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Chapter Text

Even his furs couldn’t keep the wind from rattling his bones and the cold from seeping into his muscles like a million daggers of razor-sharp ice. Jon pulled them closer around him and walked through the wasteland that was once the pulsing heart of the North, willing his teeth not to chatter and his fingers not to shake.

They used to be stationed at Castle Black. When the Wall fell, however, there was no hope of holding even the smallest bit of land that far north. The brothers that did not flee south, too green and foolish to listen to the horrified voices of those who had first traveled beyond the Wall all those years ago and witnessed the return of the white walkers were now stumbling around devoid of life and fighting for what they once fought against. They were pigs to the slaughter, but Jon had learned by then not to waste his energy. People either listened to him, or they didn’t. Either way, they weren’t Jon’s responsibility.

Winter had made him cold, he knew. It had shorn all sympathy from his skin and nearly all warmth from his heart. It was a shame, but it was life. It was survival, rather. Only few were allowed past his own wall of ice.

Jaime, twirling Oathkeeper, and licking blood from his frozen lips: “This very well might be our last night in the living world, Snow. I, personally, don’t plan to spend it stalking the Castle and pouting.”

The Kingslayer sighed and stopped the movement of his sword. His stump of a sword-arm made an aborted movement that must’ve been born from years of unforgotten muscle memory and his eyes looked into his own reflection in the Valyrian steel. “Do you have to be so grim? Yes, we’re all going to die, but we might as well enjoy our last moments while they last.”

“I can’t,” Jon found himself saying, “All I think about is the dead, nowadays. Life has lost all meaning to me except something to fight for. But even then it’s not my life, it’s just..life. The living. Opposite of the dead. You know, I’ve never been one for enjoying moments. I have always been one for grimness.”

He ran a gloved hand through his beard. It was long and unkept, and the knots held chunks of ice within them. Jaime must’ve been thinking about Brienne, with the way he was gazing into his sword like that. So painfully.

“I keep on thinking I should be praying,” Jon continued. “But at this point, I don’t know who for. The old gods? The Red God? The Seven? Not the Seven. There is something much older at play. Magik has been reborn, and it is taking back the world by force. I wonder if this was always intended. If the Night King is restoring something that once was, and we stand in the way.”

“There is nothing natural about the Night King,” said Jaime. “It’s not supposed to be like this. The dead aren’t supposed to walk, the season’s shouldn’t have stalled at perpetual winter. Come on, Snow. Don’t get all needlessly morose. If the Gods—if any gods— are out there, they certainly don’t wish for the destruction of all humanity.”

Jon unsheathed Longclaw and wiped dried blood, mud, and soot from it with his sleeve. “Who knows what the gods want,” he finally said. The silence sat between them and their blades like a lingering fog.

“You know nothing, Jon Snow,” the ghost of Ygritte told him. He couldn’t help but believe her. 

Tormund found them a bit later, brandishing a flask of wine and followed by Lyanna Mormont. When Jon looked at her, he thought of his mother, nameless for so long. 

“When I die,” Tormund wondered, “do you think I’ll shit myself?”

“Piss yourself at least,” said Jaime.

“Maybe it will make burning you easier, if we can get to you,” said Lyanna, a woman now grown and more than willing enough to go toe-to-toe with the crudeness of battle-worn wildlings and kingslayers, “I don’t know, I’ve never lit piss on fire before.”

“I’d imagine piss is more flammable than shit,” said Jaime. 

They all sat on that comment. The whole discussion was nowhere near enough to remove the shadow of Death from their clawing at their backs.

Jon thought of Arya. He wondered if she was still out there, somewhere, anywhere, or if the cold had caught up to her too. His heart ached and he wished nothing more for his little sister to return to Winterfell. Sansa and he had reconciled over the years, and had built each other towers of respect as their house words rang true. But she wasn’t Arya. 

“There are people I’d best be talking to.” His voice was low and near unrecognizable coming from his own mouth. A gale whipped through the windows numbed his face.

Her red hair crowned her head like Daenerys’s braids and the hem of her skirt was stiff with ice. 

“We have a day at most,” he said. “Where do you plan on being?”

“When I was a hostage in Kingslanding,” Sansa said, “Cersei had me and the ladies stay in the tower while Stannis laid siege at the Mud Gate. We were all terrified, but pretending not to be. She said it would’ve been my job, as Joffrey’s queen, to do such in the future. Provide comfort to the women and children. Put on a mask of bravery. But I am no longer a girl trapped in a tower with Ilyn Payne. I have no need to mask. I will be on the ramparts with the archers. If I must die, I will not do so hiding.”

“Sansa,” his throat was dry, “you give the people hope, a reason to fight for. If you die on the ramparts–”

“I only give them hope because I am a woman. Even if we win, they will not fuck me. I have survived so long because I have fought. Not with a sword, perhaps, but still fought. I will not stop now, not for others.”

“Very well then. You know, I have never…”

“My mother would have loved you to. Prove all her misgivings about bastards right, give her a reason to banish you like father did with Ser Jorah Mormont. But you’re right, you have never looked at me carnally, or as anything less. Only as a naive little girl all those years ago, and rightfully so.”

“I was just as green,” he said. “I think of them sometimes. Before the King came. I can’t even remember their faces: Robb, Father, Lady Catelyn, Rickon… I swear it was a lifetime ago.

“I can’t remember them either,” admitted Sansa, softly, looking down, as if confessing a secret. “It feels more than a lifetime.”

He was searching for Bran when he first heard the warg yell. The Raven, since possessing his brother, had made itself more and more elusive, cryptic, and ominous. If the gods were real, he wondered what they thought of the Three Eyed Raven. Because if there was anything unnatural in Winterfell, it was whatever became of his younger brother. 

He rushed to where Olav lay, the warg’s eyes back to brown and his chest heaving.

“What did he see?” Jon yelled. “What did you see?”

The man choked on his own spit. “They’re here,” he rasped. “Look!”

Jon did as instructed, his eyes widening at the brown wave emerging from the snow on the horizon.

“Fuck.” 

How many people lived between Winterfell and the Wall? How many people fell to the Others in the past few years? By the looks of it, it must’ve been at least a hundred thousand. 

“Fuck!” he said again, but louder. “Get the archers! Light the fires!” 

As the dead marched, his heart pounded and all of the sudden, a thought came over him, more frightening and more powerful than any thought he had thunk in years:

I don’t want to die.

He figured as fast as it came that thinking such thoughts were useless. It was far too cold to dream.

The horn sounded thrice.

There was very little left of Brandon Stark within his own body. Nevertheless, the Raven could feel the pieces of him bouncing around and whispering in its mind. But now, as Winterfell stood as the last line of defense between the Night King and the rest of the world, Bran was being particularly loud. 

Insolent boy, trying to interfere in the domain of the gods.

The Raven took over the boy those years ago not to save or help anything but itself. Brandon Stark was delicious. Young and ripe and a mind brimming with the raw magik of the First Men. It wasn’t hard to take over. A grounded boy wanted nothing more than wings. And the Raven wanted nothing more than a vessel. Finally! A body, a mind. A noble boy, too, the blood of the lost and hardened kings of the North. It was perfect. All too easy, really.

It heard the conversation between Jon Snow and Jaime Lannister before, in its third eye. The gods did not wish for the destruction of humanity. But the Three Eyed Raven was no god. 

Those silly mortals. To think the Raven was once one of them. All it had to do was watch while they tore each other apart. It would survive this battle, as it had survived every battle. And then everything would be right again. Perfect. Old, and humanless. Animalistic, and fresh. A razed land begging for a new beginning, a new leader. For the Raven. 

The Raven saw it, while Bran Stark yelled out in his mind.  Snow stained red with blood. Fire dancing in the sky. A new race of people confused and pitiful. It would fly before them. Look at me! Aren’t I something more? More powerful than you, more knowing than you? 

Yes, they would cry, my king, my king, forever!

It wouldn’t be long. Jon Snow would soon meet his end. 

no! yelled Bran’s pesky voice. jon will live, you’ll see! he’s the Prince Who Was Promised, you said! you cannot change Destiny! it was prophesied! 

Oh but it could. Destiny is created, not determined.

i’m stronger than you think! you’ll see, you’ll see!

And all a sudden, a sharp burning pain rocketed into its mind like a lightning bolt. The Raven yelled out as its mind was ravaged, raped, dismantled. A loud din ricocheted in its ears. It was flying, it was crawling, it was swimming. It was in a weirwood, in a castle, in a slum, in the Red Wastes.

you’ll see raven! you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see BIRD!

 BIRD!

                 BIRD!

       BIRD!

                                               BIRD!

                     BIRD!  

                                                           BIRD!

              BIRD!

                                   BIRD!

The word echoed around the Godswood in a million voices.

YOU HAVE GONE TOO FAR BRYNDEN RIVERS! NO MAN SHOULD PRETEND TO BE GOD

 you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see Bran repeated maddeningly in its head.

MAGIK SHALL BE REBORN, BUT NOT BY THE LIKES OF YOU NOR THE BEING WHO CALLS ITSELF THE KING OF NIGHT

The Raven cowered against the trunk of the weirwood. Bloody sap from the tree’s face dripped on its head like the drool of a carnivorous beast.

you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see

It reached out with its mind, trying to find its raven, to fly away, far away, but there was a wall in its head and a throbbing, throbbing pain.

The red leaves, red as blood, tore up around him in a violent spiral. Snow and hail fell from the sky in fist-sized chunks. There was no moon, no sun. 

Bran Stark beat at its skull with the strength and ferocity of a direwolf stampede.

you’ll see you’ll see you’ll see

No, no, no! It wasn’t supposed to go like this! He saw ! He saw the future, the crown on his head, the mortals kneeling at his feet. 

No, no, no!

YES! said the gods and Bran Stark alike. YES!

Then it all went black.

There were too many of them. Jon knew this before white walkers even reached the castle. The ramparts were ablaze with knocked over barrels of wildfyre. His people screamed in agony as their flesh sizzled and blackened. He thought of Sansa, and then wished he didn’t.

Not only did they have too few people, but they also had too little dragonglass and Valyrian steel to boot. It was a shitshow. A massacre.

Jon stabbed, sliced, parried, dodged and screamed. His mind fell blank as his muscles took over, weaker than his liking due to the food scarcity. Blood rushed in his ears like a mighty waterfall. Jaime fell beside him, too incapacitated even now without his sword arm. He didn’t have time to set him alight. 

The last of their horses fell with wounded noises and buckets of blood. Jon didn’t even pay mind to where Longclaw slashed and killed. They were so outnumbered that he had a near null chance of striking a fellow living soldier rather than a wight.

His vision was red. Blood and sweat rested upon his brow. The screams were neverending. As the battle went on, he saw more and more blue, and so few brown and black and beige he thought he must’ve been one of the last.

He came into this world alone. Figures he would leave the same way.

He fought off the reanimated corpse of Lyanna Mormont and tearlessly cried as he stabbed her through. An undead giant nearly trampled him into the hard, frozen ground.

His lungs burned, his blood stained the snow. The clouds had turned black and the wind seemed to be fighting its own battle. In an all-too-brief respite, he noticed as the Godswood went up in flames as the skeleton of Viserion scorched the sacred land. The air was rancid with dark smoke and rotting bodies.

Jon tried to find the wolfsblood in him, and the dragonblood, but he couldn’t. He was no Stark, no Targaryen. Just a Snow. His ancestors had abandoned him, the First Men, the Andals, and the Valyrians exiled by the creatures of dark magik. 

Is this how Rhaegar felt going against Robert Baratheon at the Trident? he wondered. Half mad and half hopeless, unable to focus on anything except the blood, his sword. Is this how his father felt at the Tower of Joy? Desperate for a last bit of pre-war normalcy, but at the same time knowing life as he knew it was far, far over.

(Is this how Lyanna Stark felt in his birth? Fighting a losing battle against her own son?)

He was knocked to the ground by a white walker with a powerful blow. He felt warm liquid run down his thigh and desperately reached for longclaw before Tormund, with a wild and terrifying look in his eyes, ripped the creature in half with his axe with a primal scream. He grabbed Jon’s arm and yanked him up.

They somberly looked at each other eye-to-eye for what they somehow knew would be the last time.

“Let’s finish this,” said Jon while Tormund, at the same time, said “Can’t go out without fighting the big guy, can we?”

The Night King sat tall above the fray on his skeletal horse in the courtyard, his ice blue eyes scanning the battle, his mouth twisted into something akin to a smirk as he watched the decimation of man. Without hesitation, they both ran at him.

Tormund was as close as Jon had to a kingsguard during his stunt as King in the North, and even to this day, Tormund protected him with a level of loyalty that made his heart hurt. It was almost comforting that they would be dying together.

They hacked down whatever was in their path. A new sense of energy invigorated Jon, just enough for a last hurrah. His head pounded and rage boiled deep within his chest. The sky suddenly thundered and the ground shook violently, as if the gods were upset, as if the earth itself was rejecting the slaughter, unhappy with the pools of blood that sank within it. Walls of the castle came tumbling down in an unstoppable rock slide, crushing wights and people alike. Jon limped as fast as he could. His thigh had been sliced, his ankle had been twisted. Tormund had a deep gash above his brow and the blood pooled in his eye socket and grotesquely stained his skin.

A sorry sight, they were. A bastard and a wildling. A Snow and a Giantsbane. Jon could almost feel Death looming over their shoulders, tall and grisly, ready to stake his claim. 

Not today , he heard, in Arya’s voice. 

The Night King slashed downwards with his mighty sword, and Jon was forced to dive out of the way. It laughed arrogantly, the deep unnatural sound echoing. It knew it had won. But that didn’t mean it would come out of it all alive.

Tormund swung his axe at the horse’s middle as Jon sliced upward with Longclaw at its front legs. It neighed and kicked backwards at Tormund before disintegrating. The Night King was undisturbed by the death of his ride.

It swung its sword in a manner that was almost languid. It was decidedly sure in its supernatural strength, the blow singularly powerful enough to knock Jon to the ground when he tried to parry.

However hard he thought the fight was going to be, it was worse. Much worse.

Who was he to think he could best such a creature? Simply being a good swordsman was not near enough to even have a fighting chance against this thing.

Every blow he tried to make was easily deflected. Even Tormund’s raw strength did little to phase the Night King. After a few agonizing minutes, Jon could only gasp as the Night King sliced Tormund’s head and shoulders clean off with a single stroke. Lightning rained from the sky and more walls came tumbling down in a cacophony so discordant and loud it was dizzying.

Something was happening. Something beyond his ken. 

He screamed as he struck Longclaw heavily into the Night King’s torso. In pain, that is, for at the same time the Night King had stabbed him right through. In both of their last moments, the Night King raised his sword into the air, and Jon slid down on it, blood gurgling in his throat and a white hot pain exploding all over his body. Before it all went black, he looked at the wasteland around him. Not a single living soul remained. 

The Night King dissipated, and Jon Snow fell to the ground, dead.

And then he woke up. 

What kind of hell was this?

Chapter Text

Jon Snow awoke to find himself within a dense and swirling fog, its frigid tendrils crawling across his skin like an insect. The mist twisted and contorted with the icy wind, forming grotesque shapes with shadows that seemed to dance with a sinister glee. His breath escaped his mouth and formed a cloud of wet crystals in front of him. He stood within Castle Black, the ancient stones seeming to groan and shudder with an otherworldly energy. Whispers of long-forgotten watchmen were the inhale and exhale of the Castle’s past, much lost in the reverberating echoes of time. A raven cawed and suddenly dove in front him. He went to grip Longclaw, but the sword was not in its sheath.

Jon felt a chill run up his spine as he followed the bird through the thick fog. He walked cautiously, his steps heavy and unsure as he heard distant voices. Heavy snow began to gradually fall from the sky like a thick curtain, blanketing the atmosphere and muffling his footsteps.

The ghostly cries that echoed through the stillness and grew louder with each step Jon took. His heart began to race in his chest, yet he couldn't move any faster than a lethargic crawl.

What was happening? Why was he here, this place that made and unmade him all the same?

In a length of time no longer than a breath, phantasms began to whirl around him.

"Traitor," they cried. "For the Watch!"

The memory of the mutiny clawed at his mind with violent vigor. Steel clashed and brothers screamed. With a start, Jon heard each stab of his own death punctuating the air with a sickening squelch.The pain that had once been physical now seeped into his soul, an unrelenting torment.

"What is this?" he cried. "Stop this at once!"

The wings of the raven lazily beat back and forth, undisturbed by the cacophony around it. It stared directly at him with three beady, intelligent eyes.

Caw! Caw!

In a flash the scene shifted. Jon found himself thrust into the darkest depths of the Long Night. Darkness, almost an ethereal presence in the night, was as foreboding and tangible as heavy velvet curtains drawn tightly around his soul, squeezing his throat. His breath came in short, shallow, and strangled gasps. Then, the White Walkers emerged from the shadows, their icy blue eyes glaring with pure evil, and their long skeletal fingers reaching out to claw at him.

Longclaw was returned to him, and its weight now felt impossibly heavy and unresponsive in his trembling hands. He rushed at one of them, swinging his sword with all the strength he could muster. With inhuman speed, it deflected Jon's blow and sent him careening into the hard, frozen ground. The air grew colder, and with a start, he noticed the gruesome graveyard around him. Rotting corpses stained the snow red and brown, emitting a sulfurous stench of decay. Skin slunk from their bodies like melting candle wax and dark blood gurgled from their blue mouths. They were no longer silent witnesses but instead tormented specters, groaning in misery and anguish, a haunting chorus of death and despair.

Amidst the chaos, a glimmer of horror caught Jon's gaze.

"Rickon!" he gasped.

The boy sprinted through the carnage, face flushed and eyes wide and dark with desperate terror. Jon staggered forward, cutting through the burial grounds of the fallen and dashing between the blades of the undead. His own desperate cries mingled with his heaving gasps, echoing hauntedly in the air alongside the dead as he drew closer, hoping this time would be different, that he'd make it just in time, that he could save the boy before it was too la-

His feet stuttered to a hopeless stop as a lone arrow found its mark, piercing Rickon's heart with a sickening thud. A strangled cry caught in Jon's throat as his younger brother collapsed to the ground.

The laugh of Ramsay Snow rang out, unnaturally loud and unforgiving.

Jon's knees gave out, but before his trousers could impact the dirt, the wasteland morphed into the Godswood. He struggled to regain his composure as the ancient trees surrounding him shuddered with an unearthly and eerie sentience. The Old Gods whispered through the wind, their voices a dissonant harmony that burrowed into his very being. The blood-red branches of the trees danced as they stretched towards him. The face carved into the bark weeped and its eyes seemed to hold the weight of the whole world's sorrows.

Roots erupted from the ground, coiling and intertwining like serpents, binding Jon's legs in a chilling embrace. A peculiar energy surged through him like a strike of lightning, consuming his being with something so entirely divine he could barely breathe. Visions of the past, the present, and the future flitted through his mind with incomprehensible speed, melting together. The energy swirled inside of him until it became unfathomable, forcefully pressing on his bones and expanding his rib cage.

At the heart of the swirling nightmare was the Three-Eyed Raven. The inky darkness of its eyes seemed devoid of life, swallowing the world around them. The branches of the weirwood furiously swung like limbs, swatting at the Raven as it pathetically flitted between the branches in a misguided attempt to dodge something as old and powerful as the Gods. Voices echoed through the depths of his mind, revealing fragments of a hidden truth that slipped through his grasp as if they were oiled.

At the heart of the swirling nightmare was the Three-Eyed Raven. The inky darkness of its eyes seemed devoid of life, swallowing the world around them. The branches of the weirwood furiously swung like limbs, striking at the Raven as it pathetically flitted between the branches in a misguided attempt to dodge something as old and powerful as the Gods. Voices echoed through the depths of his mind, revealing fragments of a hidden truth that slipped through his grasp as if they were oiled. Time twisted upon itself, bending and warping. Jon felt overwhelmingly lost, a puppet being thrust around in a storm of conflicting forces much bigger than he could fathom.. His existence felt fragile, like crystal glass teetering on the edge of a wobbling table.

In that moment, while irrationally frightened and overstimulated, Jon Snow, burdened with the weight of his past and the uncertainty of his future, had a realization dawn on him. This went far beyond himself. This wasn’t about him, no. This was about the realm, the balance between light and dark, night and day, life and death, and the role he was to play in the battle. The role he has played.

Azor Ahai whispered the voice of the Red Witch in his ear.

The mist clung to him like a shroud, obscuring his vision and distorting his sense of direction. Familiar faces flickered in and out of focus, their ghostly forms haunting him at every turn. He then found himself standing atop the Wall, the icy winds howling around him with a mournful wail. Below, the lands of the free folk stretched out in an endless expanse of snow and pine. Maester Aemon was next to him, his wrinkled face still, his foggy eyes staring straight into Jon’s with a strange sense of familiarity.

A maelstrom of spirits dizzyingly spun around him: Ned Stark, his father, speaking of duty and honor and swinging swords. Ygritte, wild and fierce, yelling words of lust and betrayal and freedom. Samwell, with words of encouragement. The raspy voice of Maester Aemon broke through the din.

“You are the only one!” he cried. “The last of us! The best of us! You must fulfill your destiny!” 

And through it all, the Old Gods murmured their cryptic guidance in the Old Tongue, voices too low to understand but their words shaping his thoughts and sinking into his mind. 

Suddenly, the clash of swords and the thunderous drum beat of horse hooves pounded the ground in time with his heart, striking through the air, drowning out all other sound. The stench of blood, sweat, and piss filled his nostrils as Jon screamed.

The Battle of the Bastards.

Jon fought with a desperate determination despite now knowing this must be some sort of vision, his sword cleaving through enemies. Death and agony surrounded him from all sides. In the heart of the battle, Jon's gaze locked with that of Ramsay Bolton, the physical man now reunited with the sound of his sadistic laugh. Jon's sword clashed with Ramsay's, the clash of steel ringing out like a dirge. 

I’m not like you! He wanted to scream. I kill, but I don’t like it! I don’t find pleasure in the pain of men!  We are both killers, but we are not the same!

As their swords met with a loud clang, Jon found himself standing in the throne room. Cersei Lannister stared down at him from the throne, her eyes gleaming with a mix of contempt and amusement.

With a flash, he saw the same throne room desolate, ash falling from the sky like snow, the throne burning in dragonfire. Daenerys, on the ground, dead skin still warm.

Why must the Gods torment me so?

Noises gurgled from her mouth, lips stained red with blood. 

“Jon,” she was saying, voice more of a breath than a whisper. “Jon.”

He rushed towards her, his boots sliding in the ash. “Dany,” he prayed.

“We could’ve been great,” she said. “Why didn’t you let it happen? We should’ve ruled together.”

“Because you were mad!” he wanted to say. “Because the woman who once was the breaker of chains wanted to burn an entire city of innocent people!”

Instead, he said softly, his voice wavering: “I just wasn’t meant to be.” 

Jon awoke with a start. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body covered in a cold sweat. He kicked the furs off of him and clutched his heaving chest. Confusion enveloped him as he took in his surroundings. 

I’m in Winterfell, he realized with a start. My old quarters.

He jumped out of bed, his unsteady legs shaking and threatening to buckle. Orangen embers in the fireplace let off a soft but dying light. He looked in the small mirror in the corner as dread and disbelief slammed into him with such levity the air was knocked out of his lungs.

The door slammed against the stone brick as he stumbled out of his chambers. Was this real? It couldn’t be real, could it? His reflection in the mirror—so young and unscarred. Blurred faces of castle staff stared at him with abject horror and shock. He was sweltering, sweat pouring down his neck and the wool on his skin was smothering and itchy. The halls of the castle stood strong and stable, yet ghosts haunted its halls. Men and women walked along with gaping fetid wounds on their chests, their guts, their arms, their legs, their necks, their heads. Black flies flitted around their heads, maggots crawled up their acrid skin.

Jon stumbled out of the castle, his feet heavily hitting the ground in an unstable run. The guards shouted as he fled past them. He was met by the damp and still expanse of the grounds, green and uncovered by snow. His hazy eyes focused in on the Godswood. 

There—he would find answers there.

The heat of his body settled down when met with the outside’s mild and pleasant chill. It must be summer , Jon realized with a jolt.

His mind felt sluggish, and he observed the world around him with a dull sense of disbelief. Was he still dreaming? When he entered the Godswood, the trees around him seemed to watch him, their branches seemed to reach out towards him. Before him, the crimson leaves of the heart tree rustled with a ghostly whisper. He approached the ancient guardian, its eyes staring back at him with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine.

In that moment, as Jon reached out to touch the weathered bark, the voices of the Old Gods returned. They echoed through the Godswood, clearer than ever before.

YOU MUST STOP THE LONG NIGHT

     YOU MUST SAVE NOT ONLY WESTEROS, BUT THE REST OF THE WORLD

          YOU MUST UNITE, YOU MUST FIGHT

               YOU HAVE BEEN BROUGHT BACK

                    YOU MUST NOT LET THE RAVEN WIN!

                         YOU MUST, 

                              YOU MUST, 

                                   YOU MUST—

“Jon?” said a boyish voice.

He whirled around, despairing the interruption. His heart immediately stuttered.

Robb Stark was before him, eyes wide and worryful, face full with the fat of youth and hair long with boyhood. He tried to speak, but his voice would not make noise.

“Jon, are you alright? You’ve given the castle quite a scare.”

Jon memorized the details of his brother’s increasingly concerned and panicked face. It had been so long. Robb's image then distorted, contorting into a visage of betrayal and heartache. A phantom blade pierced his brother’s heart. Blood cascading, staining doublets crimson, sis body crumpling, life slipping away.

“Jon, what are you doing?”

Robb was fine. There was no blood. His face was worried, but not wrought with deadly pain. Jon tilted his head to the side and grunted, before knees buckled and the world around him tipped.

“Jon!” he heard Robb yell in fright. And then, everything went black.

Jon Snow awoke once more with a start, his eyes darting around the familiar room. The soft morning light filtered through the window, casting shadows upon the stone walls.

He sat up, his mind still foggy from the remnants of his fever dream. The vivid images of battles and prophecies lingered in his mind, blurring the line between reality and illusion. The mutiny at Castle Black, the Long Night, the whispers of the Old Gods—they felt too vivid to dismiss as mere figments of his imagination. And Robb, so young.

The Old Gods had pulled him through the expanses of time. They must have. His mind reeled with the countless implications.

A creaking sound disrupted his spiral. Maester Luwin appeared in the doorway, his eyes widening in surprise upon seeing Jon awake.

"Ah, I see you’ve awoken," Maester Luwin said. "You gave Robb quite a scare when he found you in that state. I'll look you over.” And then, to a servant, “Go fetch Lord Stark immediately."

Jon's head spun. He chose to stay silent, not trusting his voice not to betray his predicament. How old was he? How long before the death of Jon Arryn? What would he even tell his family? His thoughts fragmented as the weight of the mysteries that surrounded his resurrection pressed upon him.

 Maester Luwin began examining his body. 

“Miraculous,” the maester said beneath his breath. “A full recovery!”

Jon's gaze wandered around his childhood bedroom as Luwin did his work. It was smaller than his siblings’ but Jon preferred it that way, considering he didn’t own much to fill the space. Now, after experiencing the horrors of war and the  Long Night, Jon was even less inclined towards earthly possessions. An old oak desk sat strong and true to the left of him, and a slightly worn fur rug was beside the bed, shielding them from the cool stone. A small bookshelf was planted near Jon’s bed, holding battered tales of the knights of old. His closet was near the corner of his room, holding his linens. It felt weird to look into his closet and see only that. No armor, no furs. He supposes he had no real need of them before he trekked to the wall with his Uncle Benjen.

Who was now alive , Jon thought with near giddiness. What if he could save him? What if the Gods granted him the power to rewrite history?

A shiver coursed through him as the weight of responsibility settled upon his shoulders. If he truly possessed the ability to change the past, to rewrite the tapestry of events, the effects could be profound. He had the power to alter history—lives could be saved, tragedies averted.

But it must have come with a price. He thought of the Red God, and the balance he preached. 

A shiver coursed through Jon's spine as he recalled the sensation of returning from the cold embrace of death. He remembered the words of Beric Dondarrion, who had found himself diminished with each resurrection. A little less each time.

The ghostly visage of Melisandre appeared before him. The earthy and acrid smell of smoke permeated the air.

The room seemed to close in around him as the weight of his own resurrection bore down upon him. What had he become? Was he merely a vessel, a puppet in a divine game of life and death? Or was there something more profound, some purpose that awaited him in the realm of the living? He thought the dead were supposed to stay dead, so why was he here, walking the halls of Winterfell alongside the dead?

Doubt gnawed at his core. Jon's thoughts turned to those who had perished, whose lives had been extinguished without the hope of resurrection. The unfairness of it all weighed heavily upon him. If he held the power to defy death, did it not cheapen the sacrifices of those who had fallen?

Her eyes gleamed with intensity. "Jon Snow," she said, "Beware the dangers that lie in tampering with the delicate balance of life, death, and time. To play god is to invite chaos and suffering. And remember: A great gift requires a great sacrifice."

He willed himself not to speak, so Maester Luwin would not think him crazy. But he wanted nothing more than to yell at the witch. Who said he knew what was going on? Who said he asked for this? The magnitude of the power he now held over the course of events greatly frightened him. 

And how was he, a boy bastard of the North, going to accomplish anything at all by himself? He had no influence.

Or did he have to do it all by himself? He could tell his father, couldn’t he? If the lord would believe him.

His mind buzzed with conflicting thoughts, a storm of doubt and hope clashing within him. He had always done just fine on his own, but now, in this case, he felt the responsibilities just might be too much to bear alone.

Another voice seeped into his consciousness—a familiar voice that echoed with equal parts love and pain. Ygritte, alive and beautiful, her ethereal figure taking shape alongside Melisandre's. Their red hair shone in the sun.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow," her voice whispered, as if revealing a secret. She repeated them, as if trying to watch the words into his very soul. Each repetition held a different tone: frustration, longing, bittersweet affection. She was right—he did know nothing. But he’s going to have to act anyway. He must be here for a reason. 

The phantasms of Melisandre and Ygritte abruptly dissipated as Ned Stark briskly entered the room. Jon's mind cleared, and he stared upon his father with wide eyes. With a jolt, Jon realized just how much he looked like him in his thirties. The same long face, the same dark hair. The Stark blood did run strong in him, and Rhaegar was nothing more than a trace in his stature, his bone structure. He liked that. He was a Snow, but he would always prefer to be more Stark than Targaryen.

“My boy,” Ned Stark said thickly, “You’re alright.”

He finally trusted his voice enough to speak. “What happened?” It was rough and gravelly, but entirely pubescent and vulnerable in a way that made Jon cringe.

His father and Luwin exchanged a concerned look, a shared unease lingering between them.

“You do not remember?” he asked.

“It’s…blurry.”

“You have been sick, Jon.” Luwin said, “It was quite sudden. A relentless fever nearly took you from us when just the day before you were the picture of health. We had feared the worst.”

Jon's mind spun. Ned reached out, his hand enclosing Jon's with a firm yet tender grip, anchoring him to the present.

“We prayed for you,” the older man confessed, a tremor of emotion evident in his voice. “We all did. Even my Lady Wife. I am so, so glad you have awoken.” Jon was shocked to see his eyes wet with unshed tears.

Jon looked into those gray teary eyes with pain in his heart. 

“Father,” he said. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

Chapter Text

The memory was hazy and far-away, the edges blurred and its events occuring in flashes of tableaus and fragments of feelings feelings, but even now, at two and ten, could Robb remember it. Their father had taken him and Jon down to the crypts, and not only was the damp weeping stone altogether terrifying at such a young age, but the long climb down had proven strenuous for his little legs. He remembers gripping his father’s hand and looking at Jon, wondering if his bastard brother had also been frightened by the weight of the dead around them. 

He remembers staring into the lifeless stone eyes of his grandfather, uncle and aunt and not being able to fathom that these statues were once living, breathing people. 

He remembers Jon, face solemn and brooding even then, asking his father if he and Robb and even baby Sansa would be buried down there when they died. If they would be soulless statues and a pile of bones one day too. 

Robb remembers his father looking at the statue of his Aunt Lyanna with sad eyes.

“Robb will,” he said. “And his future family. Sansa will be buried with her husband’s family, I reckon, for once she wed she will no longer be a Stark.”

Robb tried to envision himself in those crypts, but the image eluded him, seeming so distant.

“And I?” Jon asked, shoulders slumped.

His father had then hesitated. “I can’t be sure, Jon,” he ended up saying. “Perhaps in the graveyard in Wintertown. Or on a battlefield somewhere.”

But not here, not with the Starks, were the unspoken words hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

“Not if I have any say about it! When I’m Lord of Winterfell—” Robb had said with all the unabashed and ignorant fervor of youth, “—you’ll be buried here. Sansa too. I’ll command it!”

His father had chuckled in an odd sort of way, and Jon had looked at him with sad, sad eyes. Robb didn’t understand the reaction of either. But now he did.

When Jon had fallen sick a few days ago, frighteningly sudden and severe, Robb had pushed aside his gut-turning worry and, feeling older than he had ever, asked his father that if Jon didn’t survive, if he would posthumously legitimize him and bury him in the crypts as Jon Stark. The look in his father’s eyes mirrored the look on that day in the crypts years ago: morose, serious, and a bit guilty. He had solemnly agreed.

Robb had found it ironic, in a way. That Jon would only officially belong with the Starks in death. He almost felt weird thanking the Gods that his brother’s fever had broken, for now Jon wouldn’t be a Stark and would continue being a Snow.

But nevertheless, Jon’s awakening had filled him with relief that he would not have to bury him so young. Although his sudden collapse in the godswood and startling lack of lucidity had truly shaken Robb to an extent he hadn’t felt before.

Robb had always admired Jon's quiet strength, modesty, and unwavering determination. Even as a young boy, Jon possessed a certain maturity that surpassed his years. Robb often found himself seeking Jon's guidance and approval, an act his Lady Mother often tried to quell. But now, he supposed it was time for him to offer support to Jon, and not the other way around. Something he has done far too little.

He decided to track down Maester Luwin and ask after his brother. He found the man in his laboratory. 

“Jon,” Robb said, forgetting to be polite, “How is he? Can I see him now?”

The maester looked up from whatever he was studying. “He is doing far better than I would have imagined yesterday,” he said. “A remarkable recovery, really. Only the Gods can know what affliction came over him so violently just to leave like that. Your father is speaking to him now. I’d imagine your company would be appreciated.”

Robb's footsteps echoed as he made his way towards Jon's chambers in what was almost a run.  The wing which held Jon’s chambers was quite different from the one he, his parents, and his siblings lived in. It was louder, with less tapestries and more people. As he reached the door, a sense of trepidation washed over him. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the door handle, wondering if he would be interrupting anything. He strained his ears to see if he could hear just a bit of the conversation. Their voices were shockingly serious. More worry and hesitance washed over him. He slowly inched the door open a sliver and pressed his eye into the crack.

Jon lay in bed, his skin pallid and his hair mussed from long, fitful sleep. His father paced the length of the room, appearing and disappearing from his slim view. The scene seemed to hold a sort of heaviness, inciting Robb's curiosity and quickening his heart. 

“I swear it's the truth,” Jon was saying. “I do not lie about such things.”

“A vivid fever dream, perhaps. Or even a green dream, Gods forbid. You have been quite sick, Jon, and I’m not yet sure you are back of sound mind.”

“You’ll see. If you don’t believe me, you’ll see when events I speak of start to come true. What year is it?”

Robb’s mind spun. He had heard stories with Theon in Wintertown about people being brought down by sickness and arousing com-pletley different and out of their minds. Or maybe the Gods had chosen Jon, and that’s why he had that episode in the Godswood. Maybe they’re speaking to him through visions. That would surely explain the seriousness of the conversation.

“295,” his father answered. “I’m fetching Maester Luwin. This isn’t right, Jon. You’re not right.”

“Wait! You follow the Old Gods, father. You believe in the Old magik. Is it really so hard to believe a man can be sent through time? That the wight walkers are real? That magik will begin taking the world by force starting with the North?”

Jon’s breath was heavy and his eyes held a certain wildness to them Robb was not used to seeing in his brother. His batshit brother, that was. Robb moved away from the door and posed himself to seem as if he were about to knock in case his father exited the chambers. But then, a rustling noise caught his attention, followed by a sharp gasp.

“Jon,” cried his father. “Gods have mercy! What happened to you!”

“I died. Then was resurrected by a priestess from Asshai. Tell me, father, does a living man bear such scars? Or does a two and ten Jon Snow bear such scars, for that matter?”

Robb’s brow furrowed. What scars? What was happening. He peeked his eyes through the cracked door once more but his father obstructed his view of Jon. He was leaning over Jon, and his back was shaking. Suddenly, the man dropped to his knees beside the bed. 

“Gods have mercy,” he said again, but softly, as a prayer. “You have been chosen, Jon. Why else would you be here?”

“I’m not sure why I’m here. But I know I’m going to make use of it.”

“Tell me your story. Tell me what I can do to help prevent what gives you those scars, what kills you. And I want details. Not broad statements about the dead rising. Everything.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“Perhaps not,” replied Jon. “I cannot rely on others’ action or inaction to enforce change. Every person I tell, and everything I do draws the course of events further from those I know. If I do not know what comes next, I lose all advantage I have. I’ll tell you what you need to know, of course. What you can do as Warden of the North to prepare for the Long Night. What you shouldn’t do, as well. Forgive me father, but I will be a close keeper of the information I now bear the burden of.”

Jon sounded old, much older than two and ten. Was it possible he was telling the truth? Robb flicked sweat from his brow as he continued to watch and listen. His father stood up gingerly.

“I understand,” he said. “I swear to do what I can. The North remembers, and so shall House Stark. Because you are a Stark, Jon. I swear it. You are my blood and I believe you, I trust you.”

“Aye, I am your blood. A Stark,” Jon’s voice was low and serious, and Robb had to strain his ears to hear it. He pressed his head against the heavy pine door and felt his mouth open in concentration. “But we both know I’m not a Stark in the way the realm believes. You swear to do what you can? Then start by telling your Lady Wife of my parentage,” Jon immediately commanded. “We need to be united more than ever, and my bastardy has always been a dividing wedge.”

Robb and his father simultaneously stumbled back in shock.

“Jon, I—I— how?” stuttered his father. 

“Bran has greensight. He was taken over by the damned Three Eyed Raven. He saw it. Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen in Dorne. My birth in the Tower of Joy.”

Robb was unable to take the back-to-back revelations any longer.

He burst into the room.

Their heads whipped to stare at him in horror. Jon’s mouth dropped open and his father’s eyes shone with must’ve been a dozen conflicting emotions. 

“What were you doing, boy?” said his father’s sharp and angry voice. Robb shrunk back in embarrassment but refused to hang his head in shame. He met his gaze.

“I heard it all, pretty much. I was going to visit Jon to see if he was alright but you were already in here talking with him. It’s madness, but it’s true, isn’t it?” He turned his head to look at Jon. He took in his greasy hair and jaundiced face. His eyes trailed down and his breath became ragged as he stared at Jon’s dreadfully scarred chest. Madness. Magik. Something greater than what the ken of mortals was occurring, and Robb was a witness. “You’ve really traveled through time,” he ended up saying softly. “You’re a Targaryen too.”

They both hushed him at once, eyeing the open door. Robb closed it with a muffled thump and click. 

Robb’s mind whirled. Disbelief, wonder, astonishment, betrayal. 

“You mustn't speak of it. I cannot let this information get into the wrong hands,” said Jon. His hands gripped the furs with white knuckles. 

"I swear I won't," Robb said, making a point of standing tall and puffing his chest out, trying to look valiant. 

Meanwhile, Robb's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions as he grappled with the weight of the numerous discoveries that were revealed to him in the past few minutes. He had always regarded Jon as his closest confidant, a trustworthy, kind, and reliable friend where Theon has always failed. But now the entire nature of their relationship has been turned on its head.

When Jon pleaded for his discretion, Robb felt a surge of responsibility and protectiveness surge through him. He had always been the eldest, and it was his duty to protect his siblings and be a figure they could look up to. It was time to repay Jon’s loyalty to House Stark and fulfill his role as heir. Albeit, in ways he could never have anticipated.

“Father, Jon, you can count on me," Robb reasserted. "I won't breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Jon and his father exchanged a glance. Robb couldn’t catch the unspoken words it was pregnant with.

“I suppose he could help,” said to his father Jon slowly. “If we teach him certain lessons as a boy, then he will do the rest of the work naturally.”

His father bowed his head. “You’re the one with the foreknowledge, not me.”

The realization that Jon had traveled through time sent a shiver down Robb's spine. It was a concept that belonged in stories and legends. Yet, the austerity etched upon Jon's face and the echoes of their earlier conversation left no room for doubt. It was magik, fate, the workings of the Gods themselves, and Jon was in the middle of it.

And then there was the bombshell of Jon's true parentage, the revelation that he was not only his cousin in truth but also a Targaryen. Robb's mind struggled to reconcile the consequences. He had always admired his father's honor and honesty, but now he was faced with a lie over a decade old that had treasonous implications. Jon, the rightful king. It seemed as if it came from a song: a secret time-traveling king raised as a bastard. Jon would be a good king, he supposed. Fair, humble, observant and kind, but stern and serious all the same. 

“Does mother really not know?” said Robb after a moment, recalling Jon’s earlier words before he busted into the room. “Why wouldn’t you tell her? She’s your wife!”

A jolt of surprise shot through Robb as he witnessed a stray tear roll down his fathers cheek and linger in his beard. “Promise me, Ned, that's what she said. Lyanna. She made me promise to protect Jon. And I- I couldn’t very well say he was the last of the dragons and heir to the Iron Throne in front of Robert, now could I? He would’ve had him murdered without question, even as a babe. You all know what happened to Elia Martell and her children. What Robert and the Lannisters did to them.” He deeply exhaled and his hand gripped his trousers. “We were so young, your mother and I. We barely knew each other. I felt as if I was the only person I could trust in this world. Now, well it's been over a decade. I’ve thought of telling her, truly, but as more years pass, the more the secret buries itself in the red sands of Dorne.”

“I would’ve done the same,” said Jon, “if it were Sansa or Arya. I have never trusted a woman as much as I have trusted my family. But it is now time to tell her, if you think the trust has grown enough.”

“Yes. She is a wolf now more so than a fish,” said his father. “A mother to my children, a Lady of the North. I like to think our relationship means something profound to the both of us.”

“Tomorrow then,” said Jon, commanding in a way that spoke of earned respect and years of leadership. 

“Tomorrow,” echoed his father. 

In the pause that ensued, Robb figured he could add to the conversation with his house’s adage: “The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

His father, solemnly: “The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

Jon, sadly, voice cracking: “The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

At that very moment, Robb was overcome with the knowledge that the course of destiny had irrevocably shifted. He could almost feel it. The walls of Winterfell were whispering, a feeling of gravity and warmth quickly developed deep in his gut, rising into his chest. Jon’s gray eyes were hard, and although his mouth was silent, his vow hung present in the air, engulfing the small room.

The path ahead was treacherous and uncertain, Robb knew, but they were Stark, bound by duty and honor and the ever-present threat of winter. They would face it together, and Jon will be a hero whose story will reverberate for centuries. 

“Well then,” said his father, “I’ll be taking my leave. I need a few moments to myself, and my other duties I need to attend to do not wait for destiny.” He still looked shaken, but was evidently trying to hide it with a facade of grimness and duty. 

Jon looked at him silently before slowly nodding his head in acknowledgement. “We will need to meet soon. I have the beginnings of ideas turning in my head. A fledgling plan we need to discuss. Tell Catelyn, then come see me tomorrow.”

“I will.” He left, footsteps quiet. He closed the door behind him almost hesitantly, as if he were afraid shutting the door on him and Jon would make them disappear from more than just his vision. They listened to his footsteps echoing down the corridor, getting fainter and fainter.

Robb turned his attention back to Jon, who unabashedly stared back at him. The weight of their secrets and their future clouded the room. The brother he thought he knew so well seemed like a stranger now, carrying burdens that Robb couldn't fully comprehend.

Even in Jon’s company, a sense of loneliness settled upon Robb. Did he even know his brother anymore? And what about Jon’s feelings about him? Jon hasn’t seen Robb in what-- ten years? Twenty? Even if Robb saw him yesterday. He figured if he hadn’t seen anyone in ten years their relationship would surely be different.

Jon’s back was hunched. Bags hung heavily beneath his dark eyes, his skin hung off of his cheekbones. This was a jaded man, Robb determined, certainly not a boy of two and ten.  

Robb finally cleared his throat.

"So, Jon," Robb began, his voice cracking at the top, "You obviously had quite the future. Past? Tell me, what lie ahead for me, in this world of yours? How am I as Lord of Winterfell?

Jon swallowed. “You are a good leader,” he said. “You inspire loyalty, and pride. You become the King in the North—” What!? — “but you were naive. A wise man once told me that love is the death of duty. And I would add that trust is the death of legacy.”

Jon’s eyes strayed from Robb’s and fixed on the empty air beside him as if he were seeing something that wasn’t there. His brother’s lip quivered. A breeze came through the room, and it was almost as if it carried a woman's voice, hard and angry and northern. Robb found himself shivering and felt the chilling sensation of a many-legged insect crawling up his spine.

Just as the tense silence became awkward, Jon swung his legs over the side of the bed and clutched the bedpost as he stood up on shaky legs.

“Wait, no!” said Robb while rushing to support Jon. “Time travel or not, you have still been sick for the past few days. Maester Luwin said you need to rest!”

Jon chuckled. “A fever is far from the worst I’ve walked around with,” he said.

He stood to his full height and Robb was delighted to know that although Jon was decades older in age and a secret king, Robb was still the taller one. 

“You are still my brother, you know,” said Jon with palpable sincerity. “You have always been my brother.”

Robb felt himself smile. “Till the day we die,” he vowed, reaching for Jon’s hand.

Jon, for the first time since he had awoken from his fever, smiled boyishly with a blinding grin so heartachingly familiar with the Jon of a week ago. 

“Till the day we die,” he said, shaking Robb’s hand. “Brothers.”

“I’ll have to pretend to be a boy again, won’t I?” said the next morning. They had agreed to wake up early with the sun to spar before they break their fast. 

“‘Spose so,” answered Robb. “Though if you can’t help acting strange everyone will just assume the Gods touched you in your fever. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, if the people of Winterfell had a healthy reminder of superstition and divinity.”

Jon smiled. “I don’t even remember this age, to be honest. Two and ten you said? What am I even like? What should I do? All I remember is trying not to piss off your lady mother.”

Robb was about to answer, but faltered once he started to make noise. What was Jon like? For spending so much time with him, Robb was having a hard time finding adjectives to describe the boy. 

“Sullen, I suppose. But not in a testy way. Quiet. You don’t like Theon very much,” he decided.

Jon laughed this time. “Well then, I guess not much has changed!”

Robb looked at Jon closer again. “You do carry yourself differently now. You stand straighter. You’re less afraid of stepping on anybody’s toes, it seems. It’s a good change, mind you. But an odd one.”

“One I’ll have to hide,” agreed Jon. “Especially in front of Lady Stark. Only until later today, that is.”

Robb’s grin turned into a grimace. The impending discussion between his father and mother about Jon’s parentage was sure to be a spectacle.  They wouldn’t be in the room at the time, but Robb was sure that he would be able to hear most of it from a room down the corridor, where he and Jon planned to camp out. 

It wouldn’t be his first time listening in on important conversations regarding his brother, after all, and he figured he wouldn’t stop now. 

“Nevertheless,” said Jon, “I reckon I’ll be leaving Winterfell soon anyhow. There’s not much I can do here.”

Robb stopped in his tracks as they entered the courtyard and turned to look at his brother, dissent alight on his lips.

“Ready to fight?” Jon said, beating him to it and aptly changing the subject. He gave Robb a knowing look, "Just a fair warning, Robb. I may look like the brother you remember, but I no longer fight like a boy."

“Aye,” grinned Robb as he found his practice sword. He gave it a showy twirl in his hand as Jon rifled through the other swords available, seemingly wholly satisfied with the lot. . Finally, he begrudgingly picked up an older looking one and turned it in his hands a few times before turning to face Robb.

Jon muttered something under his breath about it not being something called Longclaw, but that it was good enough. Robb wondered absentmindedly if this Longclaw was Jon’s tried-and-true sword in the future, that no sword in Winterfell could come close to competing with. It most likely was.

Robb tightened the straps of his leather training armor, and Jon tilted his head back and soaked in the morning sun’s rays as if he hadn’t felt it in years.

He probably hasn’t, Robb realized with a jolt, remembering his mentino of the Long Night the day before.

“Let’s begin,” Jon said with a smirk.

Jon’s eyes seemed to scan Robb’s stance only for the barest hint of a second before RObb was forced on the defense. Barely having time to think, Robb brought up his sword to block Jon’s wide overhead blow. The strength of the hit startled him as his own sword was almost knocked from his hands.  

Shit , this was going to be harder than he thought. It was clear he was no longer the awkward shy boy he was just a few days before.

Robb lunged in response, swinging his sword at a parallel angle to Jon’s gut, but he swiftly sidestepped and continued his observant gaze. Then Jon thrusted forward landing blow after blow upon Robb’s sword. He was quick and sharp, and Robb was barely able to parry them all.

Jon’s style was most definitely not what Ser Rodrik taught them as children. It was more fluid, but also more sharp. More unorthodox and primitive. He tried to spare a thought to where Jon had learned this, but he had no time, too preoccupied by the deluge of attacks he was fending off.

With no time at all, Robb felt sweat dampening his clothing and his heart relentlessly pounding against his ribcage.

Jon’s style was better suited to kill, Robb realized with a start. He wasn’t used to fighting with the intent to disarm, but rather to fatally wound. This admittingly shook him, and he found his arms moving slower, with less vigor. The fact that his brother had to fight in order to survive made these run of the mill blunted-sword practices seem a lot less fun.

Jon must’ve noticed his distraction, dodging to the right, and arching long at Robb’s sword. He was barely able to fend him off, his feet unsteady on the ground as he was relentlessly assaulted. The clangs of their swords rang high in the air. Blood rushed in his ears. 

Finally, Jon stepped back to take a few breaths, relieving Robb for a brief moment. His arms felt shaky and weak. He forced his eyes to study Jon, trying to get even a smidge of advantage. There was a hint of frustration in his face, Robb noticed. And then it came to him why Jonw as so frustrated:

Jon couldn’t even rely on muscle memory, because his muscles have not yet memorized these actions. And the memory of muscle memory probably didn’t do much for his performance, after all. Jon wasn’t particularly more athletic than Robb. In fact, Robb had always had a greater endurance.

Robb went in for a blow but was weakly parried by Jon. He went in for another blow.

If I could just tire him enough…

But then, in a blink of an eye, Jon did some complicated twisting gesture with his sword, and Robb’s sword clattered to the dirt. Before he could even fathom his disarmament, Jon’s sword was pointed at his throat. His brother raised an eyebrow. 

Yield? It said.

“Yield” concurred Robb in astonishment.

Before bringing his sword down Jon winked as if to say, I was just toying with you all along , but in fact, Robb knew the wink should be interpreted more along the lines of: I only learned how to do that in the future. I’ll teach you if you’d like?

Robb winked back.

And then, a young and loud voice echoing through the training yard: “ Where’d you learn that?”

Tiny Arya was a blur as her little legs rushed towards Jon as fast as they could possibly take her. 

“You must teach me! You must, you must!” Robb winced as he saw the hem of her dress drag in the mud.

Jon looked at her as if seeing a ghost, eyes haunted. He didn’t make any noise for a second, before Arya’s insistent tugging on his trousers seemed to drag him out of the dark annals of his past. 

He said, “Maybe one day, when you could pick up a sword without toppling over.”

“I can do that now!” she answered petulantly.

“Perhaps,” Robb jumped in, letting Jon have a chance to right whatever was going on in his mind, “but are you sure you have enough strength in those arms to swing it?” He nearly burst out laughing at Arya’s responding pout.

“I’ll be a great swordswoman one day! I’ll be able to beat all my brothers. Like Aunt Lyanna, and Queen Nymeria, and Queen Visenya!”

Robb searched Jon’s face for sadness at the mention of his secret mother, but none appeared.

“You will be a great swordswoman, someday” Jon said with certainty, “but now you have to learn how to be a great sewer. If I remember correctly, your lessons are soon, and we all have to break our fasts before then.”

Arya pouted and ran away mumbling about Sansa and Jeyne Poole and embroidery. Robb vaguely wondered what that was about.

“Arya!” Jon called out to her retreating figure, smiling as if someone had told a clever joke. “Needles are really just miniature swords, aren’t they?”

Arya looked back and laughed.