon looked over to make sure that Sansa was still in the room, remembering the last time he had seen the letter. He took a few deep breaths and opened it up, reading the contents. Like before, his rage grew with each word, but this time, the cold from the Wall balanced him out, but only a small bit.

"Apparently your husband is Lord Bolton now."

Suddenly he stopped talking as he got to the end of the scroll, and it didn't matter how much ice the Wall was pouring into his veins, all he felt was burning rage, and all he wanted was blood.

"Where's the messenger?"

"He's eating in the Shieldhall. Jon there's another letter that you really need to, Jon!"

He didn't hear anything but the blood pounding in his ears, could barely feel the cold even without his cloak, but could sense the presence of Ghost nearby. Jon strode across the Mess Hall, ignoring the looks of the brothers there as he scanned the room. Off in the corner sat the man who delivered Ramsay's letter, quickly shoveling down the slop that was being served. Seeing only red, Jon slammed his fist into the man's face, before pulling out a dagger and burying it in the man's hand, pinning him to the table. Ghost came up from the other side, his low growl echoing across the room.

"Your liege lord betrayed my brother and drove a knife into his heart, and you dare to think you can come here and hide behind that banner of truce, bringing word of my little brother in chains, and you think there will be no consequences? You think Guest Rights can help you here? You have knowledge of the enemy, and you will tell us everything you know. First however, I will hear you scream."

The man tried to reach for the dagger embedded into his hand, and Jon just twisted it around, and he heard him scream. He leaned forward and began to talk in a low voice,

"You think flaying is torture? It must be so terrible, what with all those sharp and clean cold steel knives that Ramsay uses. I bet he even heats them up so the flesh just slides right off with a sizzle. I've spent time with the wildlings, and they don't have castle forged steel. They use bone knives and rusty bronze to flay their victims, if they don't eat them first, or do worse. When they're through with you, you'll be begging to be flayed alive."

He was distantly aware of some people trying to call his name, as well as the smell of urine and feces coming from the man, but none of that mattered. He continued to talk in his low cold voice,

"You are going to die by my hand. On my honor as a Stark, I swear that to you. Whether or not that is today, or weeks from now after the wildlings have had their way with you is entirely up to how much you talk."

The messenger spent the next hour screaming out every single thing he knew about the Boltons in Winterfell, which wasn't much, but Jon knew every bit helped. At least this time the Northern Lords weren't all at Winterfell, and neither was the Frey army. He briefly wondered about the Karstark's and their role with Stannis but put it to the side. The real question he kept going to was the Umber's betrayal. GreatJon had been the one to proclaim Robb as King in the North, and SmallJon Umber was one of Robb's most trusted men, and had even been part of his Northern Kingsguard. How could he have just handed over Rickon? Eventually he left the two Thenns to finish up their questioning, but instructed them not to kill the messenger just yet. He felt bone weary when he made it back to his solar. In it were a horrified Sansa, Davos, Tormund, Ed, and Melisandre, though she didn't look too fazed. Jon didn't look away, but stared resolutely at the five of them.

"Ramsay has Rickon. He has our little brother as his captive, so if you are going to sit there and judge me for what I just did, don't. Because I will do so much worse to get him back, and even far more terrible things to Ramsay when I get my hands on him."

Sansa gave a short nod, but handed Jon another scroll wordlessly, though her hands still shook when they neared his. He grabbed it impatiently and began to read it, and instead of rage from the previous letter, all he felt was confusion, and a slight bit of hope.

Jon,
We are waiting at Queenscrown, and have a very important letter from Robb for your eyes only.
House Umber knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark.
House Glover knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark
House Mormont knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark
House Manderly knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark
House Reed knows no King but the King in the North whose name is Stark

Ever your loyal bannerman,
Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch

P.S. Try not to throw the Will into the fire this time.

Chapter Text

JON

The small holdfast of Queenscrown was a desolate place, with only a single tower remaining as a potential meeting point. The rest of the buildings were ruins. He remembered this place, back when he had refused to kill the farmer, when Summer and Shaggydog had come to his aid. Jon wondered if the other Jon Snow had felt as conflicted as he had been during those moments. He shook his head and let the cold drift into him once more, turning to face the other wildlings around him, along with Ghost, Sansa, Davos, and Melisandre. His voice was low and cold.

"There is something I must ask of you, and I must have your word that you will listen to me on this."

Tormund grunted a bit, but leaned in a bit closer, letting Jon continue.

"Apart from Lord Reed, Lady Maege, and Lord Galbart, there are two other men in there, Hother Umber and Mors Umber. Whenever you have raided these lands, for the most part it has been the lands of House Umber that you have been raiding, their people and homes you have been destroying. They have a right to be angry with you, but I am asking you to not draw steel first. If it comes to it, I will defend you. But I need you to keep your tempers in check when they spit curses and worse at your face. Can you do that?"

The redheaded wildling looked at him for a long second before he said to the others around them,

"If anyone is too green to not ignore some southern milk drinker's words, don't come to this meeting. King Crow's got the right of it, we need level heads."

Jon smiled and nodded. Hopefully this meeting, of which he only knew parts of what would probably happen, would go smoothly. But of course it didn't. Nearly a second into introducing the Free Folk, Mors Umber was halfway across the room with a dagger in his hand. It was only the quick intervention of Ghost stepping in front of him and next to Jon that stopped him cold. Not even when Jon pulled out one of their wights to show everyone why he had let them past the Wall did his hate filled gaze leave the wildlings. Eventually Jon grew tired of the Crowsfood complaining, and he stood up and looked him in his single eye.

"Enough Lord Umber, it is done. I was not about to let the Night King make tens of thousands of more soldiers, nor was I going to abandon innocent people to a cold fate either. The Free Folk are part of the Seven Kingdoms now, they are part of the realms of men. Whine and complain about it all you want, but it does not change the fact that it is done."

"House Umber has always fought the Wildlings since before you were."

Jon cut in before Mors could keep talking,

"Always fought the wildlings, my Lord? Then where was House Umber when Mance Rayder attacked the Wall not even a whole year ago? I remember writing the letter to Last Hearth myself, seeing as there were only a handful of us brothers who knew our letters, begging to send any sort of aid that you could spare. We sent letters to every Northern house, and none of them responded. It was Stannis Baratheon, his remaining group of lords, and sellswords from Essos who answered our call for help. Sellswords from Essos came to the defense of the Wall before you did."

Jon let the words hit the large man square in the chest, watching as his gaze turned down in shame, before continuing,

"Now before all that, there was something I wanted to say to you, and take care to know that I swear this by the Old Gods. If you have truly handed over my brother Rickon to Ramsay Bolton, I will kill you in this room."

It was Hother Umber who growled out,

"The little prince is safe in Last Hearth, you have our word. Ramsay found him and SmallJon a small bit outside our walls, but our nephew was quick enough to switch the boys before the Bolton Bastard went away with him."

Jon let out a sigh of relief. He sat down at the table, where Lord Reed and the other two had been just watching the exchange. It was the crannogman he watched, as the smaller man pulled out a single familiar letter and placed it upon the table, as well as cloth wrapped bundle. He knew he had to feign ignorance of the subject, and spoke slowly.

"I am glad to know there is a part, however small, of my brother that lives on, and that he sent it to me, but I am not sure of why. You asked me to come here, and spoke of things that would be considered absolute treason to the Boltons and Lannisters. Why?"

"This is the Last Will of Robb Stark, in which he releases you from your vows of the Night's Watch, names you Stark, and proclaims you as his heir. It was signed and witnessed by Lord Galbart and Lady Maege, and they were on their way to the Wall when the Red Wedding occurred. You are now Jon Stark, King in the North."

This time Jon did not balk, or run away. That time was long past. Instead, a grim face of duty covered his features. He watched as everyone stared at him, waiting for his acceptance or denial. A part of him wanted to take the letter and crown and claim it all, to finally take everything he wanted. He did want Winterfell, he always had. Not in the way that Lady Stark had feared, but while Aemon and Daeron were his two favorite heroes, there were many a King of Winter that Jon had always admired. But Rickon was alive, and he couldn't take his brother's birthright.

"I am honored by my brother's trust, but he wrote this Will without knowing that Rickon, his trueborn sibling is alive. His crown should go to him instead."

There was a strange look of pride and discomfort upon the faces of the Northern Lords in front of him. It was Maege who responded.

"In normal times we wouldn't have even called you from the Wall, and would have went straight for Rickon. But these aren't normal times. Those Wights are going to kill us all if we don't have a strong leader, and Rickon is but a boy. So take up the bloody crown, and do your duty."

Like he had done so before, Howland Reed had managed to sneak into the Twins and grab Robb's Crown of winter from the Freys. The nine iron spikes and band of bronze glinted in the fire, and the weight of it felt heavy in his hand.

"Very well, though I will wear this when we take Winterfell, but not before. Now is the time to plan. I myself have thought of many ideas of how to take back the North from Ramsay Bolton and his ilk, but I am welcome to suggestions."

"Many of our Houses are housing Bolton soldiers, thus making it impossible to commit to your cause," began Lord Glover, "And there are other Houses, such as the Karstarks, that have fully commited to the Boltons. We would need to free or take over those castles before having the forces necessary to siege Winterfell."

"Winterfell will hold back any siege of any size or time. The walls are too thick and tall. Besides, so long as the real Rickon is safe at Last Hearth, Ramsay has no leverage over us. We can simply work on taking castle after castle away from his control, until he is left with only one choice."

"And what is that?" asked Mors.

"To salvage his pride by riding out to face us. My sister says that while Ramsay is smart, he is also a proud man. When word reaches him of our exploits, his men will lose faith, and he will have to do something about it."

That wasn't the whole part of his real plan to deal with the Bolton bastard, but Jon wasn't about to tell anyone in the room of that. It would shatter any hope of them believing the lie that he was every bit as honorable as his Uncle. The rest of the meeting went by slowly, the two groups discussing each part of the plan over and over until Jon's head began to spin. It was the familiar cold almost supernatural chill of the Wall, even from so far away, that kept his mind and senses awake. Eventually he leaned back and looked at the group.

"We seem to have discussed this plan to the death for now. Once we have removed the Bolton supporters at Last Hearth, we will march upon Karhold and take it. From there we will split the armies in two. One group will head west and liberate Deepwood Motte and Bear Island, while the other will make their way to Widow's Watch to sail towards White Harbor. The Free Folk will act as scouts and a skirmish force, instead of an infantry. Ramsay will be forced to look back and forth as we take back the North from him and prove that House Stark is worthy to follow. Is there anything else you would like to talk about?"

He saw Lord Reed about to open his mouth, when as he suspected, Mors Umber beat him to it.

"I still want to talk about these fucking Wildlings you brought over. How are you intending on making sure they don't up and raid our lands anymore?"

"There are many steps I am planning on taking to ensure peace between our two people. First and foremost is their word, which they have given. If they break it, then they answer to me. Should the opposite occur, and a Northerner do harm upon the Free Folk, they will also answer to me as well. I am not naive to believe that that will be satisfactory for all parties, and therefore there will be other parts of our negotiations, though some of which can only occur once the North is back in safer hands."

"Such as?"

"The Free Folk will live in the lands of the Gift, under the jurisdiction of the Night's Watch and will pay their taxes to them. They, along with volunteers that will becoming from all of the Houses, will be rebuilding and manning the castles on the Wall. I also have a plan in regards towards ensuring peace throughout many generations, should we all live to see our children grow."

That got most of the room's attention. It was good to remind them of the threat of the White Walkers every now and then, it kept them focused. While Mors kept up his scowl trained on Tormund and the others, it was Maege Mormont who spoke up,

"What sort of plan?"

Jon motioned for one of the chieftains, Gunmir, to answer.

"My people call it Swimming the River, for the Ice River Clans. Before a man becomes chief, he must live among each and all the tribes as a boy, to learn their ways and cultures."

Most of the room understood what the man meant, and it was Sansa who said in a surprised voice,

"Fostering? Are you sure?"

"Of course, and why not? It creates bonds of friendship between the children of the next age, so that when they grow up they can remember their friends. Besides, our father fostered in the Vale, and now the Knights of the Vale are waiting to come to our aid outside Moat Cailin."

The room began to nod in agreement, and Jon relaxed only a bit. He watched as the two Umbers pulled away and were locked in a heated discussion before finally Mors threw up his hands and stormed back to the table. His gaze was so full of hatred, Jon wondered if he could melt the Wall. Then his eye flickered over to the dead and moving wight, a simple sword still stuck through its chest.

"I pray the Old Gods fuck the Night King and and Bolton's with a rusty spear for making me say this, but the King is right. I will never trust you people, nor will I forgive you for taking my daughter away from me, but that thing over there is the real enemy. House Umber stands with you."

With that he walked away, and the meeting concluded naturally. Jon looked over to see Howland motioning for him to follow before making his way up the stairs. Jon called Ghost to come with him, and they made their way up there too. The small man was quiet as he stared out the window towards the starry sky.

"Do you remember everything like I do, Lord Reed?"

"Only when you came to visit the last time. Where did you go next?"

"The Isle of Faces."

Reed nodded, his expression thoughtful.

"Like the Wall, that is a place of powerful and old magic," he paused before continuing, "It is a wise decision to not tell anyone of your heritage, your Grace."

Jon scowled, a cold feeling drifting over his veins as he turned to face the crannogman, Ghost giving a low growl as well.

"And why is that your opinion?"

Even though Reed was still, thankfully, shorter than him, he still faced him head on and looked him in the eye.

"That would start you down a path that would be unwise to continue on, something I know that your father never wanted."

"I didn't know you knew the Crown Prince Rhaegar."

Lord Reed looked at him in confusion, before his eyes narrowed,

"I speak of your true father, the man who raised you."

"Ned Stark, my uncle?" interrupted Jon, "That man could barely look at me. He forced me to live as a bastard, as a source of shame, and lied to me my whole life. Yes, he protected me from Robert and the Lannisters, and for that I will be forever grateful, but I will not forgive him. And if taking the Iron Throne is something he would not approve of, then that gives me all the more reason to do it. But rest assured, Lord Reed, I do not intend to make any moves in the South yet, for the North is my focus. I will take back my home and sit on the Throne of Winter, and then I will decide if I want that blasted heap of swords as my seat. If I don't, then perhaps I will help my Aunt take it from the Lannisters as a welcome home present."

Lord Reed stepped forward and peered closely at him for the longest time, before sighing and nodding.

"If that is your intentions, then so be it. I do not approve, but I will still be loyal to you no matter what. I owe your mother that much."

With that he walked away, leaving Ghost and Jon alone in the top of the tower. Jon scowled in anger. He had not meant to reveal his ambitions for the Throne just yet, but how could he not respond when Lord Reed mentioned his Uncle. The very mention of him sent a wave of conflicting thoughts throughout his mind and body. The man risked everything to raise him as one of his own, and had taught him right from wrong. Yet he had lied to him his whole life. Did Ned Stark expect him to demand his fealty the moment he told him of his mother? He probably would have gone for the Wall, or ran away to Essos, before risking his family. Now though, he had no choice. A part of him wished he could just stay in the North, and rule as Jon Stark, but the cold chill of the Wall always reminded him of his purpose. The White Walkers and the Night King were coming, and all of Westeros had to be united. He knew from his talks with Sam and Aemon that his Aunt had a loyal following and perhaps even three dragons in Essos, but he did not know where she was. The last reports had her in Meereen, but Jon did not know if her story was the same in this world. He wished he could send word or aid to her, but he had the North to take care of first. One of the last things Jon had ever heard Aemon say about her was that she was alone with her last relation a thousand miles away. Jon intended to change that one day, hopefully soon.

As he stared off in the distance towards Winterfell, he let his gaze harden and thoughts grow colder. Ghost stood next to him, a silent sentinel.

"Winter comes for you Ramsay Bolton," he muttered under his breath, "Pray to any god that there may be that you die swiftly upon the battlefield, instead of at my hand."

Chapter Text

JON

It was called a Blood Eagle, an ancient tradition of the Old North, back from times before the dragon lords he claimed heritage from had even looked west. A brutal and ruthless way of execution, one that the only the wildest of the Free Folk still used, but Jon felt it appropriate given the circumstances. In the few weeks after taking Karhold, Ramsay had finally made a move, sending two assassins after him. They had expected him to be without aid, with no one at his side. They were fools to think he would go anywhere without Ghost. He had quickly overpowered the two and brought them back to the castle, stripped them of their secrets, and then enacting his wrath upon them. They were from no noble house, being simple commoners. The taller one's name was David, and the balding man was called Dan in his last moments. He watched their corpses sway from Karhold's heart tree, their entrails and organs resting upon the branches, a worthy sacrifice like the First Men used to practice. Ghost looked up and behind him, alerting him to the presence of others.

"Shall I have my men take down the bodies and give them a burial?"

"No. Leave them up there overnight, and then burn their bodies and dump their ashes in the river."

Alys Karstark nodded, giving nothing away of her feelings on the matter. He couldn't blame her. She was practically held captive in her own home, and was almost forcibly married to her uncle for her claim. Then when Jon and his army had come, she wasn't able to do anything but watch as the rest of House Karstark either died in battle, or was executed by Jon himself. He had hoped that Sigorn was still part of this world, but he was not. Nevertheless, he turned to face the newest Lady of Karhold, as well as Howland Reed, Davos Seaworth, and Galbart Glover. Lady Mormont was back at Bear Island, safe with her young daughter Lyanna, and Rickon. When they had stopped at Last Hearth, it had taken years of worry off of Jon's life to finally see his baby brother again. Even when Rickon had called him father, mistaking him for Ned, he didn't let it cloud his mood. A part of him had wanted to send Sansa away, but needed her in case he wanted to send for the Vale, if he needed them. She was still being confined to her room with a large guard around her, but Jon could tell she was behaving differently. An awkward cough drew his attention to Lord Glover, who shuffled from side to side, averting his gaze from the corpses. Jon maneuvered himself so that seeing their bodies behind him was unavoidable.

"Is there something you wished to say, Lord Glover."

"I was wondering if we could take this meeting elsewhere, your Grace."

Jon shook his head once.

"I think not. A godswood is a sacred place, where a man or woman is cursed by the Old Gods if they tell a lie or break a vow," he paused for a moment, letting the words wash over the group before continuing to speak, his gaze heavy upon Lord Galbart, "Your younger brother Robett has written to me and says that Deepwood Motte is free from the Ironborn and Boltons, as well as his son Gawen and daughter Erena safely back home."

A small smile crossed the older man's features.

"I have heard of this as well, your Grace."

"Did you also hear of the many losses that your House suffered during the retaking of your family home? That Lord Robett has regretfully informed me that he can spare only eight hundred hundred men, instead of the three thousand you and I spoke of?"

Jon stared at the Lord of Deepwood Motte straight in the eye, the silence overwhelming everything else. He missed nothing, not the small grimace on Galbart's face, nor the way his eyes averted from the hanging bodies. It only took him a few seconds before his shoulders slumped and he said defeatedly,

"I'm not sure where that number is coming from, but I am sure that if my brother looked closer, we could field a fighting force worthy of our House."

Jon smiled and relaxed, though he called for Ghost to stand next to him. His voice was cold but soft,

"Perhaps you could start by looking a few hours east of your home. That is where Robett is hiding the other twenty two hundred men, at least according to my reports."

It was almost comical the way how Lord Glover paled in fear and began to mumble out apologies, with the rest of the group stepping back. Jon held up a hand, stopping his sputtering.

"You did not lie to me, Lord Glover, so rest assured I will not hold House Glover responsible for this. As your King, I am commanding you to order your younger brother to muster all available forces under House Glover, without exception. He will stay in Deepwood Motte under supervision until I summon him to Winterfell. I also am ordering you to bring the young boy Larence Snow, as well as Gawen Glover to come here to our camp."

"Your Grace, my nephew is but a young boy of barely eleven. He is not of an age to fight."

"I am not intending young Gawen to join the ranks of infantry. Rather I would wish him to be a steward of mine alongside Ned Umber. Perhaps here, he can learn to count better than his father."

Lord Glover gave a pained frown, but nodded all the same, before striding off to deliver the letter. Taking Robett's son from him and making the boy live among the war camp for the next few months would hopefully be enough punishment for the man. He would not however let anything happen to the boy, no matter what his father did. The rest of the meeting passed by uneventfully, the other Lords quick to the point and quite wary of speaking anything but the truth. Jon wondered if he should hold all his important meetings in a Godswood. Finally they all took their leave, and Jon made it to the Lord's solar that Lady Alys had given to him, only to find his sister waiting outside for him, her expression conflicted. She turned to face him as he stopped in front of her.

"May we please speak inside, there is something I need to tell you."

He looked at his sister with a bit of confusion, but nodded slowly and entered the room, sitting down at his desk. Sansa stood for a moment, before straightening her skirt and sat down abruptly. Something was affecting her, but before he could ask what, she began to speak quickly.

"You could have died today, thanks to those assassins. You could have died when we retook Last Hearth and Karhold as well, seeing as you seem to be in the front lines for every fight. And at first I was worried as to how that affected me, and how we would take back our home with you gone, but then I realized that you would be gone, and all I could think about was me."

Jon was silent, waiting for her to continue speaking, sensing that it was not the time to respond.

"That's what I've always done, thought about myself first before others. That's not you though. I mean, you're brutal and ruthless to your enemies in a way that terrifies me, but you're good and kind to those who are loyal. I've been able to do nothing but watch as these people follow you, and I've realized that you're the right person to follow. And I was wrong to doubt you, or to not trust you. I'm sorry, and I want to make it up to you somehow. Please, I'm sorry, brother."

Jon was almost shocked into silence, not able to comprehend what she was saying for a moment. He gave a short nod, the only thing he could say at the moment, and Sansa nodded as well. After a few minutes of silence, he began cautiously,

"There is something I could use your advice on. It's about your time in King's Landing."

"What about it?"

"What was the city like with the Lannisters and Tyrells?"

Her answer was almost instantaneous.

"Volatile, like a cache of wildfire was about to explode at any moment. Cersei hated them, especially Margaery. She felt like she and her family were taking all the power. I've no doubt she still feels the same way, if not more, after everything that's happened."

"You said you wrote with Willas Tyrell for a time, before your marriage to Tyrion. What was he like?"

"According to those who knew him, and the letters he sent back, he seemed to be a good man, or at least a kind one. Why are you asking this?"

Jon leaned back, relaxing only a bit.

"As much as some of the Lords might disagree, we cannot ignore the South, or avoid them. It's nearly impossible to sustain a supply of food for the castles during the winters, and that was with the few glasshouses we once had. Trade with the South and Essos is absolutely vital, especially with the Walkers coming, and Winter being almost upon us. We need an alliance with the South, and the Tyrells do have the most food."

Sansa pursed her lips, her posture uncomfortable.

"Am I to be the method in which you gain this alliance? A marriage between myself and Willas?"

Jon's answer was immediate.

"No, absolutely not. You were forced into two marriages without a choice, and I will be damned if I force you into another. No matter what, if you ever wish to marry, it will be to a man that you chose, whether it be Willas or anyone else. I would see you happy, sister, regardless of whatever benefits may or may not come from it."

Jon could see a few tears of relief fall down his sister's face, but she mastered them quickly, and continued with a puzzled tone.

"Thank you Jon, but how else are we to get the Tyrells to join us?"

Jon gave a cold smile.

"I intend for Cersei to give them to us."

With her mouth wide open and her eyes widened, all Sansa could do for a few seconds was stare in shock at what Jon had just said. He let her sit there, speechless, for a minute before passing her a cup of mead. She drank it down quickly before asking,

"And how in the name of the Seven are you going to do that? You know that Tommen is married to Margaery right?"

"Tommen is a boy, who might not even be able to consummate the marriage. According to you, Cersei hates you, and feels threatened by the Tyrells. So how would you say she would react, were she to somehow learn that you and Willas have been secretly conversing these past few months, making plans to take back your family home and perhaps even continue to fight and kill the Lannisters?"

Sansa raised her eyebrows at this, shock on her face.

"She'd lash out at the closest enemy possible, no matter what the consequences."

"And the closest enemy to her would be the Tyrells. Cersei will drive them away, and they will have no choice but to ally themselves with us in order to survive."

"Or she might wipe them out entirely. What would we do then?"

'Then the Reach would be that much easier to conquer.' thought Jon, but did not say.

"We can try our hands at a new alliance with whoever takes Highgarden. Either way, the Tyrell Lannister alliance will fracture, thus giving us time to deal with Ramsay without aid from the South, and sets the ground for alliances in the future. Now, will you write these letters so I can send them south?"

"Of course brother. Cersei will remember my handwriting," she paused as she grabbed the sheets of parchment, "How exactly are you going to make sure these letters fall into Cersei's hands?"

"I'm going to have them sail southwards and dock in Lannisport, where someone will no doubt read every letter that comes from the North, and inform the Queen Regent. While this is happening, I am sending you in secret to Bear Island. Cersei will try to send assassins after you when she learns of these letters, and I'd rather her not have know where you are. You leave tonight."

For once Sansa didn't fight back or say anything. They shared a tight nod, and she walked away, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts. Her confession had startled him, but he was glad that she had gotten her head out of the clouds her mother had put her in. Sending her to Bear Island to be with Rickon was the smartest thing, as the Mormonts would never betray the Starks. He also knew that they would never betray him either, his relationship with Lord Commander Mormont had made him something like an honorary Mormont according to Lady Maege. He had intended for them to keep watch over his sister, but now he wondered differently. The only time he was worried about keeping an eye on her was going to be when she came face to face with the prisoner on Bear Island. Jon had sent Baelish there weeks ago, and so far the information they had been aggressively asking of him had been enlightening to say the least. There was a letter to Sansa waiting for her there, explaining his secrecy with Littlefinger, one he hoped she would accept. If she didn't and tried to conspire with Baelish for even a second, then they both would be together in the cells.

As he got ready for bed, Jon's mind began to drift towards an awkward topic, that being marriage. It was something he had never dreamed of being possible, but now as a Stark and King, it was almost expected of him to find a wife and heir. Truthfully what he wanted was a family, regardless of how many, if any children, they had. He had long made his peace with not siring children or finding love. Very briefly he wondered if the other Jon Snow had actually loved Ygritte, or had he too realized it had only been lust and infatuation. Regardless, he knew now he had to think about potential alliances. Alys Karstark would be a logical choice, rebuilding the bridge between the two families. He remembered vaguely that the Manderlys had either one or two granddaughters near his and Robb's age, but first he would have to free White Harbor from their Frey guests. A bolder part of him wondered if the Tyrells would offer Margaery to the King in the North if their alliance with the Lannisters fell apart. Suddenly a cold chill seemed to fill the room and froze all his thoughts about the other potential queens, as Jon's thoughts drifted towards his Aunt. With three dragons and an army of Essosi soldiers, he knew without a doubt for some reason that she would be coming back to reclaim the Throne. If he was able to get the North, Vale, and the Riverlands under his command, then she might view him as a threat, especially once he told her the truth about himself. So what better way to alleviate her concerns than to propose marriage between the two? Only a fool would not think of marriage being the best option between the two. With that his mind fell quickly to sleep, his dreams filled with silver hair and violet eyes.

BLOODRAVEN

Brynden nodded in satisfaction before pulling himself out of his distant kinsman's mind, the icy chill of his magic still filling the bedchambers. He found himself back on his throne in the Weirwood roots, silence covering all, save for the satisfying sounds of the broken wolf crying beneath him. Hope was once the feeling he had felt towards the boy known as Brandon Stark, hope that he could pass on this cursed mantle and rest with his family. All that hope had turned to ash when he had looked to the future, and saw the horror that his heir would inflict. He had pulled back from that vision in shock, and took quick action. The boy's companions were subdued and taken deeper into the cave, where they could not interfere with Bloodraven's new plan. He ensnared the Stark boy and drew his powerful blood to shatter the past and bring the other, better, version of his distant kinsman into this world. The one he had been watching had become a disappointment as well, clinging far too much to honor like a babe to it's mother's breast, if he had known the feeling. The sound of the boy's pleading moved him not, though he did peer down with his one eye to listen to his words.

"I don't understand," the boy sobbed in weakened pain, "You said I was to fly."

"You were supposed to only watch the world, not to interfere. I had thought the loss of your legs would have tempered your childhood impulses, but clearly I was mistaken. Either way, you will serve a purpose, even if it is no longer as my heir."

If the boy could still scream, he would have as Brynden forced the roots deeper into his veins, drawing out the potent magical blood of the First Men. He had needed it for his spells in order to stay ahead of the Others, forcing them back into their cold chambers that they had been resting in for the past eight thousand years. But the boy was a withered husk, and would soon perish. He needed more time, time to get both of his kinsmen back to where they belonged. They were the only ones who could truly defeat his sworn enemy and rival. The Stark girl had only destroyed his physical form in that timeline that he would never let pass. He had stayed long enough in that world to watch the Night King reform beyond the Wall, and begin his conquest again, this time unable to be stopped. As much as Brynden wanted to curse the Silver Prince's foolishness, he had at least forged Lightbringer the right way. To think people had translated the ancient prophecy to be an actual sword, and not the wielder itself. Not even Dark Sister, resting beneath him in the cave, could rise from the ground and slay a foe. It had to be wielded. Suddenly a thought crossed into his mind, and he called forth for the one other person who could hear him, regardless of where she was. In an instant her familiar voice and presence filled the room, though her face remained hidden beneath that red lacquer mask.

"What happened to defeating the Others, no matter the cost?"

"Not at the cost of our family Shiera. I sacrificed far too much for them to see them fall simply because of those uncultured Andals and First Men."

"Are you sure you know what you are doing Brynden? The last time you tried to interfere, you helped break the mind of the Prince's grandfather."

Brynden shrugged, his guilt nowhere to be seen, for he had none.

"Aerys was already half mad from his torture and upbringing, and I had a chance to prepare Westeros for the threat I had only just learned of. I was new to this power, and have spent the time preparing myself to do better. With the Prince's mind from a different realm, the only affects he feels is a cold chill that he believes is from the Wall."

"You seem to have everything figured out then."

He scowled with his one eye at her, the tone in her voice still annoying him, though he was glad she could still make him feel things.

"Westeros and the North are my domain, but the shadowbinders and red priests have fouled the currents of magic in Essos, making me unable to reach out and advise our other kin there, though you can."

"The Mother of Dragons believes me to be a woman who cannot be trusted. How do you expect me to do advise her?"

If the tree had not grown into and through his arms, he would have thrown them up in frustration. Shiera always knew how to press him to the point of madness with her questions.

"Someone has to. Her only advisers are a treacherous Lyseni spy whose allegiance changes faster than the current, and a drunken whore monger who eyes are only towards the power he can wield. We need her here Shiera, and we need them together. In all the times you and I have peered into the future, their alliance is the only thing that keeps this world from turning to darkness. We have to interfere."

His once great love was silent for the longest time, but Brynden was patient. It was all he ever could be, patient. He had waited and watched for dozens of years, wasting away upon this damned tree, sustained only by the magic of the Children. After what seemed like hours, Shiera finally gave a short nod, her voice serious for once.

"I will do what I can to aid her, and hopefully be at her side when she sails for home."

Brynden nodded and gave a small smile,

"Thank you Shiera. Take Visenya's sword and gift it to her as a way of gaining her trust."

She looked to the ground where the sword lay almost forgotten and smirked.

"I wondered where it had gone. How many other spells have you placed upon the blade Brynden."

Silence greeted her question, and he could still imagine her pout as she failed to get her way. He could also imagine her sly smile as she gazed into the pool nearby, the surface rippling without a breeze.

"I see you are giving the Prince very sweet dreams indeed. Is that the boat ride they shared? Where is he in the waking world?"

He nodded once.

"Had I done nothing, the Prince might have done something foolish and pledged himself to another, and thus damn the Targaryen line to perish. They are the only ones who can bear each other's children, and they will. As of right now, he is planning on sailing to save the exiles from the Reach by riding their city of the Twins."

Brynden Rivers had sacrificed far too much for his family to see it fade away when he could have done something. He had slaughtered and betrayed kin for his House, sold his soul to sorcery, and sacrificed his very body in order to defend House Targaryen, all to make sure they thrived. He would continue to do so, no matter what. His family, and his family alone, was what truly mattered to him.

Chapter Text

DAENERYS

"I am struggling to see any sort of intelligence in your plans, Lord Tyrion. What exactly were you expecting when you tried to make a deal with the slave masters? That they would smile and walk away with their purses and bellies full? Were you even thinking at all?"

Daenerys scowled as the Lannister seemed to shrug off her complaints, taking a deep swig of wine before answering in a patronizing tone,

"I cannot predict the actions of every man, and I thought that their greed for wealth would override any other desires, such as vengeance. How was I to know that they would attack the city?"

"If you had spent time with the people here, you may have had better insight. Instead you make a deal with slave masters in my name, giving them wealth, and allowing them to continue the vile practice of slavery. Had I not arrived with the Dothraki and my dragons yesterday, who knows what I may have found. How many civilians died when the Sons of the Harpy attacked Meereen from the inside?"

Tyrion had no answer for her, but it was Ser Barristan who quietly responded,

"The number is around two hundred and forty seven, your Grace, though it may be rising."

A wave of nausea and horror spread across Daenerys as she thought of those that had died, wishing she could have done something to save them. She opened her eyes to see Tyrion looking uncaring towards the number her Queensguard had just given, and she could feel the fire burning within.

"You will spend the next few weeks overseeing the burials of each and every civilian who died during the siege, and will personally help dig their graves. Until the last is buried, you will sleep with the people outside the pyramids, nor will you have any place in my council."

It was Tyrion's turn to scowl as he looked incredulously at her.

"My talents are far better suited towards advising instead of grave-digging."

Daenerys stood from the desk and walked towards the balcony, dismissing the Lannister with her words,

"You will do as I command, or you may remain here in Meereen under guard when I leave for Westeros, and Casterly Rock can go to whoever I see fit. Leave the Pyramid and begin your duties as a grave-digger tonight, Lord Tyrion."

She did not turn around as a chair was pushed back and a door closed shut, letting the warm winds envelop her for a moment. There was the chinking of chain mail as Ser Barristan walked out onto the balcony as well, and she turned to face him, her voice questioning.

"Was I too severe with Lord Tyrion?"

The older knight paused for a moment, but Daenerys waited patiently. He knew above all else that she valued honest council over false praise or blind loyalty.

"It was a unique but just punishment. How did you come up with the idea, your Grace?"

"A feeling I had. Tyrion Lannister's pride is far too big, and it is not something I can use to my advantage. A few weeks among the people should help with that."

Barristan nodded, but said nothing more. In truth, Dany herself wasn't sure where the thought had come from, but ever since she had emerged from the fire in Vaes Dothrak, things had felt differently for her. They were subtle, but like that night her children had hatched, she had felt reborn once more. Ser Barristan coughed a moment, before saying almost begrudgingly,

"I am sorry to hear that Ser Jorah and Daario were not able to return with you to Meereen."

"If this is a cure, then Jorah will find it. As for Daario, the less said the better."

A few nights after Dany had rallied the Dothraki with Drogon, they had thrown a large party on the ride back to Meereen. That night she had danced freely among her people, able to shed the heavy weight of being a queen for but a few hours. There was a moment that she felt the desire to seek out her lover like she had normally done, but when she went to look for him, he was nowhere to be found. The following morning her new bloodriders had brought her to the field where they kept their horses. Apparently in his drunkeness, the sellsword had wandered far too close to the herd and had been trampled overnight, with birds eating at his corpse. Strangely enough, the Dothraki that had been on the other side of the field had said that the horses seemed to almost charge at the man intentionally, though he did not believe that to be possible. She cleared her thoughts of him, an easier feat than she had once thought, and smiled at her loyal knight.

"The hour is late Ser Barristan, and I would rest. Grey Worm and Blue Snail can take up guard duty tonight."

"Your Grace, I am sworn to protect you."

Dany reached over and put her hand upon his arm.

"Ser Barristan you are only just recovering from your wounds you received from that ambush. You must rest and recover. I will call for you tomorrow when I meet with the Greyjoys."

With that Ser Barristan finally nodded and walked away, leaving Dany alone. For a moment she sat next to the fireplace, content to let the evening pass. Eventually though she turned to bed, alone for the first time in many weeks. That did not last too long, for almost as soon as sleep found her, so did her shadowy lover. Her reunion with him felt different than the times before, more clearer and real. A familiar rocking sensation of being on a boat was added to the dream she was not entirely sure she alone had conjured up. She could feel his warm body pressed up behind her, an arm draped possessively across her body, fingers sprayed across her stomach. Closing her eyes at the thought of a child, she instead turned her head to capture the lips of the strange yet familiar man sharing her dream. As it always did, the kiss was an experience all of itself, though she soon found herself wanting more. Suddenly her shadow lover pulled away and maneuvered till he was leaning over her, and there was an odd feeling in the air, something that reminded her of her time in the House of the Undying. Fearing sorcery, Daenerys willed her eyes to open, only to see dark grey eyes staring down at her with an expression so tender and caring, she almost shed tears upon witnessing it. Finally she could see his eyes.

The next morning as she awaited the Greyjoys, her shadowy lover's grey eyes did not leave her mind. Fearing her mind wandering during the crucial meeting, she gathered her courage and called out softly to Ser Barristan.

"I have an odd question for you, Ser Barristan."

"Whatever it is, you may ask, your Grace."

"Is there a House or region in Westeros where the people have grey eyes?"

She could see the old knight visibly react with shock, but mustered it quickly. For a moment, she thought him about to lie, the signs on the noble knight all too easy to tell, but then his shoulders sagged and he spoke clearly.

"Grey eyes are a very common trait of House Stark, your Grace."

Before she could process that, the doors were opened and two Greyjoys walked into the room, followed by two other very shocking people that Daenerys was surprised to see. Quaithe, with her red mask and all seeing eyes stood before her, a beautiful sword at her hips. Her gaze however, was directed at the young girl standing next to her, for she had almost the exact color eyes as the ones from the man she had been dreaming of.

JON

He woke up with a start, hand grasping a dagger, almost plunging it into the poor fools neck. He soon realized it was Davos he had grabbed, and quickly pulled away, mumbling an apology.

"It's alright your Grace, I should have known better than to startle you."

"What's happening?"

Davos frowned for a small second, but shook his head and continued speaking,

"Jarick says one of his men has, well he says he's seen something. We're waiting in the command tent across the way."

As Davos stepped out of his tent, Jon fell back to the furs for a moment, catching his breath. Even though it was only a dream, he still could almost feel the aches, bites, and scratch marks he had marked his Aunt with while she did the same to him. Ever since Karhold, his dreams had been filled with her silver hair and violet eyes, the slow rocking of the boat being the only other constant, apart from the fucking. He wished he could go right back to sleep in the hope that he would find her on that boat again. A part of him wondered if he should be feeling disgusted by their relations, but he wasn't a naive idiot. Every House in Westeros had married within their families, including the Starks. He would have to be an imbecile to claim that as the reason why he couldn't want her. Regardless, he didn't even know if this vision of silver hair and purple eyes was in fact his Aunt, or just his imagination building some beautiful woman in his mind. Strange as it sounded, he couldn't help but feel that it was his Aunt he was dreaming of. Knowing his advisers awaited him, he shook himself out of the haze and quickly got dressed, strapping Longclaw to his side and marching over to the command tent.

The group that were standing over the map were of a grim mood, and in an instant he could see why. Markers depicting the flayed man were being placed on the road towards the Dreadfort, the very place they were heading towards. Jarick was there as well, moving pieces instead of the others.

"Your warg scouts saw something Jarick?"

"Aye, king crow. They're sending an army to support the Dreadfort. They'll be here in a few days."

"How many soldiers?" asked Lord Umber.

Jarick shrugged,

"Animals don't know how to count. It looked like a lot more were leaving Winterfell than those staying though. I'd say over half for sure."

"Then their army numbers anywhere from three to four thousand," said Lord Glover, "Your Grace, if we were to position our soldiers near the Lonely Hills, we can stand and face them."

Jon shook his head to the surprise of the group,

"We won't be facing them in battle, at least not yet."

"Your Grace, I know the plan was to sneak by the Dreadfort and make your way to White Harbor by way of Widow's Watch, but with their army coming down on us, we can't ignore them."

"I have no intentions of ignoring this army. If Jarick is right, then Ramsay has sent the majority of his forces in order to defend his home. When we defeat them, there will only be a skeleton force remaining in Winterfell. Tormund, do you think your people can fight in this terrain, the way the Free Folk fight?"

Tormund grunted and moved closer to the map, with Mors Umber begrudgingly letting him through. He took a moment to look at the map before nodding at Jon.

"These hills are similar to the ones we used to hunt in up in the real North. You want us to set up a surprise for them Flayed Men?"

"Aye. Take a few hundred of the Free Folk and hide in the hills. I want you to bleed them every step of the way Tormund, but I don't want you fighting them, you understand? Hit them on the road a few times, and then run. When they sleep, burn their tents, poison their food, and take their horses. It's the beginning of Winter, and your people know how to fight better in these conditions than anyone else. Do that for a few days, and hurt them as much as you can, but then fall back."

Tormund nodded, and walked off to grab the men and women he was taking on his raid. There was silence in the command tent for a moment as everyone stared at Jon in surprise.

"Do you have anything to say?"

Most of them averted their eyes for a moment, but Lord Umber and Glover finally met his gaze, and Jon could see a bit of respect and caution in their eyes.

"A bold plan, your Grace, though it is a dishonorable one."

"This is war. I can worry about honor in peace time, but for now I intend to win. If you have a problem with that, you can go home, and await the fate of traitors."

"That's not what we are saying, your Grace. It's just that, you're reminding of us of your Grandfather, when we were boys with your Uncle Brandon."

Jon nodded in thanks before looking at the map, growling in frustration.

"We need to get to White Harbor as quick as possible to stop those weddings of the Freys and his Granddaughters. He'll be honor bound to fight against us, or to at least stay neutral. But if we don't stop this army, they'll hound us all the way to the Neck."

No one spoke for a moment as they all gazed at the map, until Davos Seaworth stepped forward, peering closely at the Dreadfort. He spoke quietly,

"The Weeping Water, how close does it get to the walls of the Dreadfort?"

"Close enough to make a run for it if you're desperate, but it's flat and open ground. If anyone was looking, they'd easily be seen." grumbled Hother Umber.

"What if they weren't looking? What if everyone in the Dreadfort was looking at the other wall?"

"What are you saying, Ser Davos?"

"If your wildling allies can hold off the Bolton army in the Lonely Hills long enough, we can make our way to the Dreadfort, on the side opposite of the river. I know there's some supply vessels hugging the coast, and I reckon we can get one to come to shore, and then up this river while the siege is going on."

Jon smiled, glad to see that his trust in the Onion Knight was paying off. He quietly moved the Stark wolf figurines to their places, but put a single one right next to the Dreadfort.

"Can you get a ship close enough?"

"It'd probably be a few small boats, but I reckon I can do it. Hells, I made it past the Redwyne blockade of Storm's End, and they were looking for me."

. . . . . . . . .

Blood was all Jon could see as his blade cut through a man's throat, ending his life in a flash. Without hesitation, he ducked, narrowly missing the swing of an axe, before kicking the Bolton soldier off the walls of the Dreadfort. Everyone had protested when Jon himself had volunteered for the group to scale the walls, but he had listened to none of them, and had simply gotten on the boat. Davos' skill with getting into places unseen, as well as his idea to distract the Dreadfort had paid off extremely well, and Jon had killed almost three men before the alarm had been raised. A few Glover and Umber men had rushed to the Gatehouse, aided by a cook's servant who had defected, while Jon and the others held off the paltry sum of soldiers within the Dreadfort. The sounds of a pitched battle on the other side of the castle were still faint, though Jon thought he could hear the noises getting closer. He took a moment to look around, and saw a tall man with steel greaves on his legs bellowing out orders, and Jon knew who his next victim was.

Their fight was brief, the man never seeing Jon coming up from behind him and removing his head with a single swipe. The others around him had tried to resist, but his blade and cold fury had cut them down not too long after. A few of them even began to throw down their weapons, and soon enough, he could see the his commanders and their soldiers swarming the castle, the gates having been opened. Ghost was with them, and Jon quietly knelt to bury his hand in his direwolf's fur, allowing the familiar presence to center him. As he turned to face those on their knees, he could see and almost feel them flinch in fear. Galbart Glover and Mors Umber walked up to him, their faces grim with a trace of that fear as well poorly hidden in their eyes.

"Your Wildling, Tormund," muttered Mors, "He found us right before the siege began yesterday. His men spent the last few days ambushing and slaughtering the Bolton army down to less than a thousand. The few that survived were limping their way back to Winterfell. No doubt about it, Ramsay is going to be angry at that."

There was an almost feral grin on Jon's face.

"I intend to make him even angrier. Gather everyone in the Dreadfort and take them outside its walls. Strip the castle of any of its valuables and then dump the pitch and oil everywhere."

"Your Grace?"

"Burn it all to the ground. I want the flames to burn so bright that Winterfell can see them. I want Ramsay to be able to do nothing but watch as the home he was denied burns to the ground."

Jon stood watching from the banks of the Weeping Water as the Dreadfort burned brightly, turning the nearby night sky almost as bright as day. He said nothing as Gawen Glover and Ned Umber wordlessly carried a heavy wooden stump and placed it next to him, their youthful expressions somber and grim. Finally Jon turned around to see the soldiers of the Dreadfort standing in chains and binds, staring in fear and horror. He supposed he did cast a fearful sight, his body outlined by the flames of the Dreadfort behind him with Ghost at his side. He motioned once towards the wooden stump, and said in a loud voice that carried over the crackling of the flames.

"You have two choices. Either you kneel and take the black, or you kneel and I take your head. Either way, you will kneel."

The prisoners began to mutter among themselves for a moment, but soon enough a good portion of them slowly knelt with their heads bowed. Jon waited for one more long minute as he stared at those defiantly standing before sighing and nodding. Longclaw severed twenty seven heads that night, not including the one belonging to the commander. That entire time, Jon said nothing but the rites of Last Words, and listened to none of the begging or pleading, which soon began after the fifth or sixth execution. They had made their choice, and mercy was not something he was about to show to any traitor. When it was over, he passed his sword to his stewards, and walked over to the wide eyed Onion Knight.

"How soon till we can set sail down the river?"

"A few hours, your Grace."

"See to it that preparations take only an hour. We have a Frey wedding to ruin in White Harbor after all."

Chapter Text

JON

For the first time in the week or so that they had been sailing, the skies were finally clear, prompting most of the crew and passengers to go out and enjoy what little sun shown upon the wooden deck. As usual, Jon's gaze was fixed towards the North, towards the Wall, but he also glanced in the direction of Winterfell. According to Jarick, and the many small animals that he and his group were watching through, Ramsay was furious when he had learned of the Dreadfort burning, and had flayed over a dozen commoners from Winter Town in some sort of retaliation. Hother was worried about SmallJon, who was still a guest, but Jon wasn't. Ramsay knew the worth of a hostage, at least he hoped he did. Jon certainly knew how much a hostage was worth, as he watched Gawen Glover spar with his friend Larence on the main deck.

Gawen had taken well to his duties as a steward, forming a close friendship with Ned Umber, SmallJon's son. Ned was still on the mainland with the rest of Jon's army as they began the slow march to Winterfell, but Gawen went with him. As he watched the two spar, Galbart Glover stepped up next to him, standing straight as Jon leaned on the railing.

"Your nephew is a quick learner, and he and Larence seem to be good friends."

"Aye your Grace, they've grown up together for quite awhile, since I agreed to raised the lad. He's a good man."

Jon glanced over at him, making sure that Galbart caught his gaze.

"Isn't he Halys Hornwood's only remaining son?"

"He is, your Grace. He's young, but has a good head on his shoulders, and is very loyal. If you're asking me if he should be Larence Hornwood, then I'd be inclined to agree."

Jon gave a short nod,

"Politically it makes sense, the Hornwood lands have been contested for far too long. I would like to speak with him later after White Harbor, but if you vouch for his character, than I don't see why we cannot at least prepare a letter of legitimization."

After watching them spar for a little longer, Jon made his way to the main cabin where he was sleeping in. It was far too big a room for him, but the captain had insisted, and Jon was impatient to get going. He sat down with a sigh, looking once more at the open scroll that had been given to him at Widow's Watch.

Your Grace,
As you commanded, your sister was shown Baelish to be alive, and was given the room, with listeners at the walls. Fortunately, she remained true to you, and would not even consider listening to that snake of a man. In his desperation, he mentioned a few things to her that he had not yet told our questioners. When he was still in King's Landing, there was talk of the Kingslayer being sent to break the Siege of Riverrun, and that Edmure Tully has been sent to the camps, and his wife and young son still remain at the Twins. Torrhen's Square flys your banner once more, but our siege of Barrowton is still underway, but Lady Dustin has few men loyal to her, and we can spare men to aid Riverrun.
Maege Mormont, Lady of Bear Island

He had stared at that letter for almost a week now, wondering what he could do and knowing that the time to do something was running out. Jon knew that part of Robb's problem was that he had stayed too long in the Riverlands, and it had bled the North to the point of near destruction. Could he ignore that part of his Kingdom while he regained the North? The vindictive part of him wanted to let the Lannisters burn Lady Stark's home to the ground, and let the Tully name disappear. Catelyn Stark's family would never support him, her brother and Uncle would no doubt rise up to proclaim Sansa or Rickon as Robb's real heir. Brynden Tully may be a capable commander, but he would never serve Jon, not while Sansa or Rickon still lived. Edmure Tully would not do so either. Suddenly a cold thought entered his mind, and Jon sat back in his chair, letting the bile rise in his throat as he considered the idea. It would be no doubt be considered cruel and dark if it failed, but he could at least make an attempt to sway the Riverlands to his side. If not that, then it would certainly put a wrench in the Lannister's plans. Jon looked over to where Jarrick's large eagle was sitting on his perch, sleeping peacefully. The wildling skinchanger left his companion with Jon to keep up with any information he may learn on the mainland, warging into the bird every hour to see if there was a message on his leg. Jon quickly grabbed a parchment and quill and wrote out the words and tied it to the bird. After a short time of waiting, the eagle stiffened, looked down at it's leg, and flew out of the open window. Jon's sleep that night was short and fitful, though the presence of his silver haired Aunt comforted him.

It was a few days later that found Jon standing alone on the beach, the white walls of White Harbor standing tall before them. He flexed his right hand, wishing to have the comforting presence of Ghost nearby, but knowing his presence would be too risky. He stared into the city, trying to will the Onion Knight back into existence. He had left only an hour ago, promising to find someone to let the Manderlys know that their King had arrived. Jon hoped he would not see Davos' hand and head upon the walls. Another hour or so passed before a small group of men came walking out of the foggy morning, their movement rushed. Jon pulled out Longclaw and prepared for a fight, but he relaxed when he saw Davos at the center of the group and unharmed.

"Your Grace, these men will be escorting us to a meeting with Lord Manderly in the Wolf's Den. It would seem that many things have changed during our voyage at sea."

The men dipped their heads in respect, and Jon nodded in return before motioning for them to lead the way to a well hidden sewer entrance at the mouth of the White Knife. It was about an hour or more of slow moving through the sludge of the tunnel, though Jon didn't complain, before they reached a single ladder. A few men went up first, then Ser Davos was close behind Jon. He quickly recognized the dark rooms of the now prison of White Harbor, and could even see the roots of the weirwood tree in the corners. At the doorway was a man with one eye and one leg waiting for them. Davos leaned over and began to whisper in Jon's ear,

"That's Ser Bartimus, the castellan of the Wolf's Den."

The older man shook Jon's head, then jerked his head behind him and walked off, leaving Jon to shrug and follow. Finally they made it to the godwood, where Jon could see that Lord Manderly was sitting near the tree. Jon relaxed only a small bit, at least until he saw the huddled forms of the men bound and gagged nearby. He raised an eyebrow in question towards Lord Manderly, who merely smiled and then struggled to get off his chair and bend the knee. Once he did so, he began to speak,

"Your Grace, on behalf of House Manderly and as proof of our loyalty to you, may I present Rhaegar, Symund, and Jared of House Frey, to do with as you may please."

"Rise, Lord Manderly, I thank you for your loyalty. Though, I am confused towards the reasoning of your gift. Were these not the men who were keeping you from pledging your loyalty before due to their betrothals to your granddaughters?"

Wyman Manderly paused to catch his breath before grinning at Jon.

"In an ironic turn of events, Ramsay Bolton has actually helped our cause, my King."

"How so?"

"When word of the burning of the Dreadfort reached Winterfell, Ramsay sent word to the Houses that you had killed the Lady Sansa, and was looking for a true northern bride once more. I offered mine, and he promptly called off the weddings of my Granddaughters. Lord Ramsay is, in fact, on his way to White Harbor as we speak, and may be arriving in a few days."

Jon's eyes widened in surprise. He had hoped that Ramsay would try to attack them outside of Winterfell, but had not even considered the idea of him doing this of all things. If he was almost to White Harbor, Jon could end the war without even battling for Winterfell. He looked over to Lord Manderly, who seemed to be staring intently at him.

"What are you looking for, Lord Manderly? Some trace of my unknown mother perhaps?"

"No, no, your Grace. I am only now just realizing how much you look like,"

"My father?" interrupted Jon.

Wyman stared at him for another moment, before nodding slowly.

"Aye, you have the true look of a Stark, something I'm sure your father was glad of."

Jon's blood chilled at the wording of the Lord of White Harbor, and he quickly turned his attention to the men chained on the ground. All three of them had already soiled themselves when they saw his cold face and as he drew Longclaw. Jon's voice was calm, a direct contrast to the maelstrom of emotions coursing through his body at the moment.

"Ungag them, Lord Manderly, so that they may speak their final words. I'll not spend another second in a room with any Frey without spilling their blood."

A guard was quick to pull the cloth from their mouth, and of course they began to beg for mercy. Jon silence one of them by burying his blade in the man's throat, letting the others be covered in their kin's blood.

"You dare ask for mercy? Mercy? How many Northerners asked for the same at the Red Wedding? Did you give them mercy, or did you simply slit their throats and move on to the next victim. No, the only mercy I will give you is a quick death here and now, instead of the retribution I have planned for the rest of your House."

When it was over, Lord Manderly stood beside Jon, silent for a moment before he began to softly speak,

"You know, when I heard of your campaign, I must admit I was hesitant to join it. Your father and brother were good men, but honorable ones, and that honor is what cost them their lives. They couldn't or simply wouldn't make the hard decisions. It gladden me to see that the North will be in the hands of someone who can make those choices. Seven know we need it."

"I agree with you on that. The North has suffered for far too long. May we send word to the ship I arrived on that it is safe to dock?"

Lord Manderly nodded,

"Unfortunately there are too many spies in the harbor and docks, so we will have to bring them up from here. Fortunately there is a hidden pathway from the Wolf's Den to New Castle. I have a warm meal and beds waiting for all of you there."

Jon grinned and shook the Lord of White Harbor's hand.

"If you throw in a bone for my direwolf, you may become his second best friend. The sea is not a good place for a direwolf."

"Then we shall have to find the largest bone for your brave companion. Let none say that House Manderly treated their King's favorite pet with anything less than what it deserves."

Later that evening Jon excused himself from the generous feast Lord Manderly had thrown for him and the lords that had come with them. They dined in his private solar, due to the potential spies in White Harbor, though Jon had given Marlon Manderly, the captain of the city guard, leave to wipe them out. As Jon made his way to the open balcony overlooking the sea and city beneath them, he clenched his scarred hand a few times, letting the pain center him once more. He was not so well versed in politics, or speaking out of the sides of one's mouth, but he knew somethings. After all he had negotiated a contract with the Iron Bank. Wyman Manderly however was a different beast altogether. He had offered up either of his granddaughters as potential brides to the new King nearly eight times, as far as Jon could tell, though it was probably more than that. Every time Jon had politely refused to speak of the matter, citing dozens of different reasons, though Manderly was nothing if not persistent. Even when he, Lord Glover, and Lord Reed had all spoken of the Army of the Dead, the Lord of White Harbor had not backed down, daring to remind Jon of his Uncle's marriage to Lady Stark to gain the army of the Riverlands. That was when Jon had snapped, reminding Lord Manderly that that had been to gain the loyalty of a separate kingdom, not the loyalty of a banner man that had already pledged fealty to his king, and had walked off.

Now alone, he began to think of Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly, choosing to ignore the cold chill that spread through his veins. It was a good match, and would do well towards gaining the support of the North. But as they had been these past few weeks, his thoughts drifted towards his family across the Narrow Sea. Jon was no fool, and he knew that he would need the South to fight the Army of the Dead, let alone survive the winter. He would make sure to kill any Lannister he came across, but the rest of the southerners would be given a chance. A small part of him wished that he could just show a wight to them and they would all realize the true threat, but he just knew that wasn't possible. The South only truly listened to the person on the Iron Throne. He didn't want it, nor did he wish to kill living people for a heap of swords, but he knew that he had to, and he would. Jon knew that he could probably gain a great deal of support by revealing his name and identity to the world, backed by the papers that Howland Reed had given to him begrudgingly. Many a former loyalist would leap at the chance to see House Targaryen back upon the Throne, especially a man who had grown up in Westeros and raised by a man of honor. But Jon knew that many a former loyalist would also leap at the chance to prove their loyalty to him by removing what they believed to be a threat to his reign, his Aunt. Jon would rather be back in the cold embrace of the knives of his brothers than cause their family name to hurt what little family he had left. He didn't know how, and he didn't know when, but he had to let Daenerys know of who he really was before anyone else. They were family after all. Together they could work out the politics and claims. That night his sleep was peaceful, his dream filled with the gentle rocking of the boat.

The next morning filled Jon with cold resolve. Today was the day that the Bolton bastard's retinue were to arrive at White Harbor. He quickly walked down to the meeting hall, where the Lords of the North were busy discussing ways to lower Ramsay's guard and arrest him. Jon shook his head in surprise and called out.

"There will be no plots of arresting and detaining the man that helped destroy my family. He dies, my lords."

"Of this we agree, but we must at least hold a trial, to show that,"

Jon shook his head once,

"No. This is his trial, and this is his sentence. I, Jon Stark, King in the North, do hereby sentence Ramsay Snow to death."

The room was silent for a few minutes, watching Jon with shock in their expressions. He stood over the table, looking at the map of the city and surrounding landscape. Finally he spoke up in a soft voice,

"Ser Marlon."

The tall knight stepped forward, his distinct helm held at his waist.

"Yes your Grace."

"I have three requests of you."

Jon ignored the way how the man looked towards his cousin Wyman first, but took note of it.

"If it within my power, then I shall accomplish whatever you wish."

"Thank you. The first order is that you are to find and gather up any and all spies in this city that you believe are working for the Lannisters. They will be questioned extensively, and then their heads will decorate the walls of the city. The second is that I require a suit of armor in the fashion of the city watch to fit my measurements, as well as a helmet that covers my features and face. When we meet with Ramsay, I will be there."

"Both of those requests can be done, your Grace. What is the third?"

Jon was quiet, thinking over his next words. He had only just thought of his idea in the morning, though he was unsure of where it had come from. The only cold thing he was certain of was that it would change everything. No longer would anyone even think to compare him to his Uncle, for Ned Stark would rather cut his own head off than even consider this. It was that thought that strengthened his resolve, and he looked Ser Marlon straight in the eye and said,

"A small company of the city's most skilled marksmen, be they from the watch or mere hunters. The only thing I am looking for is their skill with a bow, and their ability to follow commands without question."

RAMSAY

The last thing Ramsay Bolton saw was the cold look in the Jon's eyes as he dropped his hand down. They were all waiting on horseback outside the city, forcing the Bolton riders to stop well outside the gates. He had begun to demand his bride to come out, only for one of the guards to remove their helmet, revealing the dark hair and grey eyes. He had not risen his taunts, nor spoken a single word, only raised his hand in the air as if in greeting, and then let it fall to his side. The first arrow struck him above his hip, the sharp pain shocking him to silence. The second arrow hit his thigh, and other hit his shoulder. The rest of them found their mark in his body, as well as the chests of the men he had come with. For some reason, Ramsay found himself on the ground, pinned to the dirt by his horse, with his wife's bastard brother looking down at him, and a low growl, something much deeper and darker than his dogs. The bastard king leaned over, and whispered softly and coldly in his ear, causing Ramsay to strain to listen.

"Winterfell is mine bastard, as is the rest of the North. You and your treacherous house will become nothing but dust and ashes, not even enough to sing a song about."

With that he pushed away from Ramsay, mounting up on his horse before saying something to someone behind him, and the last thing he felt was the sharp and hot pain of fangs upon his face as he screamed into the silent wind.

Chapter Text

JON

It felt odd, wearing Robb's crown and sitting on the Throne of Winter, his uncle's seat. When all the lords knelt before him and then Rickon, he felt like he was watching their oaths of fealty from a distance. There was a strong sense of pride in what he accomplished, but for some reason it still felt hollow. Coming home to Winterfell was once all he ever wanted, but now that it was reality and not fantasy, he felt empty. At least he did until he looked over to his little brother. Someone had attempted to tame the mop of wild hair that the youngest Stark took great pride in to some degree of normalcy. At least he wasn't wearing the same fur clothes he refused to part from when he saw him last, and instead wore a tunic with the Stark emblem upon it, the same as Jon. That was also strange for him, the stitched direwolf weighing heavily upon his chest. It should be a dragon there instead, he thought, that was the true symbol. Shaking his head, Jon reached for his cup and stood, silencing most of the Hall, though the rest soon followed as they listened to their king speak,

"At long last, my Lords and Ladies, the North is free from tyranny once more. Against all odds you have kept faith with House Stark, and I swear that faith will never be misplaced. To the North!"

Eager for anything to cheer and drink about, the Northmen sloshed their cups together and cried out in jubilation. Jon wondered if they would still cheer if he praised a sandstorm in Dorne, he suspected they would. He wondered if they would cheer for his next proclamation, but there was no time to second guess himself. He looked over at the door and nodded, sending two of his loyal men down to the dungeons.

"Winter is almost upon us, and while I would wish for nothing more than to weather the cold safe behind these walls, that is something that cannot happen. As you all know, the Night King and his horde of dead creatures are marching upon us, and the Long Night will soon be here. We will be preparing as best we can for that fight, but in the meantime, there are some debts that we as Northmen need to settle. The Boltons are dead and ash, but the Lannisters and Freys are still among the living, still living in peace atop the mound of bodies they butchered, good Northern sons and daughters."

Jon could practically feel the room shift, the pain and grief turning into something violent and dangerous. He could see that everyone was looking at him, wanting him to say the words they had prayed for ever since the Red Wedding.

"The North Remembers, my lords and ladies, the North remembers. I don't know about you all, but I curse everyday that I have spend breathing the same air a Frey or Lannister breathes as well. Fortunately for us, it would seem that almost all of the Freys have regathered at the Twins, content on drinking and feasting for the next few weeks. I reckon we should probably join them for that feast, give them a good taste of proper Northern hospitality."

Everyone cheered again and banged their cups against the table, but Jon looked towards Lord Royce, catching his gaze and holding it. After a moments hesitation, the newest Lord Protecter of the Vale gave a short nod, and Jon smiled as he continued to speak.

"Of course, we don't need to wait until then to finally get justice for the murder of my father. One of his betrayers is in this very keep itself."

The crowd was silenced immediatley, looking back and forth until Jon raised his hands,

"He is in the dungeons where he belongs, and is being brought to us now for his sentencing. He was the one who convinced the City Watch to turn on my father when he was at King's Landing, as well as the one who had Jon and Lysa Arryn killed. He had confessed these crimes to my sister, and she has sworn upon the Heart Tree that they were true. So as my first act as King in the North, we will now bare witness to the sentencing of Petyr Baelish."

Littlefinger was a broken man, it would seem, as he was forcibly shoved forward into the Great Hall. His face was bruised and swollen and his body ranked with filth. Jon had kept him with the Wildling camp during his campaign, and they had not been gentle. According to Sansa, the man was a mastermind at manipulation, but was weaker than most when it came to the body. He had broken within the first week or so, confessing everything he could after they started breaking his fingers. Jon had ordered them to continue the questioning, and had Baelish sent to a secluded area in Bear Island, where the loyal Mormonts took over the interrogation. Soon enough he had confessed to dozens of crimes, giving up the locations of multiple false accounts within the Iron Bank, thus granting the North plenty of gold to sustain itself. He also mentioned his numerous spies throughout Westeros, and the blackmail he was using to keep their loyalty. All in all, Jon had wrung Baelish dry of everything that was of use to him. Still, he seemed to gather some sort of strength as he made his way to the table, his gaze falling upon Rickon. He moved in front of him and fell to his knees.

"My king, I do not know what lies your bastard brother has spoken of me, but I swear to you that they are untrue. I have always been a loyal friend to your father and lady mother."

It was both Shaggydog and Ghost who pushed in between Baelish and Rickon, snarling and snapping their jaws at him that stopped the man from speaking. Rickon glared at him as well.

"You betrayed my father and mother, and Jon is the King. I am the Prince."

Baelish looked over towards his right, and saw Yohn Royce there.

"I am the Lord Protecter of the Vale!"

"You gave up that right and honor when you confessed to poisoning Lord Robyn. You are nothing and no one, Petyr Stone."

"Stone? I am Lord."

Jon stood up and interupted the man, his voice ringing out loud and cold,

"As King in the North and the Vale, I, Jon Stark, do hereby declare you Petyr Stone, bastard of the Vale. I denounce you and strip you of all lands and titles. House Baelish will be removed from all records and heraldry, and whatever grounds you call home will be destroyed. Like House Bolton, your name and house will soon be nothing but ash, and you will be forgotten. Do you have any last words?"

Littlefinger looked at him with shock and horror for the longest time, before a odd grin crossed his face. A low laughter started to emerge from him, a peculiar and dangerous type of laugh that put the hairs on Jon's neck on edge.

"Quick tempers and slow minds, that's what you Starks are known for. Your Uncle Brandon was the worst of them, bouncing from one whore to the next, not even caring that he was breaking my Catelyn's heart. Actually perhaps your Aunt Lyanna was the worst of them, foolishly running away with the Prince for love and abandoning her duty."

There was a ringing in Jon's ears as the words registered in his mind, and his voice was cold,

"My aunt was kidnapped by Rhaegar."

A bark of mad laughter shot forward from Baelish's mouth,

"Kidnapped! By the Seven, does the North still believe the lie I told in Riverrun all those years ago?"

"Your lie?"

"Aye, my lie. Your whore of an Aunt came to me one night before Brandon's wedding in Riverrun, begging to deliver a letter to her big brother, swearing me to secrecy, before getting on a horse of her own accord and riding away. The letter spoke of how Rhaegar and Elia were going to help her hide away in Dorne, where she wouldn't have to marry that whore mongering oaf Robert, but how sorry she was for dissapointing her family. She knew it to be wrong, but she just had to follow her heart."

A burning cold began to spread through Jon's veins as he walked over to the smirking Baelish. He clenched both of his fists at his side, not even hearing the mutterings and almost growls coming from the Northern lords around him.

"My aunt was never kidnapped, is that what you are saying?"

"She left of her own accord, and I burnt her letter the second she disappeared over the horizon. Then, just to get back at the man who took my Cat away from me, I started running through the city, talking about how the Lady Lyanna was dragged off kicking and screaming, crying for help. All I had to do was mention a black and red banner, and everyone jumped to the conclusion that it was Rhaegar. I wasn't even the one to tell Brandon, but he heard the news when he was in his cups, or in some whore most likely. The fool stumbled out of the whorehouse with his pants barely on and started riding for the Red Keep, and well, you all know the rest. So try and forget me, bastard. Try to forget my name."

Absolute silence filled the Great Hall as Jon looked at the ground. Everything could have been different. In his other life, Howland had told him that there was no kidnapping, but he didn't know why people believed it to be, but now Jon knew. It was all because of the man before him. A cold feeling, even colder than the Wall, washed over him as he looked Littlefinger in the eye.

"You're right, Baelish, I probably never will forget you. But whenever I think of you, I'm also going to remember this, and hopefully it will put a smile on my face."

Jon's fist connected with Baelish's face, knocking several teeth out, before the second punch knocked most of the rest out of his bloody mouth. The next punch knocked him to the ground, and Jon dove on top of him, slamming his fists into the man's face, shattering the bones. He could hear a few people cheering, or perhaps they were screaming, as he kept raining down blow after blow upon the man who had ruined everything. His half siblings may have lived, his uncle, his grandfather, his father, his mother all could have lived if it weren't for him. Eventually he stopped and looked down at what remained of Petyr Baelish. His face and skull had been completely caved in, to the point that no one would even be able to tell that the bloody pulpy mass of flesh was once a human head. Jon looked up and around to see the faces of the horrified Northerners, their faces pale and green, their feet taking a step back when his wild gaze met their fearful ones. His next words were but a low growl, and everyone ran off when he spoke them.

"Gather the horses. We ride for the Twins now."

JAIME

The Kingslayer wondered if the bile in his throat would taste better than the feeling he felt as he gazed at the back of Walder Frey. Above everything else he wished to be back in King's Landing, but for the first time in years, his reason was not Cersei. It was Tommen instead, his only living son. The boy was lost and alone on that throne, surrounded by zealots and sycophants, without anyone there that actually cared about him. He had stood in the shadows and had done nothing but watched as Joffrey turned into a cruel and monstrous boy, and could do nothing but watch as Myrcella died in front of him. He had a chance to do something about Tommen, and he had to take it. He wondered if he could excuse himself, grab a horse, and ride as fast as he could back to the capitol when Bronn quietly sat next to him.

"There's a lot of singers and players here. Too many if you ask me."

Jaime scoffed. Music held no interest for him.

"They're probably here to curry favor with the new Lord Paramount of the Riverlands."

Bronn scowled and shook his head.

"They don't look like singers or music players to me. Too tough and grim looking. Plus, everyone's acting too drunk except them."

Bronn did have a point, Jaime had to admit. There were a few dozen somewhat larger men playing smaller instruments, and they were of poor quality. Their music was passable though. He shrugged. Why should he care about what a singer looked like. He looked over at Bronn and before he could speak, a voice from the past rang out clear and strong, silencing the entire hall.

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts."

Jaime could hardly breathe. It was his voice all over again. Jaime could never forget the voice of his Prince as he sang at Harrenhal, and now his ghost had come to haunt the Twins. He spun around to see a simply dressed man, with dark hair and a clean shaven face standing in the middle of one of the bands that stood in the corner. Jaime could barely keep his eyes off the man, who looked so familiar for some reason. At one moment, he looked like Ned Stark, but then the next he would remind him of Rhaegar. But that just wasn't possible. Finally, the song ended, but the silence remained, until Walder Frey gave a few soft claps.

"A bold song, one I have not heard in a long time, but you have sung it well, singer. Let it not be said that I do not appreciate good music, so I bid you come forth, and ask of me what you would wish."

The singer looked at one of his companions and nodded once before making his way to the middle of the hall. Bronn gripped his arm, hissing into his ear,

"That ones no singer, no matter how good his voice is. He's a fighter, and he's ready for one."

Jaime pushed him away, listening to the man talk. Even his voice sounded familiar, though a bit northern.

"I have come this way to find my brother's remains, my lord, so that I may bury him in our home."

"If you've come here for a corpse, no doubt he was a victim of the Young Wolf's treachery that night."

Jaime could see the man's shoulders tense, but he nodded nonetheless.

"Treachery and deceit are what did him in."

"Well, I made a promise in front of my family, and unlike the King in the North, I intend to keep it. So singer, tell me your brother's name, and I shall send men to find his grave so that he may be given a burial in his lands."

"Robb Stark."

There was a moment of shocked silence as the room didn't seem to register what the man had said, and then all hell broke loose. Out of nowhere, the other musicians grabbed small hand axes and daggers, and began to cut their way through the drunk Frey men. The screams filled the air a second afterward as the Great Hall of the Twins once more turned into a massacre. Only this time, it was the Freys who were being slaughtered. Jaime saw a large man with a bushy red beard cleave through three of the soldiers before leaning over and throwing a long sword at the singer, who was still staring at Walder Frey, who was also frozen in fear. He could see Bronn rushing at the man, but he caught the blade just in time to deflect the blow from his sellsword friend, and their dance began. Now Jaime was sure it was Rhaegar's ghost, for he fought just the same as the Prince of Dragonstone did. After a few parry's and slashes, with the singer clearly holding the upper hand, Bronn pretended to stumble and slashed at the mans knees. But the singer leaped back while arcing his blade out, and it caught Bronn's outstretched hand, severing it from his body. His friends head followed soon after, and before Jaime could even realize it, the battle was over before it even began. He found himself being bound with thick rope behind his back, before being thrown onto the floor before the man. Another older taller gruff looking man stepped forward, bowing his head in respect, and a small bit of fear.

"Your Grace, we've found Lord Edmure and his family, as well as my nephew GreatJon, and many other prisoners."

"Thank the old gods, get them ready for travel back to Winterfell."

Jaime could now see the apparent king, and his blood ran cold. It was Ned Stark's bastard, the same boy he had once made fun of. Although, he was sure that the boy had brown eyes, not grey. In fact, he was almost positive. The last time he had seen grey eyes on a Stark was. Suddenly everything fell into place as he felt his heart beat faster and he gasped out,

"Rhaegar?"

A look of shock came over the bastard king's features, Jon that was his name, as he looked down at him. He could see it now, clear as day. How could anyone have been so blind? Suddenly blindness and darkness was all he saw as the pommel of Jon's sword struck his temple, and he fell the ground.

JON

The King in the North looked around for a moment, wondering if anyone had heard the Kingslayer speak. No one seemed to have paid him any attention, as they were too busy rounding up the rest of the Frey men and women. His orders were clear, and the men soon found themselves without their heads. He'd make sure to find lands and work for the women. His attention turned to Walder Frey, as Lord Umber and Tormund reached over the table and threw him to the ground in front of him. Jon looked at him for a second before kicking him hard in the mouth with his hard leather boot twice. He bent down and looked at the pathetic excuse for the man before him and hissed out,

"If it were up to me, I would flay the skin off your body and all the other bodies of your kinsmen and make you eat it, and that would only be the first thing I'd do to you. Instead, you will be coming up North with us to Winterfell. There are dozens of mothers and widows who are eager to meet you, Lord Frey."

The old man's eyes widened in fear and he began to piss himself as Jon stood up, and looked at the other prisoners before him. One, a younger boy, wore a red tunic with a golden lion stitched upon it. He walked over to him, but not before reaching down and taking off the Kingslayer's golden hand.

"You boy, what's your name?"

"Kyle, my lord, I mean your Grace."

"Do you know your way back to King's Landing?"

The boy frowned in confusion.

"Yes, I do."

Jon nodded and tossed him the golden hand.

"Good, we'll give you a horse and you will ride today back to the capitol to give this to Cersei Lannister. Tell her that the North is independent once more, as well as the Riverlands and the Vale. Tell her that the North Remembers, and that for every soldier she sends up the Kingsroad, I will send a piece of her brother down to meet them. Leave us be, and Jaime will live. Do I make myself clear?"

The boy nodded and Jon motioned for his order to be carried out, and a few of his soldiers followed. A cold chill enveloped Jon, and he embraced it fully.

"When we make it to Moat Cailin, I want the Frey heads to put there as a warning. Make sure you take everything of worth from the castle, and then burn it all to the ground."

Lord Umber walked over next to him, and Jon could almost taste the blood lust coming from the man. He could feel it in the air as the Northmen looked to him, still griping their bloody weapons tight in their hands."

"Is that all, your Grace?"

For a moment Jon was content to head home and prepare his people for the upcoming winter. There was still a few months of good travel before the heavy snows came forward, and Jon knew they would need as much time as they could get. But as he looked around the hall of the Twins, his gaze passing over where his brother, sister in law, and unborn nephew were brutally murdered, a fiery rage burned through the icy wall that had been covering his heart. He looked over at his men, who all flinched at the sight of him, but held their ground nonetheless.

"Not even close, Lord Umber. The North Remembers. Justice came for House Bolton and House Frey, but the Lannisters have not yet answered for their crimes. They say a Lannister always pays their debts, and I say they owe the North rivers of blood for every drop of Northern blood they dared to spill. We are going to finish what my brother started, my lords and ladies. Rest tonight, for tomorrow we march on Casterly Rock."

SOME TIME INTO THE FUTURE

Dragonstone was finally in sights. After years of exile and hardship, Daenerys was finally coming home. She had just sent a few skiffs of her Unsullied to inspect the island, and she could see their boats heading back. A small breeze passed by, and her new friend was suddenly standing at her side, grey eyes peering at the castle walls adorned with statues of dragons, of whom her children were peering at curiously.

"I see your ancestors really liked dragons didn't they, Daenerys."

"And is Winterfell not filled with carvings of wolves, or are your ancestors not proud of their House's symbol, Arya."

The young Stark girl smirked and nodded.

"Either way, you still owe me a few hours of sparring once we get everything settled. That's Valyrian Steel at your hip, and I intend for you to know how to use it."

Before she could reply, the boat of Unsullied reached the flagship, and Grey Worm almost ran across the deck to her, his usually blank gaze looking briefly over at Arya in surprise.

"My queen, there are men waiting for you on Dragonstone."

"Waiting for me? Who are they?"

Grey Worm paused for a moment, an expression of confusion on his face as he once again looked over at Arya. Daenerys could feel the rest of her advisers, Quaithe and Kinvara, Tyrion and Varys, Ser Barristan and even Edric Storm stepped closer as her Unsullied commander straightened his back and replied.

"They have banners with wolves stitched on them, and there is a large white wolf on the beach as well. The man who greeted us says he is the King in the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, and the Westerlands, and that his name is Jon Stark. He bids you welcome home to Westeros, and that you and he have much to discuss."