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Chapter Text

Like a wastrel found dead by the side of the road, the Lord Commander was laid out and stiffening on a bare trestle table. Naked, but for the flimsy cloth preserving his modesty, and caked in his own blood and dirt. To those who did not know him, only the Valyrian steel longsword laid next to the body offered a clue to Jon Snow's true status. It was his face that caught Ser Davos' eye. Slack and colourless, the blood long drained through the gaping wounds in his upper body. Not even the light of the flickering braziers could soften the harsh grey tones of death's pallor. Only the arrival of Lady Melisandre induced him to tear his gaze away from the horror before him.

As she opened the door, a cold gust of snowy wind blew inside, carrying with it the distant sound of a howling wolf. A mournful wail that made his skin prickle with apprehension. It wasn't Jon's wolf either; Ghost lay sleeping by his dead master's side, with not even a twitch of his tail to betray any sign of life. For one cold moment, Ser Davos feared the beast had curled up died as a show of solidarity to his slain master. Meanwhile, the Red Woman remained silent as she set about her task, causing the atmosphere in the room to thicken.

She wrung out a wet cloth, the droplets catching the light as they splashed back into an earthenware bowl. Unhurriedly, she propped Longclaw against the table then washed the dirt and blood from the dead man's chest. Slowly, almost lovingly, she cleansed Jon's body. Only when he was thoroughly clean did she begin her incantations. A foreign tongue he did not understand, spoken in an undulating whisper, barely audible. Her movements were perfunctory now, as if even she didn't think this was going to work. She snipped at his wet hair, speaking her incantations to R'hllor, before dropping the cuttings into the brazier at Jon Snow's head. More cuttings, then even a few beard trimmings. All were fed to the flames, filling the air with an acrid stench. All the while, her incantations grew louder, stronger as she seemed to hit her stride. She placed her hands on the wounds and spoke as if pleading with them to close. She repeated the process over every one, until she reached the spot on his motionless chest where his heart beat should have been.

There, she paused. The men lining the shadows shifted as the tension grew. But Melisandre would not be hurried. She pressed down on his heart, voiced her final incantation and pressed her hands down. Ser Davos dared to step closer, to see if there was any change – any viable sign of life – from the Lord Commander. Holding his breath, he watched and waited for what seemed an age and a day. The confidence the lady had gathered throughout the duration of the ritual melted away as she looked down at the still dead man, hopeless and empty. She was the first to walk away, closely followed by Dolorous Edd and Tormund Giantsbane.

Their last hope faded with the smell of the burning hair. Anger and disappointment vied against each other among Davos' feelings. As some final, empty show of respect, he placed Longclaw back at Jon's side, closing his cold stiff hand over the hilt and headed for the door himself. Just then, a sharp loud gasp sounded as he reached the threshold. He whipped around again, to where the Lord Commander lay gasping. On the turn of a hair, hope surged within him once more.

"He's back!" he called out to the others who'd already retreated. "Get back in here now, he's breathing!"

Despite being the first out the door, Melisandre was also the first one back in the room. She shoved past Davos and almost fell on the Lord Commander, smoothing his brow as she studied his face intently. Slowly, his breathing evened out and he appeared to be in a deep sleep. Melisandre shook her head slowly, as if this were a negative thing.

Davos was puzzled. "I'm not an educated man, my lady, but he's definitely breathing. It worked."

"He should be awake," she pointed out. Looking up at Ser Davos, she grew more urgent as she added: "This shouldn't be happening. Why isn't he waking?"

What are you asking me for? Davos thought, irritably. Still, he hazarded a guess. "He's injured, he needs to sleep and heal."

"Here," said Dolorous Edd, appearing before them with the bucket of cold water Melisandre had used to wash the body. "I'll wake him up."

Edd's voice sounded so distant, so far away like he was calling to him from the opposite end of a long tunnel. Unable to make out what was said, it contrasted sharply with the shock of the freezing cold that suddenly engulfed his whole body. Groaning, he tried to call out but his limbs were so stiff and sore that all he could do was roll over. When he settled himself again, the warmth returned.

Jon had been so long in the far north he had almost forgotten what the sun on his face felt like. Warm and soft as a mother's embrace was what it felt like. Had he not also felt like he'd drank a winesink dry the night before, he might have enjoyed the sensation more. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes but then winced painfully and screwed them shut again. Too bright. Much too bright. As the burning in his eyes subsided, he rolled over onto his side and breathed in the rich scent of earth and grass.

They stabbed me, he remembered. It was a memory that dropped back into his conscious mind like a stone down a dry well. They stabbed me; tried to kill me.

Ignoring the aches and pains that filled his body, he sat up and forced himself to get his bearings back. Ser Alliser had been the ringleader, with Bowen Marsh and … Ollie. Even Ollie had looked him in the eye and stuck a blade in his chest. For the watch … the refrain of every mutineer rang in his head once more.

"Edd!" Jon gasped, looking all about him.

But there was no one there. No Edd, no Tormund; not even Alliser Thorne. The wall was gone, replaced by mountains that stretched out all around him. Above him, a blue sky spread out only to be punctured by mountain peaks; all clear and bright in the throes of an early spring. Barefoot and near naked, he looked down at his own chest and gasped anew at the sight of the open wounds. Not even his apparent nudity detracted from the ruin of his flesh, but he still breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw that his small clothes were intact and in place. Other than that, there was a small cloth covering him and Longclaw had slipped from his hands as he regained consciousness.

Had they known I was still alive when they dumped my body in this place? He had no way of knowing. Just as he had no idea of how long he had been unconscious for. Long enough, it seemed, to take him far away and abandon him on this lonely mountainside. Realising that if he stayed here he would die for certain, he slowly winched himself back to his feet. His indeterminate black out and the thin mountain air conspired to make his head spin as he took his first tentative steps. Then, making matters worse, the nearest road was treacherous with loose stones that dug into the soles of his feet. Barely a few steps down the way and his feet were beginning to bleed.

Cursing, he sat back down again and tried to work out where he was. North of the Wall? Definitely not. The night time cold would have killed him outright, which made him wonder why Thorne and the others didn't just do that. They might even have found the prospect of him becoming a wight mildly amusing. But no, not even they were stupid enough to risk that. With a sinking heart, he realised he could have been unconscious for weeks and he could be anywhere in Westeros.

What now? He thought to himself. Assuming the Boltons wouldn't exactly welcome him with open arms, he couldn't go there. Mance was dead, so there was no point heading north of the wall. If he did find his way to Castle Black, then Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh and Ollie would be only too willing to do the job properly this time. Then, it came to him in a flash and gave chase to his gathering despair.

"Sam!" His old friend's name even tasted sweet on his lips as he spoke it aloud.

Even though he was undoubtedly many leagues from Oldtown, just having somewhere to aim for renewed his sense of direction and gave him something to focus on. Get off the mountain, go to the nearest town and get help … a plan began to formulate. He could just say he was attacked by brigands to explain his injuries. There was bound to be a charitable Septon who would take pity on him, even a Maester if he was really lucky.

First, he had to get there. Standing again, he wrapped the loin cloth around his hips, where it hung to mid-thigh, easily preserving his modesty and a little dignity. Fixing it in place with his sword belt, he began cautiously treading around the loose rocks again, heading downhill. Progress was slow and slowed further as the sun began to set and he cut his feet again. This far in, he had neither seen nor heard another living soul. It felt like he was the last person alive in the whole country. But when the sound of voices did reach him, it brought no relief. Fearing real brigands, he shrank to side of the mountain road, feeling horribly exposed. However, for all he knew, the people coming up behind him may be friendly. Torn between hiding and making himself as visible as possible, the snap decision made itself.

The only item of value he had was Longclaw, so he tossed it into a nearby thicket of bushes to hide it. With literally nothing else to lose but his life, he positioned himself in the middle of the tracks. As the strangers drew closer, he also heard the sound of horse's hooves crunching against the stony road. He looked back in the direction from which they approached, holding his breath as a young woman rounded a bend.

At the sight of him, she yanked on the reins of the horse in alarm. Immediately, their gaze locked into each other's and she gaped openly at him.

"Ned?" she gasped. "Gods, Ned what happened? I thought you were with the others?"

She soothed her mount before jumping from the saddle. Assuming "Ned" was her companion, Jon tried calling out to her.

"Please, don't be alarmed, I was set on by robbers-"

"Ned, it's going to be all right!" she called back to him. She was running towards him when she stopped and called out to someone else. "Bran! It's Ned, he's been attacked-"

"Listen, I'm not Ned," he tried calling over, but she wasn't listening. "But please, madam, I badly need your help."

The girl was running again, skirts hitched above her ankles. Only when she was a few feet away did she come crashing to a halt. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened in alarm. A faint flush of embarrassment crept over her face.

"Oh my, you're not Ned at all, are you?" Then her eyes raked over his battered and wounded chest, horror returning to her features in a heartbeat. But she didn't let her fear or shock overawe her for long. She pulled the cloak off her back and threw it around his shoulders. "Who did this? Where are they now? My brother is nearby and we will have these men caught and punished. In the meantime, we'll look after you, have no fear."

"I can't remember anything," he stammered, huddling inside her cloak. It was fur-lined and felt luxurious against his bare, cold skin. "All I remember is throwing my sword into those bushes so they wouldn't be able to steal it."

The lie came easily and she even went to retrieve Longclaw for him. By the time she did that, her companion had caught them up and was now dismounting his huge destrier war horse. He was tall and rugged looking and, to his near giddy relief, they both had the sigil of House Stark embroidered into their outer garments. He was about to tell them who he was when the man cut him off.

"Gods, Lyanna, I know we don't see much of Ned since he came to the Eyrie, but really? That's quite some mistake to make there," he grinned as he spoke to the girl, but he was looking at Jon. "Actually, you do look an awful lot like our Ned."

"Shut up, you!" the girl hissed back.

"Now, let's see what they did to you."

The man motioned for him to open the cloak he was wrapped in, which he hesitantly did. His eyes widened in shock at the state of it.

"Seven hells, man! The Old Gods and the New are smiling down on you, by the looks of it. You ought to be dead!"

Clearly, he did not notice Jon paling or his heartbeat racing as he looked between the girl and him. His mouth had run dry and his whole body was trembling. Something they took for the after effects of his attack. In reality, it was his own mind that was taking the beating now.

"For-forgive me, my lord, but what did you say your names were?"

The man jolted as he studied the wounds. "Oh, sorry friend. I am Brandon of House Stark and this here is my sister, Lady Lyanna."

He nodded to the young maid who was behind Jon now, studying Longclaw where it had been thrown into the bushes. She glanced up again and gave him a wave as he turned to get her back in his line of vision. They were both dark haired, grey eyed and lean – the hall mark of every generation of Starks. Jon could feel his breathing grow ragged as realisation finally began sinking in, but he could not fathom it. His own mind could not take in the enormity of what seemed to be happening to him. None of it was possible.

"No," he murmured beneath his breath. "No, it cannot be."

The ground seemed to pitch beneath his feet. Meanwhile, a larger party was fast approaching. Brandon and Lyanna had clearly ridden out ahead of the others, stretching their horse's legs. Now the others had caught them up and two more young men came cantering around the bend in the mountain road.

"What's all this about me being attacked?" the one on the left asked.

Jon's racing heart suddenly felt as if it had stopped altogether. Luckily, Brandon had taken to holding him up. Otherwise, he'd have fallen in a dead faint long ago. All the same, he was capable of doing nothing more than gape dumbly at all these long dead people who surrounded him. Was he dead too and just didn't realise it? Was this the afterlife? But it was happening, it was all real and solid and alive.

"Never mind that, Ned. This is serious, ride back to the others and get Lord Arryn's Maester," said Brandon. Urgently, he added: "Now! This lad's life is in danger!"

Jon watched as his father and Lord Robert Baratheon turned their horses around and rode back the way they came. It tore his heart in two to see Eddard Stark looking at him without so much as a trace of recognition in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Lyanna was trying out Jon's sword.

"Small wonder you risked your neck to save this blade," she said. "Look Bran, it's Valyrian steel!"

Curiosity clearly piqued, Brandon let go of Jon's shoulders to look at Longclaw. Immediately, he fell back down again, impacting painfully with the hard ground.

"Bran, you fool!" Lyanna cursed, running back to Jon's side. "Are you all right? Just lie still until help arrives. I'm sorry to say it, but I don't think the finest maester's in all the realm will have you fit and strong again in time for Old Whent's tourney."

Jon's head reeled again, but he was powerless to move or even speak coherently. "But …. I can't … I don't-"

"Don't fret on it," said Brandon. "We'll find you some clothes that fit and you can come with us. My sister's a spectator too, you can watch with her if you're alone. In the meantime, you still have this magnificent blade. That's a wolf on the pommel, isn't it?"

Lyanna beamed down at him. "We love wolves."

In that moment, Jon decided that none of this was happening. Shaking off Lyanna's arms, he staggered back to his feet and attempted walking. But all that happened was that he lurched forward, almost vomited and fell into a cold, black faint.

Chapter Text

Melisandre's red eyes glowed by the light of her fires. An effect made all the more sinister when viewed from the shadowy corners of the old Maester's chambers, as Ser Davos did. He, Edd and Tormund had carried Jon Snow's comatose body there earlier in the day, laying him down in Aemon's old bed. Covered in furs to keep him warm, he lay there still; motionless and mostly silent. But there was no denying the heartbeat that pulsed beneath Davos' fingers whenever he checked. Strong and steady, never faltering. Jon Snow as undeniably alive.

Meanwhile, the Red Woman squinted intently into the flames, reading whatever it was she saw in there. Davos had tried himself, but all he could make out were the tongues of flame lapping at the wood and coals. The heat had driven him back after no more than two minutes and his beard had been singed in the process. So much for that. Having decided to leave it to the professional, he watched her every move and studied her expression as she went about her strange arts.

Every so often, she spoke in a foreign language. Valyrian? Davos could not tell, for he himself had only the common tongue despite all his travels. He could ask 'which way to the market?' in Dothraki and he knew the pleasantries in low Valyrian. None of it, he thought, would be of much interest to the Lord of Light.

"Is there anything there?" he asked, when the wait became too much.

Melisandre did not reply immediately, nor even divert her squinting gaze away from the fire. Ever since Stannis' defeat she had been disillusioned, but now she looked like she was fighting some internal conflict brought about by the flames themselves. Eventually, she turned to him with a frown marring her pale face.

"I ask, but R'llhor shows me only the red mountains far away," she replied. "Then Winterfell. A door leading deep into a dark vault, deeper and deeper to a place I dare not go."

"The Red Mountains of Dorne?" he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he added: "But is Jon Snow in any of them?"

She responded with a slow shake of her head. "Only a blue rose growing from a crack in the stones, a scarlet dragon drowning in a rushing river."

Occasionally, Davos reminded himself that this was the same woman who thought Stannis was the reincarnation of a character from the Age of Heroes and thought sailing to the Blackwater months earlier than planned was a good idea. Just then, Jon murmured in his sleep. A moan escaping his parted lips as his hand clenched into a fist. Both of them rushed back to his side, willing him to wake up. Both holding their breath, they looked down at him and watched as he one more relaxed, slipping farther away from them.

Davos sighed heavily. "Do you think he can hear us? Would it help if we talked to him?"

"I-I don't know," replied Melisandre, falteringly.

"Anything's worth a try," he conceded. He then leaned closer to Jon's face, which was once more slack with sleep. Suddenly, Davos felt like he'd lost his tongue as he grasped at meaningful speech. After a moment, he gave up and resorted to shouting his name. "Lord Commander! Lord Commander, can you hear me? You've got to wake up now! Lord Commander!"

"Ser Davos." Jon could only murmur the name as he stirred from his sleep. But just like the day before, the distant voices faded and the reality that greeted him upon waking was something very different. The shock hit him again, but he only smarted for a moment before pulling himself together.

Finding himself wrapped up on a pallet bed inside a pavilion tent, he struggled to sit up properly. When he did, he was able to get a good look at his new surroundings. A brazier burned in the middle, smoke escaping through a small hole in the roof of the silk. A snarling grey direwolf was embroidered into the panels of silk at his side and an old Maester was bent over a small trestle table, grinding the contents of a pestle and mortar. The sound of the pestle grinding against the bowl of the mortar was the only sound to be heard, until the Maester realised he was awake. So startled, he was, that he almost knocked his work over.

"Oh, you're back with us!" the man called over to him. "Lady Lyanna will be most relieved."

"I didn't mean to startle you," Jon said, extricating his legs from the tangle of sheets. His feet ached as he set them down on the ground, reminding him he'd cut them the day before on the stony mountain road.

"Your poultice is nearly ready." The Maester was approaching him now, the contents of his mortar now wrapped in a fine cloth. "Just lie down hold this here and I will inform the lady and her brother's you're back in the land of the living."

He demonstrated by pressing the poultice against a large open would on his chest. To his surprise, the others had all been stitched up.

"Oh yes, I patched you up while you were unconscious. I'll see to this one later," the Maester explained.

He drew a sharp breath as the poultice was pressed into the wound, causing a sharp sting that soon settled into a not unpleasant warmth. Thanking the man, Jon watched as he vanished through the opening of the pavilion, leaving him alone in there. He could have sworn he slept only for a night, but by the feel of the ground they were well away from any mountain range now. Surely it would have taken weeks to get down from the Mountains of the Moon, which is where he thought he was.

As soon as he pondered that dilemma, another sprang into his mind. Why? Why was he here, of all places? He didn't feel dead, whatever 'dead' felt like. Then there were the voices of his friends, back at Castle Black. He heard them talking. Talking about him. The exotic accent of the Red Woman, gruff Ser Davos and the droll Dolorous Edd and the sonorous boom of Tormund Giantsbane. Sometimes faint, sometimes it sounded like they were in the room with him. As soon as he woke, it was like the daylight snuffed them out and plunged him back into this strange hinterland. It left him torn between fear and bewilderment.

He was not alone for long before the flap of the tent was pushed aside once more, letting in a gust of clean fresh air. Jolted out of his reverie, he looked up to see Lyanna ducking under the entrance, with Brandon, Eddard and a startlingly young Benjen close behind her. Benjen, just like his father, looked at him as though he were a stranger. There was not so much as a trace of recognition in his eyes.

"You're awake!" Lyanna beamed as she sat herself at the edge of his bed. "Gods, you've been asleep for days. The whole way down the mountains, you didn't wake up once."

Benjen clambered onto the foot of the bed, while Eddard sat at the table the maester had been working at moments before. Brandon, however, seemed restless and never stood still for long. He repeatedly pulled and pushed as a dirk on his sword belt, sheathing and unsheathing it rapidly and constantly. Every so often, Eddard noticed and looked like he wanted to slap him for it. Eddard, whom Jon had to conscious stop himself from staring at constantly and longingly. I am you son, he yearned to say, you must remember me, I am your son! But there was no way of saying anything without sounding like a madman.

After a long pause, he turned his doleful gaze to his aunt Lyanna. "Thank you for having your maester attend me."

"Actually, it was Lord Arryn's maester, but he's ever so good," she pointed out, before introducing him to the rest of her family. "You remember Bran, of course. But this one here's Ned, I thought you were him when I first saw you. Last, here's Benjen. We'll all keep an eye on you until you find your friends again, so don't worry."

As Lyanna pointed out his father, Ned blushed and shied away. He really was timid, Jon thought to himself. A sharp contrast to his older brother.

"And this is your cue to tell us who you are…." Brandon hinted, grinning at him.

Jon was suddenly floundered. He couldn't very well say House Stark, they knew he wasn't from any of the other northern houses in their time and they had already seen his Valyrian steel sword and couldn't very well pass himself off as a commoner or bastard without raising further serious questions. He could see Longclaw from the corner of his eye, propped against a wooden chair like a piece of incriminating evidence that ought to have been burned ages ago.

"My name's Jon," he said, sending up a silent prayer they'd be satisfied with that.

The prayer went unanswered.

"Jon of House…." Brandon prompted, while the rest all looked at him expectantly. "Carrying a sword like that you must be someone we'd know."

"Jon of House …." He trailed off, colour rising in his face as he struggled to pluck a feasible house out of thin air. "House," he repeated, dumbly.

Brandon suppressed a laugh. "Jon of House House. What's your sigil then? A house by any chance."

"Bran, leave him alone," Lyanna scolded. "He doesn't have to tell us if he doesn't want to."

Inwardly, Jon was kicking himself. "It's fine. The truth is, I'm not of a noble house. I'm the bastard son of Lord Mazin, so you wouldn't know me. This is his sword and I'm just minding it for him until he returns from the Free Cities."

"Never heard of them- "

Lyanna cut him off again, heaving a sigh and rolling her eyes. "He did say you wouldn't have heard of them; obviously they're a minor house. Now leave, all of you, can't you see he's exhausted."

Really, he wanted them all to go so he could be alone and get to grips with what was happening. But as the boys shuffled out of the pavilion like scolded toddlers, Lyanna remained sat on the edge of his bed. She smoothed down her skirts as they went, picking at a loose thread in the grey and white cloak she wore over her shoulders. Every time Jon looked in her eyes, he found himself thinking of Arya.

"When you passed out, up on the mountain road there, we all thought your wounds were festering," she said. "But the Maester said they were fine. Still, he stitched you up properly just to be safe. Oh, and Ned donated a change of clothes, seeing as your own seem to have been stolen. Turns out he's exactly your size."

"Thank you, my lady. I really am grateful," he replied.

"Oh, please, call me Lya. Everyone else does," she said.

Jon managed to raise a pained smile, setting the poultice to one side. The wound no longer hurt, none of them did although they still looked angry and red. All the while, he was aware of Lyanna looking at him, her gaze raking over his bare chest before she turned and began fidgeting with the hem of her cloak again. Had he not still been as stunned as a fox in a mantrap, he might have found some way to make polite conversation with her. But just as he was starting to remember his manners, she met his gaze and said:

"This is passing strange, Jon. But have we met somewhere before? It's just that, I swear I've seen you somewhere or I know you from somewhere. I can't quite put my finger on it."

You died before I was born, he thought to himself as a sadness closed over him. He watched her sitting there, young and beautiful, so full of life and excited about the tourney. By his estimation, she had a year left to live. Brandon had less.

"I think not, my lady," he replied.

"Lya!" she laughed and shook her head. When she laughed, her grey eyes shone. "No, I know what it is. It's because you do look so much like Ned. Is your father's house based in the Vale, where we found you? There's a lot of Stark blood among the Vale lords, you see."

"Yes," he replied, hollowly. "That's what it'll be."

She smiled again. "Strange, because I know a northern accent when I hear one. Oh well, never mind. Are you looking forward to the Tourney? My betrothed is taking part in the melee and I promised I'd go and watch. We don't really like that sort of thing, but because it's Robert … well, you know how it is."

"Melee's are just playing at war," Jon said. "That's what my father always said."

"Sounds like your father ought to meet my father!" she retorted. "But it's true, isn't it? I still love it, though. And the jousting. I think that's what I'm looking forward to most." She paused, her mouth open as if about to say something, but then thinking better of it. Colour rose in her face as she added: "listen to me prattling on when you must be so disappointed about your injuries ruling you out."

Jon was keen to reassure her. "No, please, it's fine. I've heard Prince Rhaegar will be attending, though. Do you know him?"

Lyanna raised on sceptical eyebrow. "I know I'm Lord Rickard's daughter. Even so, the Crown Prince and I don't exactly mix in the same social circles!"

In turn, Jon tried to laugh; to make it sound light and unimportant. "It's not that, it's just that I've heard some rumours about him. That he once forced a maiden."

"They say his father is mad, but I hear only good about the Crown Prince."

Jon hesitated, deciding against labouring the point. Still unsure of where he was or why he was there, he couldn't say for certain whether the worst would happen. Either way, he knew if he saw Rhaegar anywhere near her, he would do all he could do stop the abduction. He didn't care if Brandon and Eddard thought him mad, he would stop it. He might even stop the war in the process. They could live as a family, even without him, and be happy as they are now. Brandon would marry Catelyn; Lyanna would be loved by Robert for the rest of her days and Eddard –

Thinking of his father made the breath catch in his throat.

"Lya," he said, sitting up in bed again so he could be nearer to her.

"Yes?"

"Forgive me if this is rather forward," he began. "But does Ned have a lady?"

Referring to his own father as "Ned" felt like the height of bad manners. But he had to remember that Lord Stark is not his father. Yet. Meanwhile, Lyanna was baffled.

"Ned? A woman? Gods, no. You've seen him, he wouldn't say 'boo' to a goose," she laughed. "Ned's such a sweet thing, but he's so shy. I mean, Brandon has a girl in every town, but Ned's so different from him it's like night and day. If truth be told, I was rather hoping he would meet someone at the tourney." She paused for breath, then winked at him. "Who knows, you might too."

I hope you don't, he inwardly thought. Outwardly, however, he forced himself to smile. "I doubt that very much."

The following morning, come dawn, they were on the move again. It turned out that they had made it to Lord Harroway's Town before he woke up and they were on the last stretch of their journey to Harrenhal. Outside, Jon could see that other noble houses were making their way to Whent's tourney. Arryns, Royces and Waynwoods were the ones he could make out, but there were scores of others besides. Just for a moment, Jon forgot himself and allowed himself to simply take in the sights and sounds of the legendary event unfolding all around him. Even so, he stuck like glue to the Stark retinue as he mounted a spare horse and reined up beside Lyanna and Benjen.

Riding not four feet ahead of him, Lyanna glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. "Are you ready?"

Jon nodded to her. "Of course."

With that, she dug her heels into her horse's flanks and broke into an instant trot, rapidly building into a gallop as she sped through the streets as if she and her mount were one. He had heard it said she was 'half-centaur', but not realised how true it was.

Poor Benjen turned to him with a look of resigned exasperation on his face. "She's such a show off!"

Jon smirked as he choked on his aunt's dust. "Yes well, you know what to do about that."

Benjen shrugged. "You won't catch her up. No one can, not even Brandon."

"Don't bet on it," Jon retorted, digging his spurs into his own horse's flanks. "Come on, Benjen, what're you afraid of? Getting beaten by a girl?"

Pricking the boy's pride worked. Soon, they were both giving chase, down the winding streets to the holy terror of the populace. Jon still didn't really know where he was going, or what he'd do when he got there. But for the moment, he savoured the clean air and the thrill of the chase as he charged after her. Dead or not, he'd never felt more alive than in that one small moment.

Closing his eyes, Bran released his grip on the roots of the weirwood tree. A rush of blood momentarily deafened him as he felt himself being pushed out of the past and dropped back into the present. He took a moment to catch his breath and let his heartbeat even out. Then, moments later, he sat up and smiled at the memory of the visions he and the Three Eyed Raven explored. Old Nan had been there, only she wasn't old. She was Young Nan, and she had run up to a very tall knight and hugged him tightly. The vision was from so long ago he couldn't even guess at who the other people were, but it was definitely in the north. Winterfell had been in the back ground. Old memories of his own childhood had been evoked, leaving a trace of the bittersweet lingering even now.

After a minute to compose himself, he turned to the Three Eyed Raven, still embedded in his prison of roots.

"Was that Ser Duncan the Tall?"

As ever, he got no straight answer. "Your nursemaid has led an eventful life, Brandon."

He had expected no less. Just as he had expected no less than for his mentor to slip back into his deep trance within minutes of the lesson being concluded. Bran no longer minded. It was safe inside the weirwood, wide and surprisingly spacious. Occasionally, Leaf joined them and offered guidance. Mostly, it was just him, Meera and Hodor in there.

"Hodor," he addressed the gentle giant. "Go and tend to Summer, I need to speak with Meera."

"Hodor!"

With that, he ambled off and Bran watched as he went. All the while, he could feel Meera fixing him with her gaze.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "What else did you see?"

"I don't know for sure," he replied, voice low. "It was while the vision was transitioning. I caught a glimpse of a man on a mountainside, naked and injured. He was talking to aunt Lyanna and our uncle." He paused, studying her expression for a minute. "Meera, it was my brother, Jon."

It was fleeting and it was impossible. But Bran had been doing this long enough to know what he had seen.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three: A Dream of Summerhall

By some miraculous act of serendipity, the Starks managed to find a quiet spot by the God's Eye in which to set up their overnight camp. Not far from their spot, Jon could look in all directions and see nothing but a great tidal wave of people all heading for Harrenhal. Many armoured for the martial events and mounted on great destrier horses, seas of banners from noble houses across the seven kingdoms fluttered in the soft winds and the air was alive with sounds and smells of other camps. On the north shore of the lake, Harrenhal itself loomed in the distance. Across the water, the Isle of Faces sat shrouded in mist as the sun began to set.

Every so often, Jon stopped what he was doing just to look and take in the view. Back in his own time, what felt a century ago, he had left Winterfell and headed north in the belief he would never see anything like this again. Even before that, he had never left the north, he had never been invited to a grand spectacle and he had never met his whole family. Sometimes, he caught himself thinking that getting stabbed by his own men and being tossed out of his life was actually worth it. He remembered Ygritte then, as she died in his arms. 'We should have stayed in that cave, Jon Snow,' she had told him. Maybe she was right. Maybe he should stay in the past and hitch himself on to his uncle Brandon's retinue.

Always, the train of thought led him back to the same question: am I really dead? Everyone else around him was dead. Benjen was probably dead. But then he saw Bronze Yohn Royce leading his men through Harroway's Town. He was definitely still alive in Jon's old life; he had seen the man himself in Winterfell not three years before. Still finding his new circumstances bewildering, he resumed helping to set up the camp and leading their weary horses to the water's edge just to take his mind off it all. Meanwhile, Lyanna circulated among them handing out cups of ale and honey mead.

"Are you sure you should be doing that?" she asked, handing him a horn of ale. "You're still wounded."

"I'm fine, honestly," he replied, accepting the drink with gratitude.

She did not look convinced. "Just, don't over-do it. You might burst a stitch."

Before Jon could reply, Brandon had overheard and came striding over to them from where he had set up a pavilion tent. "You're fussing like an old woman, sweet sister. Oh, and mine's a horn of ale, thanks."

Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Was I even offering anything? Did I even ask?"

"No, but you were going to. Because you're such a sweet girl, always thinking of others." He flashed her a grin as she huffed indignantly and returned to the barrels of ale.

As soon as her back was turned, Brandon shrugged off his heavy furs and drew his sword. Having already bore witness to his uncle's sudden displays of violence, Jon drew back and felt for the hilt of Longclaw. A reaction met with a sudden gale of laughter. Brandon composed himself quickly and clarified his intentions.

"Swap," he said, holding out the hilt of his blade. Nodding to Longclaw, he added: "I'll be gentle with her, I promise."

Jon hesitated at the sparring invitation. Longclaw was like an extension of his own arm and he'd only ever seen Brandon's sword laying across the lap of his effigy down in the crypts. For him it would be like walking with someone else's legs. Still, he handed over Longclaw and exchanged her for Brandon's blade. It was heavy, almost unwieldy at first, with Bran being so much bigger than himself. But after turning the hilt and bouncing it in his palms, he soon found his balance. Meanwhile, opposite him, Brandon was testing Longclaw admiringly. Moments passed, then Brandon began squaring him up.

Wise to what was happening, Jon shrank back and made himself small. All the while, he gripped both hands around the hilt of the unfamiliar blade. He wanted Brandon to think him a scared boy, giving himself a few seconds of advantage when he launched the attack. Which he did, with such skill that the older, bigger, man's eyes widened in shock. Brandon parried the attack just in the nick of time, before lunging in with Longclaw. Jon had already seen that coming and blocked it almost lazily. An easy smile played across his lips as he stepped forwards, confident now and with Brandon's sword balanced casually against his shoulder.

"Sorry, did I surprise you old man?" Jon taunted, grinning. His uncle had underestimated him and they both knew it.

"Careful, my lady, I wouldn't want to ruin that pretty face of yours!" Brandon shot back, raising Longclaw again.

Jon ducked out of the way, sweeping his sword at Brandon's knees while he aimed for Jon's head. They both lost ground, but recovered swiftly as the sparring intensified. From the corner of his eye, Jon could see an audience of Starks and a stray Baratheon gathering around to watch. Lyanna, it seemed, had forgotten all her worries about his health and was now cheering her brother on loudly and laughing with her other brothers.

"C'mon, Bran, on the honour of House Stark!" her shrill voice cut through the clash of metal on metal.

She was soon joined by Benjen, but Eddard clung close to Robert's side and merely watched them both intently. Meanwhile, Jon blanked them all out and concentrated on his technique. It felt like it had been forever and a day since he had sparred with a partner just as highly trained as himself and he was relishing the challenge. He blocked as much as he attacked, but was soon gaining ground … only to then slip up and lose it again. They were evenly matched and evenly determined. Only the aching of his wounds was preventing him from going too far and even that was subdued by the rush of blood through his veins.

Eventually, it was left to Lyanna to call a draw. She flung herself between the two of them, her arms held out to separate them.

"The Lady of Winterfell calls a draw!" she laughed, dark grey eyes shining. "Well fought, both of you. Houses Stark and Mazin are equal in skill."

Both breathless and flushed in the face, they shook hands as they reclaimed their rightful weapons. Brandon complimenting him on his skill as he returned Longclaw. Jon couldn't help but notice that Brandon looked at him differently now. He had succeeded in winning the other man's respect. Something that he couldn't help but flush with a small degree of pride over.

Later that evening, they dined together in the main pavilion tent with Brandon bringing him into the circle. In the intervening hours, Robert Baratheon had vanished, only to return bearing a posy of wild flowers which he presented to Lyanna. Jon watched as she beamed happily, inhaling their rich scent with relish before kissing Robert's cheek. Although still young, the Lord of Storm's End already had a full beard, just as Jon remembered from his royal visit to Winterfell. But here he was young, lean and handsome. Only now could he see the demon of the Trident, the warrior king his father had always talked about. It was clear to see why women went weak at knees for him. Lyanna, however, smiled stiffly and the gesture didn't quite reach her eyes. As he continued to watch them interact, it seemed to him like she was doing her duty and playing a role.

They've only just met, he reminded himself. Even as that thought flitted through his mind, she extricated herself from Robert's arms a little too quickly, then made herself busy with serving up second helpings of lamb stew to everyone, then topping up goblets with honey mead as though looking to avoid the inevitable return to her eager paramour. Although it seemed off to him, he paid no further heed to it as Robert spoke up again, his voice cutting through the rest of the chatter.

"Brandon, what's all this I've been hearing about you crippling some little shit at Riverrun?"

A peal of laughter came from Lyanna. "Oh yes, Jon won't have heard this either. Tell it again, Brandon, what happened."

Just then, another nugget of realisation dropped like a stone into Jon's consciousness. Catelyn Tully of Riverrun is still to be wed to Brandon, not his father. But he pushed that aside and turned curiously to his uncle, who had choked on a mouthful of mead as he swallowed and laughed at the same time. He reached out and slapped Jon on the back as if he'd been the one spluttering, but took it as a sign that he ought to be paying attention to this one.

"Seriously, right, this … boy, or whatever he's supposed to be, that lives at Riverrun with Cat and her sister, he only went and challenged me to a duel!" he retorted, glancing between Jon and Robert. "He says to me, Cat's his one true lady love and that if I'm to take her hand in marriage, it must be over his dead body. I swear it true, he was about fourteen if he's a day."

Jon suppressed a snort of laughter at the thought of anyone fighting for the hand of his sour-faced former "step-mother". But here, she too would be a young maid full of hope for the future rather than bitterness for the sins of others. Whoever this poor victim was, Jon couldn't help but feel a little sorry for his humiliation.

"So what did you do?" asked Jon, looking up at his uncle wide-eyed. "Surely you didn't kill the boy?"

Brandon guffawed. "Nearly! Let's just say he'll have those scars for the rest of his life; from the collar bone to his belly. Should have heard Lysa screaming, though. Gods, that one could the bats a time of it with those squeals." He paused there, drew a deep breath and affected a high, exaggerated girlie voice: "Oh Petyr, Petyr, not my sweet Petyr! Brandon, you brute!"

His ridiculous impromptu mummer's act was met with laugher from around the cook fire. Even Jon allowed himself to get swept up in it all. Only dimly could he recall his father telling him about the time Brandon almost killed a young man for Catelyn Tully's sake. Less still could he remember the boy's name. The only other thing he knew was that the boy, Petyr, had risen high in King Robert's court.

"So where is he now?" asked Lyanna. "Not dead, I hope."

"He's not dead," Brandon replied, dismissively. "Anyway, Cat's silly sister is taking care of him. Old Hoster told me he's sending the boy away as soon as he's fit again. He's not like Jon here, four stab wounds and still fighting like a demon."

Jon flushed at the praise as all eyes in the room turned to him. He drank deeply from his goblet of honey mead, finding it sweet but tasty all the same. A treat like this was an unheard of luxury at Castle Black and he'd almost forgotten the taste of it. Meanwhile, the company gathered inside the pavilion tent soon dissolved into chatter again. Lyanna came over to sit between him and Brandon, leaving Robert alone to talk with Eddard.

"You are a great swordsman, Jon," she said, gazing into the small cook fire. "Not many people can take Brandon on and walk away, even in a friendly sparring match. I mean, a boy like Petyr Baelish is one thing – that was just foolishness. But he's one of the best and you were his equal. It makes me think there must have been several men who attacked you up on the mountain road."

Jon raised a small smile. "Thank you, Lya. Now I think on it, I must have been half-asleep when the attack happened. But, like I said, I don't remember for sure."

"Who is your master at arms?" she asked, turning to meet his gaze. Her eyes, he noted, were the exact same colour as his and his father's.

"Ser Alliser Marsh," he replied, plucking the two names almost out of thin air. Both had tried to kill him; both had unwittingly done him a favour. They had sent him here and showed him the true colours of his so called brother's of the Night's Watch. But none of this could he divulge to Lyanna.

"He must be good," she replied. "We have Ser Rodrik Cassel at Winterfell. He's a great master at arms, but I drive him to distraction by sneaking in on the boy's training sessions. If my father ever found out he'd have Rodrik's head. But when he's not around, I take lessons too. I can spar and I can duel. I've knocked Benjen into the dust more than once."

A memory rose at the back of Jon's mind. Of a little girl ducking out of needlework lessons and getting under everyone's feet. He remembered the way he used to muss up her hair and call her "little sister". Looking at Lyanna was just like looking at an older Arya. The memory of her would have brought tears to his eyes had he been alone.

"You're just like my little sister," he said, solemnly. "She hates needlework and dancing and dressmaking. She just wants a sword in her hands."

"I don't blame her," Lyanna laughed. "What is her name?"

There was no harm in saying it, seeing as her birth was a good decade away.

"Arya," he replied. "She's only ten."

"Arya. That's a lovely name," replied Lyanna. She paused, regarding Jon closely for a long moment. Softly, she added: "You sound like you really love her."

He felt a lump forming in his throat. "With all my heart."

Sensing something wrong, Lyanna's brow twitched into a frown. "Where is she now?"

"I don't know," he replied, truthfully. "I haven't seen her for some time, not since I left home."

Carefully, she took the cup from his hands and placed it at his feet. Then she held his hands, squeezing them for comfort. "I pray you'll see her again one day."

"As do I."

With that, the subject of family was mercifully dropped. They wiled away a few more hours with chatter and drinking, then picking at the remains of the food until they were more than sated. After that, they talked some more. They talked of the Tourney, of the future, of their weddings and the children they hoped to have. Jon learned, for the first time, that his father was hoping to wed Lady Barbrey Ryswell – a woman who hated him in later life, but he never did get the full story on that. Now, he supposed, he never would. For now, they were all so young and so full of optimism for a future he knew they would never have. Armed with the knowledge he had, he could not join in.

Eventually, as the hour grew later, he made his excuses and departed for the small tent one of Lord Arryn's men had loaned him. By way of parting, Brandon gave him another brotherly slap on the back, while Lyanna smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek. Eddard reached up and shook his hand, while Benjen seemed to have fallen asleep while leaning against his sister's back, his head lolled against her shoulder as he softly snored. Benjen caught Jon's attention, as well as his eye. He was half a boy. More than that, he was just a boy full stop. Yet, in the next few weeks, he would be signing up for the Night's Watch. He had never considered it before and Robert's Rebellion would delay the moment of Ben's joining anyway. But it was at the tourney that he met that wandering crow and signed up. It was just one more thing that didn't add up.

As he made his way out into the fresh night air, he breathed in gratefully. It had been hot and stuffy in that pavilion and it felt good to be able to stretch his legs, especially after a big feed and a few drinks. He rubbed his eyes, yawned expansively and started toward his tent, before bumping into an old man had could have sworn was not there before he blinked. Old, he was very old. With pure white, snowy coloured hair and red eyes. His skin was whiter than milk glass. The red eyes and white skin combined to give him an uncanny resemblance to the face of a weirwood tree. It was almost disconcerting, the way he fixed Jon with an unbroken stare as he closed the gap between them.

"Brandon will deliver a message to you soon, Lord Commander," he said.

The breath caught in Jon's throat as he jumped back from the man. "Brandon's in there," he replied, pointing to the tent. But the man knew his title, his real title. Jon already realised he didn't mean that Brandon. "Who are you?"

The red-eyed man drew level with him, but did not stop and carried on walking. Jon whirled around to keep him in his line of vision. But when he looked back, the man had vanished.

"Who was that?" asked Lyanna. "Was someone here?"

Jon found her just as she was vacating the tent, realising she had not seen him. All she heard was Jon's voice. He tried to laugh it off. "I thought I saw someone. Must be the drink!"

Luckily, it worked and she paid it no more mind. "You and me both, Jon. Come on, let's both get our drunk selves back home safe."

Doing the courteous thing, however, he made sure Lyanna made it back to her own tent first before returning to his own. In the five minutes it took to do that, he had almost succeeded in convincing himself he really had imagined the strange albino man. But it was enough so that as soon as he pulled off his tunic to leave just his undershirt, he climbed into his bunk and fell straight into a deep sleep.

Ser Davos himself cut the ropes of the gallows. One by one, the stiffening traitors fell to the ground with a deadened thump, like a dying tree shedding its own rotten fruit. Bowen Marsh and some others whose names he did not even know. Finally, the boy. Ollie. He hesitated, still sickened by the hanging of a mere child no older than his own youngest son. But after a second to compose himself, he hardened himself to the grim task and sawed at the rope around the dead boy's neck.

"Burn them all," he softly said, directing the words at a nearby steward. "Make sure you do a thorough job, lads."

Descending the steps, he found Melisandre waiting for him in the yard below. She was overlooking a large pyre, constructed from wood and coals brought from beyond the wall. Her red eyes doubtful, but her posture confident as she turned to greet him.

"Ser Davos," she said. "It is almost time."

As though doubting her, he rolled his eyes to the heavens and determined the lateness of the hour by the darkness of the skies. True enough, dusk was thickening into a fast gathering night. There was one more traitor left; one she had a special plan for. Normally, Ser Davos would have more than just a qualm or two about watching men burn. He had seen the Red Woman do it to more than one man he had called an ally. But he had no such trouble with Ser Alliser Thorne. While the hanged traitors were burning on a smaller pyre away from Castle Black, the Lady had insisted a sacrifice be made of the ring leader. As far as Ser Davos was concerned, it couldn't happen to a nicer man.

"Indeed it is, my lady," he agreed. "Is Ser Alliser ready?"

Is R'llhor ready, more like, he thought to himself. If he was the Lord of Light, he'd be sceptical about accepting this traitor as a gift. A poor return indeed for a man of Jon Snow's calibre.

"All we need is Ser Alliser's life," she said, as though she'd read his mind. "He himself doesn't need to be ready for anything. We make a gift of his life in return for Jon Snow's."

In a strange sort of way, Davos could see her logic. For their purposes, it was no good hanging the bastard, he had to be fed to the flames and given directly to R'llhor. Or, something like that. Still, it made him a touch uneasy. Come nightfall, Thorne was led from his cell bound at the wrists and escorted by Tormund Giantsbane and Dolorous Edd, while the whole regiment of brothers had come out to bear witness to the traitor's death.

The funeral pyre of the hanged men was still burning, the smell of searing flesh caught at the back of Davos' throat. Hardened to it now, he scarce noticed. He was just grateful for the warmth and the light of the flames. Meanwhile, he watched Ser Alliser's face. He had seen that look before: determination to face death with silent stoicism, despite the agony the condemned man knew awaited him. He also knew it would not last.

Not long after Thorne was secured to the stake, Melisandre swept away in a swish of red skirts. When she returned, minutes later, she bore a torch lit from the dying funeral pyre close by. Before she could touch the torch to the stake, he stopped her.

"Ser Alliser Thorne," he spoke aloud to the condemned man. "You have been sentenced to death for the crime of treason, for the attempted murder of your elected Lord Commander in contravention of the vows of the Night's Watch. Would you speak any final words?"

The man's lips were a compressed white line, his jaw set firm. For a moment, Davos thought he would simply say nothing. But, at the last moment, he spoke.

"Aye, I killed the Lord Commander, and that slab of meat you're keeping alive won't save you now," he began. "But what I did, I did for the Watch. If I had my time again, I would do it all again. And now my watch is ended."

With that, Ser Davos nodded to Melisandre. Without preamble, she touched the flames to the kindling and began her Valyrian recitals in a firm, authoritative voice. Switching to the common tongue, she called out to the Lord of Light, beseeching him to revive their real Lord Commander. Smoke soon billowed in the frigid night air, kindling crackled as the flames grew taller and hungrier. A whoosh of air, a bang sounded from within the stake and Thorne's bravery finally deserted him as he cried out in anguish, the flames licking at his legs. For Jon's sake, Davos made himself watch until the bitter end, when the screaming faded and the roar of the flames filled that terrible silence.

"For the night is dark and full of terrors!" Melisandre called out one more time, holding her arms ride open as if embracing the flames.

"The night is dark and full of terrors," they all chorused back at her.

At the heart of the flames, the dead man charred, folding in on himself before falling away to ash and cinders.

"Jon," Bran's voice was sweet as ever, gently coaxing him out of the darkness. "Jon, open your eyes now."

When he did, he was not in his bed. He was, instead, sitting beneath a tree overlooking a burning building. Although quite some distance away, he could feel the heat and the smoke was stinging his eyes. The screams of the people echoed in the night air, the roar of the flames reaching the heavens. Panicked, he got to his feet and started racing towards them. He could see no water nearby to form a bucket chain, but the blaze was long past that anyway. Before he got too far, however, a hand reached out and stopped him.

"Jon, you can't," said Bran.

Startled, Jon whipped around to where his little brother was looking at him. Smiling sadly. He was so shocked he almost forgot the human tragedy unfolding not a half a mile away from him.

"Bran, you're standing and walking!"

"Not really," he said. "Only here, when I'm inside the tree."

Confused, Jon frowned at him. "I don't follow. Are you here with me, in the past? I'm with father and aunt Lyanna and Uncle Benjen and Brandon. How come you're not?"

Bran, to his dismay, looked nonplussed. "We don't know what's happening, Jon. But I'm not with you. When we explore the visions inside the tree, no one can see us-"

"Wait, wait!" Jon cut over him. "Who is 'we'? What do you mean by 'inside the tree' and what visions?"

Bran shook his head. "Jon, please, pay attention to what's happening. I can't explain everything but I will find out, I promise you. All I know is, when I go back no one can see me or the Three Eyed Raven, but they can see you. It's like you're really there, and if you are really there then it won't be for nothing. You need to pay attention to what we're showing you."

As Jon walked them closer to the fire, it became clear no one could see either of them now. He and Bran were invisible as people ran screaming from the burning building. It was huge, too. Although blackened, with masonry crashing down all around them, he could see the building had been beautiful and opulent. If there was anyone left inside now, they must surely be burned to death. But, even as Jon reached that conclusion, he saw two figures emerge from within the roaring flames – one carrying the other in his arms. A tall man, easily seven foot tall, he carried a woman with a swollen belly. Her screams tore through the night, over the blaze and must have split the ears of the tall man.

"She's pregnant," said Jon, stepping closer. "Bran … is this..."

His words trailed off as the woman screamed again. The man, whom Jon could now see was on fire, dropped her. He crumpled to the floor, dying an agonising death. Meanwhile, the woman's labour sent her screams to the heavens above and the pits of hell below. People were rushing everywhere, bodies dead and charred pulled from the fiery ruins amid shouts of anger and shock.

"Summerhall," said Bran, finishing Jon's sentence.

Moments passed, before the wails of a newborn infant pierced the din already raging around them. The rescued Queen Rhaella collapsed back, fainting or so it looked to Jon. But the newly born Prince, Rheagar Targaryen, continued to exercise his lungs even though he must have been choking on all that smoke. Finally, a living person recognised them and Jon breathed a sigh of relief as they were both pulled clear of the burning hall.

"That man was Ser Duncan the Tall," Jon remarked, distantly. "Do you remember, Bran, we grew up hearing all about him."

As he turned away, he noticed a man picking something up from the ruins of the hall. Something small and roughly round in shape. Paying it no mind, he turned back to Bran.

"Why did I need to see this?" he asked.

"I don't know," Bran said. "I haven't got time to explain anything now. But I promise, I'll come and find you at the tourney. Wait for me somewhere private."

Already the vision was fading. Jon could feel himself being violently shaken and rocked, as though he were being tossed around on a stormy sea. Bran grew dimmer and darker and he when Jon managed to open his eyes again, the other Brandon was looking back at him, wide eyed and eager.

"Wake up, come quick!" he called down to Jon. "Lyanna's caught your attackers!"

He still had the dream of Summerhall fresh in his mind and his thoughts were all over the place. But his tarrying had caused Brandon to stop and physically lift him out of his bunk. Groggy, still half drunk on sleep, he stumbled into the blindly bright day. He stood in the entrance of the tent, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the light and trying to make sense of the scene before him.

Lyanna had a grown man in a headlock and was dragging him around the clearing, scolding him soundly about picking on people his own size and promising to teach him some manners. Another man with a bloodied nose and split lip lay whimpering on the ground. Meanwhile, Eddard was patching up a small man dressed in the green of Greywater Watch. Lord Howland Reed. The drunken squires. Jon remembered hearing about this and he almost laughed.

"She's already sent another running for the hills, but she got these two," said Brandon, proudly. Then he called out to Lyanna: "Go on, sis, teach him a lesson!"

Noticing his arrival, Lyanna stopped dragging the man around but fastly maintained the headlock she had him in.

"Are these the men who attacked you?" she demanded, a rage of the wolfblood in her eyes.

"Er … no," he stammered back.

"Just let them go, Lya," Eddard implored. "They're not even worth it, anyway. We know which houses they serve and their lords will be informed."

She let them go, releasing her grip on the now choking squire. When he ran from her, she kicked out and tripped him up for good measure. Dusting off her hands, she dashed over to Howland Reed and took the damp cloth from Eddard's hands.

"It's all right, my lord," she said, all rage gone from her now. "We'll take care of you. Come to the tourney with us and enjoy yourself. Forget those rude squires."

It was a familiar pattern. Now that he was no longer needed, Jon shook his head in bemusement and returned to his tent.

Chapter Text

Jon knew how it went. An attack on a bannerman was an attack on said bannerman's lord. If a liege lord could not protect his bannermen, he had no right being liege lord in the first place. Successive lords of Winterfell had had that message drilled into them and Lord Rickard would have been no exception, nor his own children. As such, Brandon and Lyanna took Howland Reed's beating to heart. Also, it was worse than they had first realised. The little Crannogman had been kicked repeatedly in the chest, his delicate – almost childlike – hands had been stamped on and bruising was spreading across his ribs and belly. His breathing was laboured and rasping through swollen, bloodied lips. Every so often, his moss-green eyes rolled to the back of his head, showing only the whites as he lost consciousness.

"It was four on one," Lyanna snapped as she dabbed at Lord Reed's extensive injuries. "How is that even sport? What did they gain from it? There's no honour in bullying."

"Viciously beating anyone is never sport," Eddard pointed out. He and Lord Robert had procured a makeshift stretcher and brought the Stark wheelhouse over to carry Reed the rest of the way to the tourney. He wouldn't be walking for quite some time yet, Jon assessed.

Jon helped binding some of the wounds as best he knew how from many rangings north of the wall. Out there, he had had to be quick when someone was hurt and his few skills proved valuable now. Lyanna noticed and handed him fresh bindings, gently instructing him on what to patch up next. Every so often, a jolt of pain made the Crannogman whimper, like a dog with a broken leg. Jon would apologise and work faster, getting the painful process out of the way quicker.

When Eddard returned again, he brought with him a skein of water which he pressed to Howland's lips. "Take small sips, my lord. Small sips; don't gulp it."

Once they had done all they could, they lifted Howland onto the stretcher and into the back of the Starks' wheelhouse where he could lie down and rest. Even so, when the maester finally arrived to give professional help, Lyanna continued to seethe.

"I should have apprehended them," she said as they returned to their camp. The sun was up and they had to get a move on before they missed the opening of the tourney. "Had I apprehended them I could have handed them over to their lords for proper punishment. Instead, I lashed out and now they're running scared, but really nothing will be done."

"Alas, what's a girl to do?" Brandon mock-teased her, before turning serious again. "Lya, Howland could well be dead if you hadn't stepped in. You did right by him."

"Bran has the right of it, sister," Eddard agreed, putting his arm around her shoulders for comfort. "Had we arrived sooner more might have been done. As it was, it was just you against four men."

Jon had to agree with his father, but he stayed out of the discussion. As far as they were concerned he was just another straggler picked up on their way down the mountains. Any intrusion into family territory, where he would not be welcome, could result in him being sent away. So, he turned his attention to dismantling the camp and getting the pack mules loaded up for the last mile or two of their journey.

The closer he got, the more intrigued he became. He could see Harrenhal now, just across the water where it stood on the north shore. Banners and sigils woven into rich fabrics hung from every crenel on the outer battlements. Each of the seven great houses were on proud display. Prominent among them, the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. The sight of their standards fluttering in the strengthening breeze almost shocked him. He had never seen it before. In his time, the Targaryens were a dirty secret, an historical error that King Robert had staunchly corrected. Now, there it was among the other great houses.

Once they were all rounded up and ready to go, the Starks stuck together as they entered the castle itself. Should even one of them go astray, it would take forever to find them again. But, once inside, Jon couldn't help but stop his horse to take it all in. Although the outer walls had been spruced up, it was inside that had been utterly transformed. The stands were freshly painted and the tiltyard freshly sanded. Everywhere he looked, silks fluttered in the wind as nobility of every rank circulated freely among themselves. High born ladies passed him by in clouds of perfume while lordlings and gallant knights practised their swordplay and running at rings, in preparation for the up-coming feats of chivalry. He found himself thinking of Sansa; trying to picture her face if she could see all of this. This would be her paradise.

Although the handiwork of Aegon's dragons was still clearly visible, the castle itself was still the largest in the realm, as well as the most extravagant. Its vast towers were connected by broad open bridges, all of which had been decorated with silk flags, banners and multi-coloured streamers. Others had been draped over windowsills and adorned every battlement. Meanwhile, on the high steps leading into what Jon assumed was a great common hall, Old Whent himself waved his guests inside with his daughters at his side. With no idea of where he was going, he soon found himself being swept along with the crowds.

Until Lyanna pulled him back into line. "Careful, Jon, stick with us or we'll never find you again."

"I've secured you a place by telling the stewards you're my squire," Brandon said, apologetically. "Don't worry about it, though. I won't actually ask you to do my squiring."

Lyanna suppressed a laugh. "Believe that, you'll believe anything. He'll have you wiping his fat arse by the end of the day."

"Gods be praised; she has her sense of humour back."

Jon did not mind. On the contrary, he was worried about where he would be sleeping, especially with Longclaw so vulnerable to theft. A tent would have been out of the question.

"Thank you, my lord," he replied.

Brandon waved a hand at his gratitude. "It's nothing. Now come on, let's get unpacked."

"Oh, Jon, before you go," said Lyanna, stopping him with a hand to his arm. "You're accompanying me to the feast tonight."

Caught at unawares, he couldn't very well refuse. "But Lord Robert- "

"Robert won't mind, he'll be too busy polishing his hammers," she cut in, then turned away and started walking. The subject was closed.

They were housed in the Wailing Tower. Up several flights of stairs and in rooms with windows that looked out over the tiltyard. Jon had not seen them as he entered the castle and they were vast. The stands at the far end were decorated, but the centrepiece was the Targaryen sigil of the three headed dragon. Striking and bold, it caught his eye even from far above. For now, it was empty as all the guests made their way into the Hall of a Hundred Hearths for the great opening feast. But as he himself was getting ready to join them, a knock sounded at his door.

"It's open," he called out.

He turned from the window to find Benjen peering nervously into his room. "Is now a bad time?"

Jon greeted the boy with a smile. "Not at all, how can I help my lord?"

Still nervous, Benjen closed the door behind him. The room was tiny, seeing as Jon was a lowly squire for the occasion, so he only needed to walk a few steps before sitting himself down on the pallet bed. From within his cloak, he withdrew a scroll of parchment.

"They think you're our squire," he said, offering up the scroll to Jon. "You would be able to get all this with no questions asked."

Curious, Jon unrolled the parchment. Breastplate, spurs, mail shirt, shield, lance…. He lowered it and smiled knowingly at the boy. "You want to enter the lists? A mystery knight, I presume."

A blush crept into his face and he couldn't quite meet Jon's gaze. "Yes."

"You're twelve, Benjen," he pointed out, but not unkindly. "Those bigger knights will knock you out of your saddle and into the middle of next week."

Indignant now, the boy tried to look affronted. "Ser Barristan Selmy was ten when he first entered the lists."

Jon did his best to remain concerned, without it looking like patronisation. "Yes, and he was knocked out of his saddle and into the middle of the next week by a much bigger opponent. Prince Duncan Targaryen, if I remember rightly."

He looked again at the equipment needed and the measurements. It was for someone small and slight. But still taller and larger than Benjen. It didn't seem right to him. Frowning, he glanced up from the scroll again. He had been around young lads his age enough to know when something was not as it seemed. "Is this really for you?"

Benjen nodded, but his blush deepened. "I swear; you will be in no trouble for doing this. If anyone finds out, I will make sure they know the blame lies with me and me alone."

"Damn right you will," Jon murmured. With a heavy sigh, he put the list in his pocket. "Leave it with me. You'll have it by tomorrow, my lord."

Benjen beamed brightly, bounced off the bed and made for the door. Presumably, beating a retreat before Jon could change his mind. Then he paused by the door. "Oh, and another thing, you're to leave it all in the godswood, by the heart tree. Someone will collect it once you're gone. Don't hang around either, just leave it and go. And don't tell anyone. Promise?"

It got fishier by the second. Nevertheless, Jon found himself agreeing. "I promise."

Lyanna was a picture of loveliness when Jon met her outside her chambers. She wore a long, flowing gown of silver and pale, forget-me-not blue silk, with brocades of samite. Her dark hair was in a plat and decorated with delicate sapphires that caught the light and winked a dazzling blue whenever she turned her head. Her bodice was laced tight, narrowing her waist so that Jon thought he could put his hands around it no problem. Meanwhile, he was wearing a formal outfit cobbled together from Brandon and Eddard's unwanted cast offs. Even Brandon's stuff was too big for him. His shirt sleeves almost covered his hands and the doublet was almost too tight.

She held up her arm for him to take and smiled. "Thank you for agreeing to do this. You look good, by the way."

He hadn't been given much choice, but he did not mention that. "It's all right. I would have been attending on my own otherwise."

"You're not alone," she said, anxiously. "You're still with us. I just needed someone to keep Robert away."

He couldn't help but wonder why. From what little he had seen of them together, he was attentive and kind. But all the time, she shied from him. Now she was using him, Jon, as a shield from her ardent suitor. As if reading his thoughts, she continued:

"Robert will never keep to one woman. He has a bastard in the Vale already. Maya Stone. I'll be the demur lady wife kept at Storm's End, and he'll be off wenching and whoring."

Jon knew what he knew. That Robert had torn the realm apart to save his lady love. They were the stories he and his siblings had been raised hearing. The Demon of the Trident, righteous in his wrath against the abductor and rapist, Rhaegar Targaryen. She was a loss King Robert had never recovered from. Cold and calculating Cersei Lannister was the woman who drove him to ruin.

"Maybe he will change once you are wed?" he suggested. "Lord Eddard seems so fond of him and I can't imagine him tolerating anything dishonourable."

Lyanna's laughter chimed down the stone passageway they were strolling along. "Once he has me and no longer has to work at it, he'll be bored within hours. Robert only wants what he cannot have, or what he thinks is hard to get. Women are sport to men like him." Then she sighed and turned her large grey eyes to him. "Don't worry, I'm not saying all men are like that. Just ones like Robert. Actually, I don't know why our Ned is so fond of him." She paused there, bringing him to a stop also and glanced around the gallery they found themselves in. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Not really," he replied, truthfully. "I was just following you."

"Hm, I was following you too," she admitted. "This whole place is a maze."

Make it they did. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths was vast and filled to the rafters with the rank and file nobility from right across the seven kingdoms. Once more, the banners of the great houses were hanging from the rafters. Direwolves, roses, krakens and lions were everywhere he looked. The falcon of the Vale flew alongside stag of House Baratheon and silk streamers lined the length of the hall. Being with one of the great houses, himself, he found himself seated a stone's throw from the high table.

As he looked along the length of the high table, he tried to guess at the diners' identity. One man he recognised from earlier, as Old Whent. Oswald Whent was alongside him, dressed in the snowy white cloak of the Kingsguard over his silver scaled armour. The two girls could only be Old Whent's daughters, but everyone else was a mystery to him. There was a thin woman sitting beside one of the high seats with a canopy over her head. She had brown hair and sallow skin. Not pretty, but her features were soft and delicate. As she sat there another, far more beautiful, woman appeared at her side, whispered in her ear and then ducked away again. Before she left, she curtsied to a man standing behind the sallow woman. Jon could just make out his snowy white Kingsguard cloak. Then, just for a moment, Jon's gaze locked into that of the sallow skinned lady, before he quickly looked away again.

Lyanna leaned over to him and whispered: "That must be Princess Elia."

"I did not mean to gape at her," he answered.

"She must be used to it," Lyanna said. "I mean, she's a Princess and our future Queen. People are bound to look."

"She looked like a doe staring down the shaft of a hunter's arrow," he remarked.

Was it Rhaegar that had her looking so alone and so scared? He could not help but wonder, given what he knew of the crown prince. Despite himself he glanced at the suspected Princess again. In her dark brown hair, she wore a circlet of silver and gold entwined, confirming her status if not her identity. Once more, Lyanna leaned toward him and whispered in his ear.

"Do you see that man standing behind her," she said. When Jon nodded, she added: "That's Ser Arthur Dayne, the sword of the morning."

The man; the legend. Jon almost choked on the wine he had just sipped. Lyanna laughed then, ribbing him gently about his boyish hero worship. It was far from that, however. It was the sight of so many people who had shaped the fabric of their lives, all gathered under one roof. But it was his secret foreknowledge that had be kept deep in his heart. Still, he glanced back at the infamous knight, trying to catch sight of that equally infamous blade that was as pale as milk glass. Sadly, the wisp of a Princess was blocking his view of it.

While he was looking, all chatter suddenly ceased and a fanfare rang through the halls. Followed by the scraping of wooden benches against the flagstone floor as everyone got to their feet. Jon followed suit, nerves stretching badly as he knew what was coming next. Sure enough, moments later, a herald's voice rang out clearly. "All rise for his grace King Aerys, the second of his name and for his Queen, Rhaella Targaryen. Also, their most noble son, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."

Although risen, they all bowed and dropped into curtseys as the royal family was led out to the high table. Just then, Jon did not dare to try and catch a glimpse of them. Not until the signal for them to sit again had come. When that happened, he took the liberty of a long and detailed look at all of them. Aerys looked like his reputation – mad as a bag of snakes. His long silver hair was tatty and hung like damp rat's tails around his shoulders. His nails had not been cut in what looked like years and his skin was pale and half covered with cuts from the iron throne. Queen Rhaella was thin and taught at Aerys' side, her narrow eyes fixed on the back of the hall.

Rhaegar, however, was a sharp contrast to them both. Surprising as it was to Jon, given how inbred the Targaryen's were, Rhaegar was strong and handsome where his parents were slight and shifty. His silver-gold hair was long, but well maintained and his clothes were of the highest quality. He carried himself with confidence, rather than the deep suspicious that was dulling the Mad King's eyes. As he took them all in, Lyanna nudged him sharply.

"Take my advice," she said, softly. "Don't look too long lest the King should notice you."

Jon flushed as he realised what he had done. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. Is he as mad as they say?"

"Ssh!" she hissed. "No more of that talk, it's dangerous."

That dire warning killed what was left of his near sated curiosity. Instead, he focused on the food that was sent down to them from the high table. Princess Elia sent them fresh shrimp as a starter, followed closely by a green salad from the Queen. All of the tables were remembered, while the servants also brought trenchers and kept the wine flowing. He found himself drinking more than he ate and, as with all feasts, he quickly found himself wishing it were over.

Proceedings were prolonged, even after the sumptuous food had been eaten, as a new member of the Kingsguard had to be sworn in by King Aerys. Jon almost choked as Ser Jaime Lannister's name was read out loud. He was to be sworn in by the very same King he would go on to kill. The Lannister's table was directly opposite the Starks. He recognised both Jaime and Cersei from their visit to Winterfell. They were younger, just as beautiful and just as haughty looking. Only Lord Tyrion was absent. And Lord Tywin himself. Risking another chance to talk, he leaned in to Lyanna and asked if she knew anything.

"I've heard he's furious about the appointment," she whispered back, eyes still on the now kneeling knight in golden armour. "I think it's why he's refused to attend the tourney."

Having overheard their whispered conversation, Brandon chimed in. "It was bad enough that Aerys refused his offer of Lady Cersei's hand in marriage to the Prince. Now I hear things go from bad to worse between them."

So, the ill feeling had already begun. Jon made a note of it as he looked back to the high table. Jaime had taken his vows and the King had presented him with his white cloak. The fabric had become caught on his long, curling fingernails and every man and woman in the room had looked away. All the while, Prince Rhaegar sat stiffly beside his wife and watched proceedings with a distant look in his indigo eyes. Jon couldn't help but notice how tense everyone at the high table looked. Not one of them was enjoying themselves.

Finally, to his immense relief, the tables were cleared and pushed to the sides as the dancing began. Musicians were playing from balconies and eaves, but Jon was in no mood to sit and listen. He made his excuses to Lyanna and began making for the nearest exit. Inside the hall, it had grown hot and stuffy and hundreds of people all crowding in on him felt suffocating. He almost collided with a dancing couple, apologised hastily even though they had continued uninterrupted and carried on his way. But, as he reached the exit, a woman's voice called out, stopping before he could cross the threshold.

"Ser! Ser!"

He almost ignored her, thinking she was addressing one of the numerous knights thronging the hall. Then a hand touched the back of his cloak, halting him bodily. He turned to find the same the girl that had been attending Princess Elia looking back at him. Out of respect, he inclined his head, not sure what to say or do next.

"You dropped this, ser," she said, handing him a scroll of parchment.

To his horror, it was the list that Benjen had given to him earlier that day.

"Thank you, my lady."

As he took it from her, he noted her appearance again. Her hair was black, but her eyes were violet and possessed of a strange, haunting quality; her skin was pale as cream. She raised a small smile, showing neat white teeth. But even that gesture did not diminish the odd, sad look in her eyes.

"I didn't read it," she assured him. "I just thought it might be something important."

"Actually, it is rather important so I'm grateful, my lady."

He realised she was making conversation, otherwise she would have given him his list back and then left. But still she lingered, held out her hand and then introduced herself. "If I could be so bold as to make your acquaintance? I am Lady Ashara, of House Dayne."

The name came like a slap in the face.

A horn blast heralded the new arrivals, followed quickly by the creaking of rusty chains as the portcullis was raised. Ser Davos broke off the conversation he was having and turned to the source of the noise. First came a large, blond haired man sat on a destrier. Moments later, he realised the man was a woman. Second, a young girl who was definitely a girl. Her mount as a sorry looking garron who had seen better days. Third and final, a young lad wrapped in a roughspun cloak perched on a sturdy mule brought up the back end of their bedraggled procession.

The girl in the middle dismounted and lowered her hood, revealing dishevelled coppery hair. Seemingly in a daze, her wide blue eyes were full of fear and confusion as she turned a circle, taking in her grim surroundings. Meanwhile, the work within Castle Black slowly ground to a halt as the men became aware of the odd new comers. When nobody else stepped forward, Ser Davos did the best he could.

"My lady, I am Ser Davos of House Seaworth. May I ask what your business-"

The big wench, who seemed to have caught the eye of Tormund Giantsband, cut in over him. "Ser, this is Lady Sansa of House Stark. We must speak with the Lord Commander as a matter of urgency."

Ser Davos felt his insides turn as cold as the grave. "Oh," was all he could say. His feelings grew worse as Lady Sansa turned to him, a look of resigned anguish already in her eyes.

Chapter Text

One by one, the brothers of the Night's Watch filed into the yard, all of them regarding Sansa with pity in their eyes. Not one of them dared break the news she knew was on their lips. Dazed, she saw again the knight who had welcomed them, the look on his face had told her all she needed know and it was nothing she couldn't have guessed. Just like her father, her brother and her mother and all their loyal bannermen; Jon was gone before she knew it. She turned a circle like a trapped animal, taking in the desolate surroundings and the grim faces who populated them. There was not a scrap of solace anywhere, less still sanctuary. The knight spoke again, but she did not hear his words. Only Brienne, placing one gauntleted hand on her arm, brought her back around.

Silent with grief, she found herself being steered toward a timber keep and through a low door. Warmth from a number of burning braziers made her cold face burn, but the sight of him laid out on the bed wrenched her heart. Before she could see the wounds, a woman with coppery hair and a heart shaped face tried to pull up the furs to cover his chest. Too late, Sansa had already seen the worst … and the best.

"He's breathing," she pointed out, almost tripping over her skirts as she descended on his bedside.

Brienne tried to stop her. "My lady, please- "

She acted only out of concern, Sansa knew. But she saw what she saw and when she pressed a hand to his bare breast she could feel the skip-jump of Jon's heart. For a long moment she studied his face, slack with sleep and motionless. He looked so much older than the last time she had seen him, with his full beard and a battle scar over his right eye. Only the heartbeat betrayed signs of life but that was enough for her.

"I don't understand," she said, looking up at the woman as an early desperate hope peeked through her layers of grief. "He's not dead, he's just sleeping. Hasn't the maester seen to him?"

She could see that the woman was dressed all in red, matching her peculiar red eyes. "This sleep is more than sleep. He is somewhere else, my lady. Somewhere we don't know. To answer your question, the maester died. He has yet to be replaced."

Despite the severity of the situation, Sansa managed a small smile. "My other brother, Bran, was in a coma after he fell from the Broken Tower. He should have been killed as well. Don't you see? This is the same. When his body is healed the best it can, Jon will wake just like Bran did."

But her budding optimism was kept in check by the grim faces surrounding her. Not even Bran's example convinced them. If anything, they seemed to pity her even more – like she was a naïve child clutching at straws.

"Your other brother was probably never dead in the first place." Although unflinchingly to the point, the red woman spoke gently. "Jon was dead and he had been dead for some hours."

But, his heart beat? She thought to herself, not daring to speak aloud should her last hope be snatched away from her. It seemed the other woman read her thoughts.

"I asked the Lord of Light to bring your brother back and he did," she explained. "He restored his heartbeat, brought the breath back to his lungs. But no more."

Turning away from the woman, she let her gaze rove over Jon's body once more. The sight of him lying there made her heart break all over again. Meanwhile, the unthinkable came unbidden to her. As unwelcome as it was, she needed the truth. "Are you saying he could stay like this forever?"

"Maybe," replied the red woman. "Maybe not."

At a time when she desperately needed assurances, these vagaries were all the more frustrating. Her earlier surge of hope flattened in the face of the unknown. Making it worse, she scarce understood a word of what the woman was saying. The Lord of Light, fire magic and people brought back from the dead … she had never heard of such things. She had seen Thoros of Myr riding in a tourney with a flaming sword once and knew that had something to do with a foreign religion. But her understanding stretched no further than that.

Before long, all she wanted was to be alone with her brother. Once that luxury had been afforded her, she sat by his bedside on a rickety old chair and held his hand. With her other hand she smoothed back the hair from his brow, willing him to respond to her touch. Even just the twitch of a muscle would suffice. She scrutinised his face, but still nothing came. Only a ragged breath here and a sleepy sigh there. Just enough to remind everyone he was still alive but not enough to hint at a full recovery any time soon.

Sansa did not realise she was crying until the tears dripped from the tip of her nose and splashed onto his cheek. The way the teardrop landed made it look as if he were crying too and she watched as it rolled down his cheekbone. Alone with her thoughts, she remembered the last time she had seen him. It was the same day a stupid little girl with a head full of dreams had left for the capital and a rejected, motherless boy had left for the wall. Both seemed like strangers to her now.

Only a knock at the door jolted her out of her reverie. She looked up as it opened and a man with lank hair and a dour look on his face entered. He faltered when he saw her still sat by Jon's bedside. In his hands, he carried pestle and mortar the contents of which steamed in the frigid air of the open doorway.

"Forgive me, m'lady," he said, sounding faintly embarrassed. He held up the pestle and mortar like some kind of offering. "It's his dinner time, you see."

Sansa let go of Jon's hand and hastily swiped her tears away. "Oh, I'm sorry, I must be in your way."

He sat himself down in her vacated seat. "Today, it's the marinated juices of chicken and liver stock, spiced with the essence of root veg and dripping. Or, as it's better known, the pissy watery remains from the bottom of the common cook pot."

Knowing he was only trying to jest, she managed a weak laugh. "Sounds delicious."

She caught a glimpse of what was in that pestle and it was literally just the juices from a broth or stew. Enough to sustain him without choking him. The newcomer used a wooden spoon to carefully drizzle it onto his lips so it would slowly trickle down his gullet. She remembered how her mother had done the same for Bran. As he worked, he chattered away almost to himself. A litany of dry and dour observations while she watched and listened from the shadows between two of the braziers.

"I miss his dour face looming from the shadows; it brightened the place up no end." he said, monotone and dour. "I talk to him often, though m'lady. Actually, they're the most enlightening conversations I've ever had."

Sansa frowned. "But he can't talk back, can he?"

"Exactly," he retorted, spooning another helping of watery broth down her brother's throat. "Seriously, though, I do talk to him. Tell him what's going on out there. Well, his ears aren't hurt, are they?"

He paused to glance over his shoulder at Sansa, mid-way through a spoonful of broth. The man had a point, she thought.

"Excuse me…" she began, trailing off.

"Edd," he replied. "Edd Tollett but they call me Dolorous Edd."

Sansa couldn't begin to imagine why. "Edd, can I do that? I know how; I saw my mother feed my other brother when he was in a coma."

Edd grimaced. "Here's me thinking the Tollett's got all the luck, then I met the Starks of Winterfell," he muttered, handing over the pestle. "Mind he doesn't enjoy himself too much."

"I'm certain he'll manage to restrain himself." She managed a bemused smile as she watched his retreating back disappear out of the door and into the night beyond.

Alone with Jon once more, she set the pestle aside and leaned in close to him. Before she said anything, she pressed her lips to his cheek and kissed him, finding his skin warm. Almost hot, even. Something she did not dwell on for long.

"Jon, it's me," she said, willing him to hear her. "It's Sansa; I came all this way to find you so you can't die now. You have to wake up."

She drew back, looking to see if he gave any sign of having heard her. For the briefest of moments his brow creased and a ragged breath sounded from parted lips. Then, nothing. His brow smoothed and his breathing regained its normal rhythm. A familiar feeling of dire desperation jumped out at her once more. "Jon!" she said, more forcefully. "Jon, please!"

Still nothing, but for the sudden beating of crow black wings and a flurry of feathers as the bird flapped and squawked its way down from the rafters. Alarmed, Sansa pushed her chair back and fixed on the bird that had landed on her brother's chest. It glared back at her with beady black eyes. It spread its wings again and ruffled its feathers.

"Stark!" it squawked. "Stark! Stark!"

"Sansa!"

He called her name out loud as he awoke, choking for air. But as he gathered his wits and steadied his racing heart, he realised he was still in the same place. All around him, in the small antechamber, were old bits of armour and a broken lance. A high window let in the broad morning sunshine and dust motes spiralled through the air.

Dejected and frustrated, Jon fell back against the pallet bed and tried to marshal his thoughts. Normally, when he slept, he heard Ser Davos or Edd. Faint, like they were in the background of a distant tunnel, but still distinct. Sometimes, it was Lady Melisandre and often she spoke in a foreign language. At least Sansa was a vast improvement on all them.

Slowly, limbs aching with stiffness, he climbed off the pallet and dressed as quick as he could. Benjen's list was on the side counter and he wanted to find the necessary equipment before noon. There was some lemon and mint water left in a jug at his door, to wash away the stale taste in his mouth. The tartness of it made him wince, but it did the job. Not long after that, he was out in the yard dodging groups of rowdy knights all getting ready for the upcoming jousts and melees. The atmosphere alive with shouts and the ring of steel on steel. As he waited in the seemingly endless queue at the forge he found himself lost in what was happening all round him.

Not too far away, young squires fired at archery butts while young lords ran at the quintaines. A few, men and boys who clearly had both eyes fixed on the prizes, took it deadly seriously. They measured the tiltyards and counted the paces against the length of the lances. Most, however, were there only for the games, the excitement and the free drinks. A young lady rolled her eyes at a knight who was clearly attempting to get beneath her skirts while, close by, a silver clad knight knelt with difficulty at the feet of another maid as she tied a wisp of silk to his wrist. The drunken bawds coexisted with the chivalrous, cheek by jowl and all converged to paint a picture straight from one of Sansa's books.

It wasn't long before he found himself thinking of her. Could she be at Castle Black? It had been so long since they last spoke, but he knew her voice. She said his name and begged him to wake up. Even in his sleep the anguish had overwhelmed him. Then he awoke, her name on his lips and gasping for air again. He was so lost in thought; he hadn't realised he had reached the front of the queue. The master armourer was looking at him mutinously.

"You can see how busy we are ser," he thundered at him. "Hang around there all day and the tourney will be over by the time we get you fixed up."

"Sorry," Jon replied, jolting himself. "This is what I need, it's for my lord not me."

The master armourer looked like master armourers everywhere. Big, limps roped with thick, sinewy muscles from hammering at iron and steel all day, every day. His small, gimlet eyes looked over the list incredulously, clutching it in greasy blackened hands.

"You're having a laugh, aren't you?" he enquired, brusquely.

Confused, Jon tried to look small and innocuous. "Come again?"

"You mean you don't have any of this stuff but you've come here to find it?" he clarified.

Jon looked around at the others awaiting service. They all brought their own armour and weapons, anything spare would have been long gone by now.

"Did I mention that we're a bit on the busy side just now?" the armourer continued. Then, he heaved a sigh and relented. Satisfied that Jon knew he was going well above and beyond the call of duty, he added: "Wait here. We might have some spare kit out the back. I'm not making no promises, mind you."

Relieved, Jon grinned and thanked him. But he was already ambling off into the semi-darkness of his forge. Catching a glimpse inside, Jon could see hundreds of young lads all his age or a little more. Each of them busy with hammers and tongues as blades were refined in lethal hot fires before being plunged, hissing and spitting, into vats of cold water. Several others sent up a deathly clangour as they hammered out breast plate and fixed dents in leg guards. The air was thick with steam and smoke and sweat.

After being gone for what seemed an age, the armourer returned pulling a small cart behind him. Jon repaid his efforts by having the coin ready as soon as he returned.

"Thank you, master armourer," he said, giving him the gold. "My lord will hear of your excellent service."

The man bit the coin before answering. "You see that he does, lad. Now be gone with you."

Jon hauled the cart over the cobbles so he was out of the way of the other patrons. Far enough to somewhere he could inspect the goods. He removed a roughspun dust covering and saw a hodgepodge of bits and pieces, all mismatched. A black, battered breastplate had been roughly mended but was still all scratched. The gauntlets looked fine to him, but clearly came from two different pairs. Still, one was a left and the other was a right. There was a vest of chainmail that had been mended numerous times and still had rusting rings here and there. The shield looked as old as time itself, but was still in one piece. On the front, a weirwood tree laughed back at him. He almost laughed himself.

Satisfied that all was present and roughly correct, he began dragging his cart over to the Godswood. To find his way there, all he had to go on was a roughly drawn out plan of the castle given to him by one of the stewards. Still, it eventually got him there. Through the keep, across a quadrangle the exit of which was blocked by a gaggle of fully armoured knights all comparing lances. Jon excused himself, attempting to shoulder his way through the throng. Then a wheel of his cart got caught in the guttering, almost spilling the contents.

"Watch out there," one of the knights scolded.

Jon flushed in the face as he tried to right his cart. "I'm sorry, but I must get this back to my lord. He's waiting for me."

All he succeeded in doing was attracting the attention of the other knights who now crowded around the exit gate and formed a wall that blocked his path. There was trouble coming, he knew it. He let the cart go and reached for the pommel of Longclaw. Although he stood no chance against so many, he would at least send a message that he was no lowly squire and he was not to be toyed with.

"You draw your sword in our presence, ser?" one of them challenged.

Jon sighed wearily. "There would be no trouble if only you would allow me to pass."

"Pass what? You couldn't even pass wind, my lady," another retorted.

"Very funny." Jon rolled his eyes, infuriating the knight who had cracked the joke.

Before the situation could escalate, another voice rang out from beyond the gates. "What's gotten into you lot? Let the man pass, for the love of the gods."

Expecting even more trouble now an outsider had involved themselves, Jon was taken aback when they all suddenly fell away and dropped to one knee. As they fell, the speaker was revealed. All Jon noted was the silver-gold hair of the Targaryen Prince before he too realised what was happened and bent the knee in turn. He wasn't kneeling for long, however, before a delicate hand reached for his shoulder and raised him up again. Jon found himself looking into a pair of dark indigo eyes, as they were both of a perfectly equal height. The strangest eyes he had ever seen.

"I must apologise for my ill-behaved knights, ser, they will be reprimanded," he said, his voice surprisingly deep for a man so 'fair'. "I trust you are not hurt?"

"No, your grace," Jon stammered.

Rhaegar reached for the cart, leaving his unruly knights kneeling on the cobbles. "Who is this for? I'll see to it your lord does not punish you for being late with it. I know how bloody unreasonable they can be at events like this."

Jon could only grasp his wits together and carry on as if this were a normal encounter. "Thank you, your grace, but my master won't mind. He's good to me. I'll just be on my way, though."

But the Prince was leaning down to inspect the cart. "That's an odd assortment. Is this really for a lord?"

He had picked up the mismatched gauntlets and was now inspecting them closely. At a loss for what to do, Jon could only watch. He certainly wasn't about to knock them out of the prince's hands. Dead or alive, in this reality he was still the crown prince. He could only squirm as the truth found its way out of him.

"It's for my lord's son, your grace. He wants to enter the jousts but he is not of age," he confessed.

Without another word, Rhaegar put the gauntlets back and turned to Jon with a knowing smile on his face. "In that case, his secret is safe with me." He paused, glancing over his shoulder to another knight. A Kingsguard by the look of him. "A boy entering the lists without consent. Ser Barristan, this story sounds familiar, does it not?"

Ser Barristan laughed aloud. "See to it the young lordling learns well from the thrashing he'll get in that tiltyard, ser. I know I did."

Jon laughed, the gesture sounding every bit as forced as it was. He thanked them both, bowed briefly to the Prince and almost ran the rest of the way with the cart bouncing over the cobbles behind him. He did not dare look back, no matter how thrilling his encounter with a legendary knight and a dead prince would be for any future grandchildren he might have.

As he passed left the gated quadrangle, he found himself in another keep that led out on to the Flowstone Yard where the serious competitors drilled mercilessly. He saw one man taking on three others and still managing to come out on top. Among them, a man dressed all in black wended here and there, trying to catch the attention of the practising knight. Most told him where to go, but one or two stopped to listen. He made no exception for Jon.

"Ser, may I interest you in the Night's Watch?" he said, jumping into his path. "Three square meals a day and a lifetime of adventure and valour in the northern plains, guaranteed!"

Jon tried not to laugh. "Give it another eighteen years or so and I might just take you up on that."

As Jon passed him the wandering crow jogged alongside him, refusing to give up. "But why wait? You're in the bloom of your youth, full of valour and courage – that I can see. Castle Black is crying out for strapping young lads like you, ser."

If only you knew, Jon thought to himself. "Thank you for the kind offer, and do give my regards to Maester Aemon, Squire Dalbridge and Lord Commander Quorgyle, though."

The fact that he knew three of the most prominent watchmen took the wandering crow aback. It was not Yoren, though. This was someone else entirely, with clean teeth and a sense of humour.

"You… you have friends at the wall already, ser?" he asked, askance. "Tell me now, what are you waiting for? Just think how pleased they'll be to see you join their illustrious brotherhood."

An illustrious brotherhood that'll stab you in the back and the front the moment you try to change their established order. Jon tried not to be bitter about it, but he found himself suddenly losing patience and pushing past the wandering crow, giving him a hard shoulder. He had enjoyed the irony, but now it grew painful to remember those men. As he picked up his pace and the crow got the message, his voice trailed after Jon like a heartbroken lover.

"Just think on I, ser. You'll be an asset. An asset, I tell you!"

Jon scowled and looked back over his shoulder. "I am not a knight."

It was long past high noon by the time he made it to the godswood. Twenty acres of walled woodlands greeted him and dragging the cart along the dirt track was so arduous it made the muscles in his arms ache. Mercifully, all he had to do was follow a wide and pleasant stream to where the weirwood stood barely four acres in. Hot and sweating, as well as completely out of breath, he sat for a moment just recovering his strength. As he did, he regarded the weirwood. It had the most spiteful, malevolent looking face he had ever seen. Its red eyes seemed to flare and its mouth was downturned, angry looking.

After washing his face in the stream, he followed Benjen's instructions and unloaded the armour at the base of the angry weirwood. There wasn't that much, now that he looked again at it and it was the shield with the laughing tree that really caught the eye. Neatly piled up, he covered it up with the roughspun sacking cloth from the forge to hide it from view. Benjen did say no one would come to collect it until late at night, which meant that he could take another moment to relax and catch his breath.

"Jon."

Bran's voice startled.

"Jon, we were meant to meet here last night."

Jon whipped around, to where Bran himself stepped out from behind the weirwood. Bran, in person and on his feet again. The sight took his breath away.

"That was just a dream," he protested. "You were the dream; you showed me Summerhall but it was all a dream."

"No," Bran corrected him as he picked his way across the gnarled tree roots. "It was a message I sent you through the tree. Touch me now, and you'll see I'm real."

Bran extended a hand towards him and, tentatively, Jon met it with his own. Bran was solid and real and warm. Without a second's thought, Jon pulled him into a tight hug and held him there until he feared his brother might suffocate. Even then, letting go was a wrench.

"Jon, do you remember what I told you last time?" he asked. "They can see you, but they can't see me. If anyone had come along they would have seen you hugging the air."

Despite that, Jon thought it was funny. "But there's no one here now, so we can talk."

The pair of them sat beneath the boughs of the weirwood, listening to the stream babble past. Although silent, Jon had more questions than there was time to ask them. But he started with the most obvious.

"Where are you? We were told Theon Greyjoy killed you and Rickon."

"Theon killed two innocent boys and passed them off as us," he explained. "Now Ramsay Bolton has Winterfell and Theon. I've seen him, Jon. Theon, I mean. He's gone half mad with torture- "

"Yes, well it's no more than he deserves," Jon cut in. "Do we have to talk about him and Ramsay Bolton?"

Bran looked cowed. "Yes, Jon."

"I want to hear about you. Where are you?"

"I'm safe," he assured him. "I'm north of the wall, but I'm safe. The Three-Eyed Raven teaches me many things and I can see the past. Meera Reed is with me, and I've met the Children of the Forest. Some still live in the lands of the north, Jon. They all agree, and so do I, that you're here for a purpose but for now you must change nothing. Not until we can decipher what you're doing and what your task is."

Jon thought that was obvious. "I'm here with our family right before the rebellion. My task is to stop Lyanna's abduction, prevent the war and save all those people. Don't you see?"

"Jon, no!" Bran was unmoved. "There will be consequences."

"Like what?" he challenged, becoming frustrated. "Rhaegar becomes King, Lyanna stays alive, Robert is only ever Lord of Storm's End, so father is never Hand-"

"Jon, listen to me!" Bran cut over him again. There was a glimmer of fear in his blue eyes. "There are other consequences. Uncle Brandon lives and marries my mother so Robb, Sansa, Arya, Me and Rickon are never born. Father never meets your mother, so you are unmaking yourself. Father marries another woman and makes other children, but not us. Winterfell passes to Brandon, and whoever his issue is. Do you understand? You cannot make changes like this."

Jon backed down, feeling his spirits sag. "So I've been sent here to watch my loved ones die all over again? I cannot accept that, Bran."

Finally, a glimmer of understanding. Even so, Bran stood his ground. "I know it's hard. But there is something here, or someone, that you need. Something you will need to see or learn. I'm trying my best to work out what it is and the others are all helping. Even Hodor tries to help."

Jon's unhappiness lifted at the mention of the old gentle giant. "Hodor's with you?"

Bran smiled and nodded. "He's safe. He seems happy enough, where we are."

"I think Sansa has arrived at Castle Black, Bran," said Jon. "When I fall asleep, it's like I fall back into my other body and I can hear the people around me. Last night, I heard Sansa's voice. She's escaped Ramsay Bolton. Is there any way you can reach her? Send her a message? What about Arya?"

Bran's expression turned sad again. "If I knew where Arya was, then I could try. But she's so far out in the world I wouldn't know where to begin. Jon, I only found you by accident."

That was one hell of an accident, he thought to himself. No, it felt far too designed for his liking.

Bran continued. "I will search Castle Black for Sansa. I've already used Mormont's old raven to look for you I'll do the same for her. I'll find a way to get a message to her, I promise."

Jon shrugged. "Can't you do what you did for me? Meet her in a dream and tell her."

"It's not as simple as that," Bran replied, regretfully. "I was able to do it for you because we're both on another … " he trailed off as he struggled to find the right word. "Plain, perhaps. But don't worry, I'll send Summer if need be."

"But how?" he tried to ask, but the sound of approaching footsteps caught them both off guard.

"I have to go," Bran said. "Look, if you need me, go to a weirwood tree, hold one of the deepest roots and just say my name. I will hear you."

They both got back to their feet, Jon helping Bran up the bank and back to the tree. Before they parted, Jon turned his brother back around to face him. "I missed you, Bran." He tried, and failed, to not get choked up.

"I missed you too, brother," Bran replied. A ghost of a smile played at his lips as he returned from whence he came. Jon didn't see how; Bran just went as easily as he arrived. But he left more questions than he did answers.

Chapter Text

Bran's warnings echoed in Jon's mind at regular intervals. Every step he took, every greeting to every passing stranger made him think back on what was said. Surely, he thought, everything he did was changing something. At the real Tourney of Harrenhal Rhaegar Targaryen did not speak to him, Ashara Dayne did not try to talk with him, his family did not rescue him from a mountainside and so on and so forth. These were all changes to the sequence of events his being there introduced. Or maybe he was just splitting hairs and it was the major events he could not change. Thinking about it too much was beginning to make his head hurt, so he took himself off to the Flowstone Yard to watch the knights prepare for the melee and the jousts. They began in the morning and he had half a mind to cast caution to the wind and have a go himself.

He soon found the celebratory atmosphere painfully at odds with his darkening mood. Crowds of brightly dressed young maids lined the spectators stands, many of them looking at him as if he should have been on the other side of the crash barriers. Attention he soon found uncomfortable, as though he were an insect beneath a looking glass. He felt himself magnified, scrutinised and pushed farther out of place. Only the sight of Lyanna, shouldering her way through the crowds and beaming brightly at him brought him back to himself.

"Gods, Jon, I've been looking everywhere for you!" she called out, waving to him.

Starting towards her, he picked up his pace and apologised to the giggling girls he inadvertently ploughed through the middle of. Having spent the last few years surrounded by men in black, hordes of women in yellows, pinks, blues and reds made him feel like he was walking through an explosion in a dye shop. A sensory overload left him disorientated.

When Lyanna reached him, she grasped his arm as if afraid he would wander off again. "You won't believe what's happened. We've only been invited to a private dinner with the Crown Prince. You as well, by the way."

Despite the relief of being reunited with her, Jon felt himself grow tense again. "Why? Are your brothers going as well? Does Lord Robert know?"

"Robert won't be there; but my brother's will all be present, as well as you," she replied, testily. Sensing his peculiar mood, she let go of his arm and the smile faded from her face as she added: "The look on your face is awfully reminiscent of my father. What's wrong with you? I don't want you there if you're just going to glower at everyone in a very disapproving manner."

Jon cast a furtive glance around, quickly deciding he could not talk properly surrounded by these crowds. So he led Lyanna away, towards a quieter part of the stands before deciding to get out of the Flowstone Yard altogether. She followed him in high dudgeon, occasionally repeating her last question, until he found a quiet alcove set in the wall of the inner keep. Once there, he found himself fighting the familiar urge to tell her everything.

He kept his tone even as explained himself. "I just want you to be careful around Rhaegar Targaryen, that's all. Men like him, they just … they think they can just use people and then discard them without any consequences."

Lyanna calmed as well, but her brow was still creased into a frown. "He seems to like you. He said you were polite and conscientious, which is why you're also invited to this gathering. How well do you two actually know each other?"

Jon heaved an exasperated sigh. "I've spoken to him once, for all of half a minute, and even that was less than two hours ago."

"And yet you know him to be a user and abuser of vulnerable young noblewomen," she replied, pointedly. "It looks to me like one of you is making uninformed judgements and it's certainly not Prince Rhaegar."

Realising he was only serving to make himself look like an old fuss pot, Jon backed down dejectedly. Worse still, he had no idea of when the abduction and rape was going to happen. Rhaegar could even have raped her after this gathering and his father would never have gone into such details. Instead, he had to watch and read the signs, second guessing the moves of total strangers. Still, he could not deny that the Crown Prince seemed nice enough, as if rapists openly display what they are.

"When I spoke with the Prince he seemed very … pleasant," he replied, truthfully. "It's just that there's things I've heard about him, from others who know him far better than I ever will."

She shook her head. "It sounds to me like you ought to come along and form your own opinions, instead of listening to silly rumours and hearsay." Urging him on with an encouraging nudge to the ribs, she added: "Come on now, stop fretting and join in the fun."

He felt more than a pang of guilt for bringing her down. It was something he had always done, even when he was a child, he realised. Always withdrawn, always sullen, when his brothers and sisters wanted to play and he would sulk in the corner.

"I'm sorry," he said, forcing himself to smile.

"Don't be sorry," she replied, kissing his cheek. "Just cast off this burden you seem to carry and enjoy yourself!"

With that, she spun away in a swirl of blue silk skirts, looking back laughing to make sure he was following her. Through the busy precincts within the walls of the vast keep, they browsed the stalls and sampled the wines and foods brought in from all over the known world. There were spices neither of them had seen before, strange meats from animals neither of them knew the look of and wines so sweet they made him gag. Everything they saw and sampled merged and perfumed the air around them; it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. If he could, he would have bottled it and kept it forever.

They bumped in Brandon talking to a young Catelyn Tully, who looked at Jon and smiled and curtsied as if he were some kind of Lord. His laughter could have been mistaken for rudeness, but he did not care. Leaving the young lovers to it, they carried on making their own sweet memories. Only once did he look back over his shoulder to his childhood nemesis. It felt strange to see her as his father and Brandon did: a young and beautiful girl dreaming of her future.

Time swept them up, seeming to pass in leaps and sprints before the sun began to set and their carefree meanderings began directing them back indoors. Somehow, Lyanna ended up with a chain of large daisies draped through her hair, the brilliant white petals tucked beneath strands of her lustrous chestnut hair and another snug behind her ear. She twirled her skirts in a wide circle as she danced to a troupe of musicians playing a rowdy rendition of "the Maiden of the Tree". Jon stood back from the crowd, framing her in his mind's eye and committing every detail to memory. That was his aunt Lyanna, dancing and laughing, with a daisy chain in her hair. That was how he would remember her, if ever he managed to make it back to his own time.

When he made it back to his own chambers, he didn't have long to wash and change. Brandon had procured for him a set of evening clothes that just about fit and as soon as he was in them, he was being ushered out of the door again. Expecting to be directed back to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths again, he got a surprise when they were in fact brought straight to the royal apartments in the Tower of Dread. Despite it's name, the tower was among the largest of the five and most lavishly furnished. But the name suited Jon's mood as his nerves prickled at the thought of dining with the royal family. When Robert visited Winterfell, he had been a bastard consigned to the lower tables. Now, he was among the trueborn nobles in view of the King, Queen and all their princely offspring.

"Should I kneel if they speak to me?" he asked Lyanna, nervously.

"Only if and when you're formally introduced," she replied. "After that, you'll be all right. But always address them as 'your grace.' That's all you need to remember. But try and avoid to the King at all times. He is … unpredictable."

"The word you're looking for, sister, is mad. The King is mad." In a brash display of the wolf blood, Brandon cut over her much too loudly for comfort.

Lyanna turned to her brother with a stony look in her eye. "You'll find it hard to pleasure your harem without a tongue in your head, brother."

Brandon smirked and let out a high whistle, showing his disdain. "I won't be the one to spoil your innocence, sister, but there are other – far more important – ways of pleasuring a lady."

"Oh, you're disgusting!" Augmenting her point with a sharp punch to Brandon's side, she pulled a face and added: "And if father knew half of what Barbrey Dustin tells me, he'd tear that off and shove it down your tongueless throat."

Although the punch clearly hurt, Brandon was laughing all the same. "Ah now, arrange your face, here comes your new fancy man."

Lyanna's face flushed bright red as Rhaegar Targaryen appeared through a doorway, prompting Brandon's further teasing.

"Hasn't she told you?" he asked, turning to Jon. "She's all over our Crown Prince, only mentioning his name every five minutes."

Jon said nothing as a feeling of deep unease got a hold of him. It was like watching two friends fight and being asked to take sides, so he kept an awkward silence. Lyanna, meanwhile, solidified into a silent, seething anger. Mercifully, Brandon's attention was caught by the arrival of Catelyn Tully, who had her arm linked through that her father's. Behind her, a woman who could only be her sister; looking red eyed and withdrawn kept her distance.

"Don't let him spoil your evening," he said to her. "Like you said to me earlier."

Lyanna huffed indignantly, but soon simmered down. "I know he's only teasing. But sometimes he goes too far."

Contrary to his earlier nerves, their being ushered inside brought with it relief for Jon. It dispelled the tension that had accumulated from Brandon's teasing and gave them something else to talk about. The high table, where Queen Rhaella and King Aerys were already seated was up on a dais, where they could see over everyone. Princess Elia and Prince Rhaegar soon joined them and once more Jon noted the perfunctory gestures that passed between them. They looked like old friends rather than a married couple, but no one else commented on it and Jon soon turned away.

When the food was brought out and sent down, Jon helped himself to the capons and fresh baked bread. He offered to pour Lyanna's wine, but she covered the glass with her hands.

"There's nothing worse than attending jousts with a sore head," she said, explaining her sudden desire to abstain. "All that crashing of wood and crumpling of steel plate when you've a hangover is never conducive to a good day out."

Thinking that she may well have a point, he poured himself a glass and swore that would be his only one. As he ate, he found himself thinking of Benjen again. The boy was sat at Lyanna's other side, showing not a trace of nerves about tomorrow's events.

"Someone I know is running in the lists in the morning," he told Lyanna, without mentioning Ben's name. "I'm worried because I think he'll be smashed into the middle of next week."

Lyanna laughed. "Then it will be a lesson well served!"

"But it's serious," he insisted. "He could get himself killed. Anyway, I've decided to run against him in secret so I can at least try and safely knock him out of the saddle and put an end to this madness."

For a long moment, she regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Are you sure that's a good idea, given your own injuries? Even so, there's no safe way of unhorsing a man in a joust. Whatever way you do it, it involves a big fall and a big crash when you hit that ground. I say let your little friend learn the hard way. Sometimes, it's the best way."

Somehow, he thought, she would not be saying that if she knew it were Benjen. But before the subject could go any further, the meal was finished and the Prince was addressing him from his place at the high table. Everyone in the room fell silent and turned to listen. Jon used the opportunity to memorise exactly who was there. Eddard was sitting nearby with Jon Arryn and the Tullys, the Daynes and even a few Martells were also nearby. Every so often, his father cast a bashful look in Lady Ashara's direction. A gesture of utter hopelessness that pierced even his hardened heart.

When he looked back at the high table, Rhaegar had produced a beautiful silver harp that glittered in the candlelight. Elia, clearly a fan of her husband's playing, leaned back in her seat so she could see him properly, a smile on her face. It was the first time Jon had seen her smile naturally. Even King Aerys seemed to soothe and stopped scraping at the table's surface with his hideous, uncut nails. Only Queen Rhaella remained tense as she sipped her wine and let her gaze dart all over the room. Once the music began, it was clear to see why the atmosphere changed so suddenly and Jon had never heard anything like it in his life. No matter how much he wanted to loathe the Prince, there was no other way to describe his musicianship besides "extraordinary". And the guests did not listen just to be polite; they listened because it was beautiful.

Within a few minutes, Jon let go of all his worries and troubles without having to make any effort at all. He sat back, helping himself to a forbidden second glass of wine, and just listened to the music. He couldn't name many of the songs, but there was one or two he recognised and thought they sounded wonderful when rearranged for the high harp. But even song he played was sad. So very sad that he became distracted as Lyanna sniffed and discreetly dabbed at her eyes with a silk napkin.

Benjen noticed too, and turned to look at her barely able to contain his laughter. "Gods, Brandon spoke it true. You're actually in love with him?"

Realising she would still be prickling from Brandon's teasing earlier, Jon tried to shoot his uncle a warning look. But Benjen either missed it or ignored it and continued his teasing. Mercifully, chatter had broken out and the music continued to play, so no one overheard what was being said at the Stark's table.

"I can't believe you're sniffling over this mushy prince's mushy music, sister. So much for the wolf blood!"

"Give it a rest, Benjen," Jon tried to say, but the words seem to vanish in a haze of tense silence.

Lightning quick, Lyanna had grabbed a full jug of wine and up-ended it right over Benjen's head. No amount of quiet talk or music could cover the gasp of shock from Benjen, closely followed by the shrill curse. A stunned silence crashed through proceedings and, suddenly, all eyes in the room were upon them. Mortally embarrassed, Lyanna shook as she looked from Benjen to the high table, as if trying to think of something to say to explain all this. Her words failed her and she ran out of the room, covering her face with her hands.

Rhaegar was on his feet, watching the place where Lyanna vanished through the door, concern etched in his face. "Is Lady Stark unwell?"

Jon met his gaze. "I'll go after her, your grace."

And so he did. He ran from the room, just as she had and found her sat on a bench in the outer gallery, sobbing noisily. Together they had had such a wonderful day, it pained him to see her end it this way. Cautiously, not entirely sure what to do, he sat beside her on the bench and hugged her. She responded by resting her face against his shoulder, slowly composing herself.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "I'm sorry, I've ruined it for everyone and wrecked the Prince's performance."

Jon was about to answer when another voice cut over his own.

"Oh, you haven't; quite the contrary in fact. It was one of my own compositions and I Just told everyone that a girl was actually meant to get upset and dowse her brother in wine as part of the performance. Everyone loved it."

They both looked up to see Rhaegar standing in the opening of the gallery, looking slightly bemused but not in the least upset. After a second, they both laughed and Lyanna was finally able to dry her tears.

The Prince extended a hand to her. "Come back inside with me and receive your applause, Lady Stark. You're a fine actress."

"I think I might have ruined it by thinking it was real and chasing you outside," Jon ceded, taking up the thread. "I think I'll retire early. His grace will take care of you."

"Thank you, both of you," Lyanna said, still flushed in the face. "Especially your grace, thank you."

"It was nothing," he assured her. Looking to Jon, he added: "Are you sure you won't join us?"

Whether he joined them or not, it seemed Lyanna was all smiles again. "I think not, your grace. Please look after my lady."

"I think she's quite capable of looking after herself," Rhaegar retorted, smiling all the same. "But I will, I promise."

He would not hurt her in front of anyone. In fact, he didn't seem the type to hurt anyone, really. Jon let them go, wondering what to make of it all.

Sansa pretended she couldn't hear Brienne and Pod. Their voices were a distant buzz sounding from outside, worried and speculating about her frame of mind.

"She's been in there all day… won't leave his side…. Already been told there's no hope..."

But there was hope. Jon's heart still beat and while he still breathed, there was hope. So she stayed and she prayed, and she smoothed his brow and talked to him about their time in Winterfell, growing up as children. Maybe he needed to remember the good times? Maybe he needed a gentle reminder that there was once more to life than the Night's Watch? She didn't know the answer, but she was willing to sit there talking until the cows came home, if that was what it took.

Just as she never left Jon, Brienne never left her. So Sansa made no protest, even when she knew she was being talked about. Besides, it was only to Pod who never spoke to anyone else. He was too shy, too nervous. When Brienne did return to Jon's chambers, she took up her customary position at the other side of Jon's bed, as though she were now guarding both of them. Oathkeeper was drawn, the Valyrian steel blade drinking in the light of Melisandre's fires burning at Jon's head and feet. It reminded her Ice, before she remembered that once it was Ice. It sickened her to remember that part of the Stark's ancestral sword once belonged to Joffrey and Jaime Lannister. Jaime, at least, had conscience enough to hand Oathkeeper back.

"When we were young, I was so awful to him," she said, flatly.

Brienne's broad face darkened with concern. "My lady, you were a little girl."

Unwilling to listen to excuses, Sansa sharply reiterated her point. "I was awful to him. Children may be awful but childhood is no excuse for it. Now I may never get to say how sorry I am."

She had no more tears left to cry. So she tried to tell Brienne what it had been like back then, how awful she had been without ever really understanding why she was doing it. She was never openly mean to him, like her mother had been. She had been icy and distant, constantly correcting Arya by saying 'he's our half-brother'. He was their brother. He was also their last hope.

"When I was still little and stupid, Joffrey had me stripped and beaten in front of the whole court," she recalled, her voice growing distant the recently buried past burrowed its way up again. "One of the men who hit me was Janos Slynt, and I remember wishing a hero would ride through the doors on a snowy white destrier and chop his head off. But no one came and I knew then that heroes didn't exist, and probably never had. But Lord Tyrion had Janos sent to the Night's Watch for some other disgraceful thing he'd done. I asked Dolorous Edd if Janos was still here and, do you know what?"

"What, my lady?"

"Jon cut off his head for cowardice," she replied, managing to raise a ghost of a smile.

"Perhaps you were wrong about heroes?"

Sansa shrugged. "Maybe I was wrong about needing to be saved."

Once that revelation was out of the way, she fell back into silence. Sometimes, she noticed, he did move. His hand clenched or his jaw tightened. Signs that he was still in there, fighting his way out. Strangely, a few of the Night's Watch brothers had come in to lift his eyelids and check his eye colour. She could have told them herself: they were dark grey, almost black. She remembered well enough and thought they should too, seeing as they were around him every day. Still, they were dissatisfied with her answer and checked anyway. It struck her as passing odd, but let them get on with it.

Just as she recalled the peculiar ritual, the raven from before hopped onto her shoulder. Carefully, she brushed him off, only for him to flap around her head and land on her other shoulder. Brienne watched him, mildly amused.

"You've made a new friend," she remarked.

"He talks, keeps on asking for corn," she pointed out. "Edd said he belonged to the last Lord Commander, but Jon kept him."

She watched as the bird flapped over to the door, pecking against the wood. Relieved at the excuse to get up and stretch her legs a little, she got up to let him out. But, once she opened the door, the bird stayed where he was. He looked up at her, as if studying her through those black, beady eyes and cawed loudly. Taking flight, he flapped into the yard and landed in the show, where once more he looked at her.

Sansa laughed. "I'm not following you."

The bird cawed and shrieked her name. "Stark! Stark!"

The laughter faded as Sansa stepped out into the open. Meanwhile, the raven flew back to her and perched on her shoulder once more. "I have no corn," she assured him. "If I had, it would be yours."

But he only took off again, flying as far as the wall itself and perching on the gatepost that stood before the tunnel entrance. Through that tunnel was a portcullis, through that portcullis lay the real north, stretching all the way to the uncharted lands of always winter. Hesitantly, Sansa followed the bird all the way up to that portcullis, nodding a silent greeting to the watchman on guard. She went as far as she could before the cold iron lattice prevented her venturing any farther.

Curious, she looked out over the open plains and dense woods before her. Only one woman had ever joined the Night's Watch and she had been raped and murdered for her efforts. Otherwise, she wondered whether it was only her who had come from the south to look out over those barren lands that held such fear and mystery to them?

"You don't want to be going out there, little lady," the guardsman remarked.

Sansa whirled around to face him. "I'm not, I just wanted to see."

"Mind that's as far as you go, now," he added. "Looking never hurt no one, but there's thing you wouldn't believe out there."

She reassured him with a nod before turning back to the north, beyond the wall and into a world she never imagined seeing. Her companion, the raven, squeezed through the bars of the portcullis and spread his wings on the other side, taking to sudden flight and leaving her there. She tried to keep him in her sight, but the howling of a wolf caught her attention. It reminded her of Lady, when her own direwolf had been at her side. She could see the beast on the horizon now, large and getting larger the nearer it came. It bounded toward her through the snows as fast as it could go. It moved with the silent grace of shadow made flesh. Direwolf, she realised.

"Summer?" she whispered, fixing the direwolf. Her voice grew louder as she repeated his name: "Summer!"

Jon held his arms out for the squire to fix his armour in place. If he looked through the door of the armoury, he could see the tiltyard stretching out in front of him, the best part of a mile long. The stands on either side were packed and he could hear the roar of the crowds from where he stood. It was enough to make his nerves twitch unpleasantly. It wasn't his lack of experience in the jousts that unnerved him, just the thought of displaying his inexperience in front of so many people.

While he was finalising his armour, he saw the Mystery Knight ride out into the lists. His arrival was met with a surge of applause from the crowds. However, after the way Benjen had treated Lyanna the night before, Jon was tempted to send him flying regardless of his delicate age.

"First round's you against the Mystery Knight then, is it?" the squire asked, reaching for the helm.

"It is indeed," he confirmed, as the last piece of his armour was slipped over his head.

He knew the helm was in place properly when everything sounded oddly muffled, yet sonorous at the same time. But he soon forgot the odd effects once his mount was brought out – a destrier that actually belonged to Robert Baratheon. Once mounted, he wasted no time in following his opponent into the list. Through the slit in his visor, he could see him now in that horribly mismatched armour. On the shield, the weirwood tree laughed at him from the other side of the list. Taking up the lance handed to him by the squire, he couched it as commanded and brought his horse into position.

Then everything passed in a blur. Someone shouted a countdown, a chequered flag fell and suddenly his horse was charging down the list at full pelt. The list yard was so long he thought it would take ages to meet his opponent, but the Mystery Knight was on him within a minute. Barely in the nick of time, he remembered to drop his lance and aim square over the breast plate. The crash of the impact rang through his head, jarring every bone in his body. He saw nothing but stars as he reeled backwards, out of the saddle and rolled arse over heel through the sand. His horse ran on, dragging him along the ground for several seconds before he managed to disentangle himself from the reins.

Breathless and aching all over, he lay there trying to get his wits back. The sound of running feet closed in on him and he felt his helm being pulled off. Still dazed, he managed to sit and look back, to where the Mystery Knight soaked up the applause, the weirwood still laughing at him from the shield on his arm. He had every reason to be laughing now.

"Jon, are you all right?"

The shock of hearing Benjen's voice made him snap round, hurting his neck in the process. The boy was kneeling at his side, with Eddard at his side. His future father helped him back to his feet, but it wasn't the shock of his fall that made him slow and cumbersome now. He looked to the Mystery Knight and than at Benjen again.

"What?" he asked, a picture of innocence. "You didn't think it was me, did you?"

Chapter Text

The look on the faces of the Silent Sisters made Jon grateful for their vow of silence. They asked no questions and which meant he told no lies in response. He was semi-naked, laid out on a trestle table in a recovery tent, with his shirt open to reveal the stitched up stab wounds inflicted by his former brothers of the Watch. Silent they may have been, but he could tell what they were thinking. That he had jeopardised his life for the sake of winning a bit of glory in a jousting match. That he was mad and vainglorious in equal measure. Had they been able, they would be chastising him soundly as they dabbed at his cuts and scratches. In a way, watching these women exchange dark and disapproving looks among themselves was even worse.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he stated.

In response, one of the women pressed a finger to her lips. A signal that he was expected to lie down and shut up. Deciding it was best not to labour the point, he did as they asked. Flat on his back, all he could do was look up at the peaked roof of the tent and think back on the real identity of the mystery knight. Benjen was the first to his side, quickly followed by Eddard. Brandon was training for the melee, which left only Lyanna. He had been knocked out of the saddle by a girl younger than himself.

"Ouch!" he yelped, as a Silent Sister dabbed a stinging ointment into an open graze.

But, once that was done, it seemed his treatment was complete. Relieved, he hoisted himself up again and sat on the edge of the table to button up his shirt. Before long, people with far more serious injuries than his own would be flooding into these recovery tents and he had no desire to be taking up valuable space.

"Anything serious?"

Jolted out of his own thoughts, Jon looked up to see Eddard pushing his way through the tent flaps. "Just cuts and bruises."

Ned approached him, stopping at the foot of the table and leaning against it. "Seeing as it's you, I'm sure Lya will let you have your horse and armour back without ransom."

So, it was Lyanna. Jon laughed aloud, making his bruised ribs hurt in the process. Suddenly wincing, he gingerly eased himself down off the table's edge and back to his feet. "Did you know she was planning this?"

Ned shrugged. "I knew she would do something to get revenge against those squires who beat Lord Howland, but I didn't think it would be this."

If Ned disapproved, he did not show it. He came to Jon's side, offering a strong shoulder to lean on as they made their way back outside. But, once he was on his feet and the initial shock of pain wore off and his strength wore off, he found he was able to walk quite well.

"I really should have guessed, though," Ned added. "It's just like Lyanna to do something like this. If our father hears about it, he'll be furious. But Lya will talk him round, just as she always does, and she'll come up smelling as sweet as a winter rose. It's the same every time."

Jon couldn't help but smile as he recognised that familiar pattern. It was one that would be played out again between that same quietly resigned lord and his own wilful younger daughter, Arya. But, no matter how much he wished he could say something, his foreknowledge was kept firmly locked inside.

The two of them emerged into the sunlight of the false spring just as the crowds erupted in cheers for a victor and a smattering of boos for the defeated. Jon could not see who was competing, but he heard the compère calling the Mystery Knight and a competitor from House Haigh. Ned jolted, suddenly grabbing Jon around the arm and waist to help him get moving faster.

"Come on," he urged him. "We can't miss this. If she beats Haigh then she's up against Blount tomorrow morning."

Desire to see his aunt taking on a real knight spurred him on, despite the stings and aches caused by moving too fast. Both he and Ned scrambled up the stands, barging through spectators and apologising to everyone whose feet they trod on in the press. The Stark's place in the stands gave them an unimpeded view down the length of the tilt yard, where already they could see Lyanna couching her lance. Then, just as the destriers were being moved into a place, Jon felt someone leaning right down from the tier above and close to his ear. He turned to find Rhaegar Targaryen directly behind him, kneeling so they could speak privately.

"That's your young lord, isn't it?" he asked. "I think we all underestimated that one. Haigh's bound to knock him out now, though. Just you watch."

Jon went to reply, but his words were cut off by the man at Rhaegar's left. He twisted his neck a little more, getting the other man in focus. It was King Aerys, leaning back in his seat and watching over the jousts with a disdainful eye while addressing his son.

"I see you there, whispering in another man's ears. Don't think I don't know what you're up to, you ungrateful shit," he drawled, almost lazily. "Remember, I have another son now."

His words were threatening, but Rhaegar's response was resigned to the point of bored. As if he had heard all this a hundred times before. Where Jon would have fallen into line immediately, Rhaegar didn't bat an eyelid.

"He never lets me forget I have a brother now," he whispered, rolling his indigo eyes. "All of a sudden, I am expendable."

Aerys was forgotten as the charge began. Rhaegar spread his arm around the back of Jon's seat, both of them leaning forward as the knights drew closer and closer. If they blinked, they would have missed it. But the crash resounded and Haigh was thrown bodily from the saddle, landing in the sand and rolling over several times before the groundsmen stopped him. Lyanna had triumphed once more, bringing a roar of approval from the stands. Benjen, Jon and Ned were both on their feet, applauding with everyone else. He glanced behind him, noting Rhaegar was also part of the standing ovation.

As soon as things calmed down and Jon resumed his seat, he turned to face Rhaegar again. "What was that you were saying about underestimation again, your grace?"

To his relief, Rhaegar laughed. Just for a moment, his sad eyes lightened. "How old did you say your man was again?" But before Jon could answer, the Prince's attention was caught by someone else making their way along the stands. "Oh, gods, here comes that mad wandering crow again. You know, he tried to recruit me this morning. I don't think he knew who I was."

Jon noticed the same man who had tried to recruit him the day before last. If nothing else, he had to admire the man's determination and cheery enthusiasm. "So you don't fancy giving up all your titles, inheritance and future realm for the sake of a life in the frozen north, your grace?"

The prince snorted, choking back laughter. "As brave as our brothers of the Night's Watch are, I fear I must eschew-"

"What did I just say to you?" Aerys cut over his son once more, then turned to Jon. He raised one hand, showing his uncut yellowing nails. "Don't think I won't be watching you from now on, either…whoever you are."

"We're discussing the jousts, father," Rhaegar pointed out, firmly. "Not everything we do is about you."

Then Jon noticed Princess Elia flinch and turn to Rhaegar with a look of mute appeal in her eyes. It wasn't her husband she was afraid of after all, he realised. It was her father in law. Jon could see it now. She was terrified of Aerys and looked to Rhaegar for protection. Something he mercifully remembered and, after a firm pat on Jon's back, he rejoined his wife and put a protective arm around her shoulders. Meanwhile, Aerys used one of his horrendous fingernails to pick at a scab on his left forearm while regarding the mystery knight with a look of deepest loathing.

"Owwww! Benjen, careful! Ouch, damn you and your hands of clay!" Lyanna's voice rang shrill, barely muted by the door that separated her from Jon and Ned who lingered in the corridor outside. The two men leaned in closer, trying not to laugh at the girl's plight. She had returned to their rooms after hiding her armour covered in scrapes, scratches and bruises. Jon suspected she had also cracked a few ribs into the bargain. Although she initially disagreed with him, it sounded like Lyanna was changing her mind.

"If she still competes tomorrow she is insane," Ned whispered, ear to the keyhole of the door.

Jon had to agree. "She's down for two more rounds against Blount and Frey. Come morning, all those bruises and cuts will be out in force."

"It's always worse the morning after," Ned agreed. "But you try telling her that when her blood is up. Stubbornness will get her through it, just you watch."

However, Lyanna emerged from the chamber an hour later looking every inch the lady. Her hair had been combed to a shine and her new gown was an immaculate vision of silver and pale blue silk. Diamond earrings hung from her ears, reaching midway down her neck and the black eye was concealed with white powder, blended with a little rouge paste derived from the sap of a heart tree. It was only when she walked, with a stiff gait and a barely hidden limp, that her day's exertions showed.

"Right, let's feast!" she said, brightly.

Ned remained sceptical. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, stop worrying brother," she chided. She then lowered her voice, adding in a whisper: "Everything must be normal, no one can suspect a thing, remember? And not a word to Brandon, you know what a bragger he is."

Or rather, Jon suspected, she was worried Brandon would tell Robert, who would then tell everyone else. This was a secret that had to be between the four of them. And when they met Brandon outside the Hall where the night's feast was to be held, they were all relieved he noticed nothing amiss about his sister's appearance. He linked his arm through hers, and led her inside to where their table was set up near the dais.

Afterwards, Lyanna even got up to dance with Benjen and then Jon himself. Both of them taking the dance slowly, while ensuring it was enough to make everything appear normal; it seemed to do the trick. If anyone noticed anything amiss, no one said anything. As they circled the room, Jon spotted Rhaegar dancing with Princess Elia, each holding the other tenderly. But once the dance was done, the Princess had tired and made her way to the side of the room. Deciding now was a good time to catch up with Bran, Jon also excused himself, inadvertently following in Elia's footsteps as though he were deliberately following her.

After a minute, she noticed and stopped.

"Hello," she said, turning to face him.

Up close, Jon could see he had been dismissive of her. She wasn't plain, just delicate. Like her whole being, her features were small and not fully appreciated from afar.

"Your Grace," he replied, inclining his head respectfully. "Forgive me, I wasn't following you. I was just going to take some air."

"Me too," she replied, raising a smile. "Do you mind if I join you? It seems my lady in waiting is busy with your brother."

Jon was mystified. "My brother?" he glanced around the room and spotted Ned shrinking into a corner all on his own, while Brandon was chatting in the ear of Ashara Dayne. Jon realised the Princess's mistake. "Oh, he's not my brother. I'm just squiring for the Starks."

Elia blushed. "Forgive me, but you look so much alike! Anyway, if you're busy, or there's someone else you're waiting for, never mind I can manage by myself."

"No, please, I'd like the company too," Jon quickly assured her.

It would be an inconvenience, but seeing as Bran wasn't expecting him it would not matter if he deferred a visit to the godswood. Still, he rather hoped that Lady Ashara would be finished with Brandon by the time he escorted Elia outside. However, when he looked back, he saw Lady Ashara approaching Eddard and whispering something in his ear that made him blush to the roots of his hair. Clumsily, Ned got up and they joined hands and approached the dance floor together.

Once outside in the open air, Elia closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, as though savouring the very air most people breathed without thinking twice about it. As Jon studied her, he thought she resembled an animal freed from a trap. A soft wind plucked at her long brown hair, fanning it out against her narrow shoulders.

"That's better," she said, opening her eyes again. "Gods, it gets hot in that hall."

Unsure of where to look, Jon turned his face away from her as she leaned against a low stone wall to let the breeze fan her face and neck. Eventually, it seemed she was recovered enough to walk. The terrace lined the hall of the hundred hearths and they could be seen through the glass windows, so it felt less improper at least. Still, he worried.

"Prince Rhaegar won't mind this, will he?" he asked, nervously.

"Of course not," she replied, as if it were a small matter. And that was the end of it. "I noticed you on the first night. Do you remember? You looked right at me, but when I met your eyes you looked away like you were all embarrassed. Later, I asked Lady Ashara to bring you over to me, but you shied away again, it seems."

Jon was embarrassed that she even remember his rude staring. "I'm sorry, I was just curious."

She looked at him and smile. "Curiosity isn't a crime. Now tell me your name. I'll have that in return for your staring."

"Jon," he replied. "Of House Mazin."

A frown creased her brow. "Can't say I've heard of House Mazin, but you're squiring for House Stark and everyone knows them. Even in Dorne we know of House Stark. Grim and stony, or so they say. But I like the Starks I've met so far."

"They're good people," he pointed out, painfully aware that her house and his own would soon be at war on opposite sides. "But I'm just a bastard. I'll never amount to much wherever I go."

Elia sighed deeply. "I'll never understand Westerosi attitudes to bastards, Jon. In Dorne things are so very different. Bastards are born of passion, not sin. If the taint of bastardy and the judgement of others gets too much for you, you should present yourself to my brother, Prince Oberyn. Your birth will never go against you there. Tell him I sent you."

"Thank you, your grace," he replied, meaning it. "But for now I think I'm needed here."

"You and I both, sadly," she replied.

"You don't like it here?" he asked, feeling rather forward.

"No, I love it. Especially on Dragonstone, when it's just me and my children," she explained. "But everyone here treats me like I'm made of glass. I know I shouldn't complain, but the way they all look at me, sometimes it gets to me. And I know what they say and what they think. That I've married too far above my station and I'm too weak to be a Queen."

An all too familiar dread came over him as she talked of her life in King's Landing. He had never given it much thought before, because previously it was in the past. But here, in this time, he found himself wondering why she was not on Dragonstone when the Lannisters sacked the capital. She could have been saved there; she could have fled to Dorne where Prince Doran, her own brother, would surely have kept her and her children safe. Instead, she was raped and put to the sword by Gregor Clegane. Skewered on a blade, just like her babies. Speaking to her now, knowing her fate like so many others in that hall, made his stomach fold.

"Now you're looking at me that same way everyone else does," she said, disappointed. "With that pity in your eyes. Twice, everyone gave me up for dead, twice I survived. First with Rhaenys; second with Aegon. I think I have a fighting chance, don't you?"

She smiled as she reached the end of the last sentence, causing Jon to smile too. According to what he had heard about her, she had been brave at the end. Protecting her infants while trying to fight off that fighting, malignant Mountain. He dared think she was stronger than many gave her credit for.

"Maybe," he answered. "I think maybe we all do."

"On that we agree, Jon of House Mazin," she replied, They continued walking until they reached a place behind the hall, out of sight of anyone else. When suddenly, Elia's countenance changed. "Now, listen to the warning I give you: my father in law noticed you this afternoon and that never ends well. Have a care, because there's only so much my husband can do to protect you."

Jon felt a chill seize him, tightening his belly. "What do you mean 'noticed me'?"

Even though they were alone, Elia cast a furtive glance around in all directions. Then she grabbed his wrist, leading him farther from the front of the hall and into the darkness that overlooked the God's Eye.

"You heard him, at the joust this afternoon, he said he would be watching you," he reminded him. "Aerys doesn't make idle threats, Jon. So be careful."

"But I was only talking to your husband," he protested, as if it were her making the allegations.

Elia shook her head. "Which is exactly why he thinks you're plotting against him. There's you and a few others he's homed in on, like some kind of hawk. There's a raft of Lannisters he thinks are out to get him, he's starting to get angry about that mystery knight too, the one who won the jousts today-"

"The one with the laughing tree on his shield," Jon cut in, feeling his panic rise. He almost used the wrong pronoun, but righted himself in the nick of time.

Elia nodded, then tightened her grip on his hands to get his attention back in focus. "Listen. Aerys was not supposed to be here. It was his Master of Whispers, Varys, who put it into his head that the real reason for this tourney was so that all the lords could get together and plot to put my husband on the throne sooner, rather than later. So now he's here, uninvited and full to the brim with suspicion. He suspects literally every man, woman and child attending this tourney. So be careful and mind how you go from here. And don't run either, that way he'll be convinced you have something to hide. Do you understand?"

Jon nodded. "What if the mystery knight stopped riding in the tournament?"

Elia shook her head again. "It's too late, Aerys already noticed the knight. Vanishing will only confirm his suspicions. Do you know who it is? You rode against him and Aerys probably thinks you lost deliberately."

He did lose deliberately, thinking it was Benjen under that armour. But now he had to steel himself and lie. "I have no idea who it was."

Elia looked relieved. "Even he can't burn you for someone you don't know. Now, we must return before anyone untoward notices our absence. If anyone says anything I'll pretend I took ill and you were just making sure I was all right. See, there's a benefit to having everyone thinking I'm a delicate petal."

Despite his cold apprehension, Jon raised a smile. "I thought there would be. And, your grace, thank you for warning me, despite the risks to yourself."

Elia had begun to walk away, but stopped and look back. "It was nothing."

"Before you go," he said. "One more thing: how true are Varys' suspicions?"

She paused before giving a highly guarded answer. "I'm sure everyone here really cares about Old Whent's daughter's name day."

The sarcasm was obvious.

In order to keep up appearances, Jon abandoned his plans to meet Bran and returned to the hall where the dancing was still in full swing. From the tail of his eye he watched as Elia returned to Prince Rhaegar for another gentle song. He noticed him whisper in his ear while looking at him. Whatever was said, she nodded and he kissed her forehead in reply.

Lyanna, oblivious to what had happened between himself and Elia, was dancing with a very drunk Robert Baratheon. She was smiling, but it seemed forced now. Benjen was still at the table, sneaking alcoholic drinks while none of his elders were watching. Eddard was still dancing, surprisingly well, with Ashara Dayne. Brandon looked on, incredulous.

"Our Ned," he said, as Jon approached. "I wouldn't have thought he had it in him,"

I think Ned's full of surprises, Jon thought to himself. Going by the look on his face, Ned was as surprised as everyone else also. Jon watched a while, happy that his father was happy. And Lady Ashara was good. Her steps were light and graceful, the way her hair caught the light only added to her pale beauty. Ned looked like he had died and gone to heaven and then come back alive.

Meanwhile, Jon had Princess Elia's warnings echoing in his head. Restless, he kept moving and circulating. When he stopped, midway across the floor, he turned to the dais that now seemed to loom across the whole room. King Aerys sat there alone, yellow nails raking his tatty silver beard as his beady lilac eyes made a note of everyone in the room. Never still, never even pretending to enjoy himself, Aerys watched and judged and found them all wanting.

"My Lady."

Brienne woke Sansa up gently, nudging her shoulder. She had finally fallen asleep slumped over the side of Jon's bed. The first thing she did, however, was check to see if her brother showed any signs of coming too. But he remained the same. Sleeping and slack, not moving so much as a muscle now.

"My lady, it seems you may have been right about your brother's direwolf."

Still drugged with sleep, she had almost forgotten that Summer turned up at Castle Black the day before. But when she had the guards raise the portcullis to let him through the tunnel, the wolf turned and ran back into the northern wilderness from whence he had so unexpectedly came. She could only stand and watch, helplessly, as Summer was swallowed up by the Haunted Forest. When she tried to follow, the guard grabbed her arms and repeated his dire warnings about what lay beyond. She tried to explain it was her brother's wolf, but they had dismissed her. "All wolves look alike, little lady," he said, dismissively. But Sansa knew a direwolf when she saw one. And a tame direwolf could only mean one thing: her brothers.

Now Brienne was standing over her, holding a small, neat scroll. There was no sigil in the seal, but clearly had been delivered by raven that morning. Still a little befuddled, she took the scroll and noted the wax stamp had already been broken.

"Bran!" she gasped, leaping to her feet.

But Brienne, despite her earlier admission that she may have been wrong, was still cautious. "My lady, please. This could be fake-"

"But who else would send a letter from north of the wall," she countered. "We know Bran must be there because of Summer, so there's no one else."

Before Brienne could argue any further, she turned her attention back to the note. With dismay, she noticed Bran had not signed it. There was only a crudely drawn map with directions through the Haunted Forest and a description of the largest heart tree in the grove she would eventually come to. But there was no question of her leaving Jon. It seemed an absolute, but when she thought that Bran might be out there, she soon wavered.

She had been filling her days by making a replica of their father's cloak and it now lay, partially done, covering Jon's body. She closed one hand over the pelts she had been using to line it. If Bran was somewhere out there, she knew she would have to go to him, if only to bring him to Castle Black where they could all be safe. Soon she found herself reasoning it out. Whatever was out beyond that wall, it wasn't Ramsay Bolton. Compared to him, nothing much scared her any more.

Brienne had a look of deep sorrow on her broad face. "My lady, I know what you're thinking."

"If Jon wakes up he is surrounded by people loyal to him," she said. "The mutineers are hanged. He will be safe. But Bran is crippled and in a place they all say is dangerous. If he's out there-"

"IF," Brienne reiterated. "If, he is out there. For all we know the wolf is just running free and you could be being lured into a trap."

Sansa felt herself deflating, along with her resolve. It had seemed impossible, when Theon told her her brothers were alive somewhere, that Bran – of all of them – would survive for as long as he had.

"Fine," she replied, at length. "For now, we do nothing and wait here. But if I get assurances that Bran is out there, then surely you can understand? I must get to him."

Satisfied for now, at least, Brienne nodded. "Petyr Baelish has also arrived in Mole's Town-"

"I don't care," she cut in, turning away. "Let him stew."

That afternoon, she found herself walking the yards at Castle Black. There were as many wildlings there as real brothers of the Watch. Despite all that had been said of them, she did not mind. She found Tormund Giantsbane fletching arrows beside the wall itself. He was a huge man, with a shaggy red beard who went weak kneed whenever Brienne was nearby. It made her laugh, sometimes. Even at the times when she felt she would never laugh again. On this occasion, though, she had come to him to discuss something serious.

"Tormund," she said, sitting beside him on the bench.

"What can I do for you, little lady?" he asked, stripping another goose feather.

Sansa looked up at the wall, shielding her eyes from the sun's glare on the ice. "Tell me truthfully, what's out there?"

Turning her gaze back to Tormund, she could tell from the look on his face that she would not like the answer.

Chapter Text

As if proving Tormund's point, a snowstorm came billowing in from the north in great white squalls. This far north, they closed in fast and sent men scattering for the safety of Castle Black's main keep. Only the watchmen on the wall itself were left to brave it out with just a brazier to ward off the killer cold. Meanwhile, Sansa followed Tormund and only broke off to collect her unfinished cloak. It lay where she left it, covering Jon's sleeping body beside the fires in his chambers. She paused with her hands gripping the lining pelt.

"Sorry," she said, removing it gently. There was a proper blanket underneath, so it wasn't like she was leaving him there naked. Still she felt guilty. "It'll be finished when I bring it back. Then you can keep it. It's just like the one father wore."

She kissed his brow, finding it warm and clammy, before exiting the Lord Commander's chambers. Outside, she hunched downwind, sheltering beneath the half-finished cloak as she hurried across the cobbles. On the way, she saw a cloud of Alliser Thorne's ashes blowing across the yard and through the iron lattice of the portcullis. She did not think he would be missed. Moments later, she shouldered open the door to the common hall of Castle Black, where the men had pushed back the tables and stoked a fire in the main hearth. Accepting a horn of honey-mead from Dolorous Edd, she took a seat directly in front of the fire and savoured the warmth washing over her.

For a long moment, everyone was silent as they got the feeling back in their hands and feet. Lady Melisandre was igniting more fires in braziers and setting up candles on the high table. Sansa watched the red priestess from the tale of her eye, wondering just how far her powers truly extended. Meanwhile, Ser Davos and some brothers of the Night's Watch supped their mead and gazed contemplatively into the flames. Only the heavy weight of Tormund flopping down beside her distracted her. Ever vigilant of her lady's honour, Brienne joined them and sat at Sansa's other side, protective as a mastiff.

"The little lady here was asking me what lies beyond the wall, boys," Tormund said aloud, glancing around the room. "Every man here has a story or two to tell about that, I think."

Dolorous Edd moved to the middle of the clearing, warming his hands over the flames. His sharp features up lit by the wavering flames. Mormont's old raven was perched on his shoulder. "You don't want to know what lies beyond, m'lady."

"But I do," she insisted, setting her drink aside. "I've heard my other brother is out there and I need to find him."

Edd looked sceptical. "Bran, isn't it? Wherever he is it'll not be out there, I promise you-"

"It's true; he is," another man, whose name she did not know, cut over Edd. With all eyes on him, he continued: "Samwell Tarly and his wildling girl found the young Stark with three travelling companions inside the Nightfort; the wolf was with them, too. Sam let him through the gate deep inside the fort, the one that only opens to men of the Night's Watch. The lord sworn him to secrecy, but I think Sam told the Lord Commander anyway."

Sansa was surprised. "Jon knew?"

The man shrugged. "Don't quote me on it, but I think so. At any rates, Sam told me."

It no longer mattered whether Jon knew, she realised. Facts remained and Bran was still out there. Hopes and speculation had been proven and it was down to her to act. She still had the map folded in her pocket, so she handed it over to one of the rangers.

"Where is this place? Can anyone get me there?"

No one replied immediately, but they conferred among themselves. Passing the map along, they continued muttering and another ranger compared it to a professionally drawn map.

"That's the weirwood grove deep in the Haunted Forest, that," one finally replied. "It's leagues from here and that's their territory now."

The atmosphere grew tense; several of the men no longer meeting her gaze. Everyone seemed to know what he meant, but she was still in the dark.

"Whose territory?" she asked.

"The Others," the same man replied. "That's who. And you won't want to be running into those boys on a dark night."

She had only the vaguest notion of what the Others even were. Monsters made of ice with eyes as blue as stars. That was what Old Nan used to tell them. But she had lived with monsters before. First Joffrey and his legion of sycophantic courtiers. Then Ramsay Bolton, who had made Joffrey look half a child by comparison.

"The Others are no mortal enemy." Once more Sansa felt like Melisandre knew more than she was letting on. She stepped round the tables and positioned herself in Sansa's direct line of sight. "Neither living nor dead, they serve the Great Other with armies of corpses. Ask the men here, they'll tell you."

Dolorous Edd volunteered first. "Your brother and I were Hardhomme together. We saw them with our own two eyes, m'lady. We saw the village attacked by the Others, hundreds lay dead on the shoreline. Then that thing – whatever he is – clicks his icy fingers and up get those self-same hundreds of corpses. If Jon was conscious now, he'd sooner lock you in an ice cell than let you go wandering off out there."

But Jon wasn't conscious and all she could see was her little brother surrounded by ice monsters and the living dead. Her little brother, who couldn't even walk any more, guarded by a simple stable hand and two others who were strangers to her. While her imagination worked against her, Tormund spoke at last.

"When the dead come back, child, they're not the people you knew. They come back slaves to the Others, doing their bidding with only cold and hate in their blackening hearts," he said, all humour gone from him. "They're back only to kill and make the Others' army bigger, stronger… they'll have no more pity for you than they do a dog." He paused, looking her straight in the eye and nodded toward the place outside where the wall stood. "Don't come all this way only to die out there."

Fear lay cold and heavy over her own heart now. It chilled her blood like a slow acting poison, crawling through her veins and crippling her a piece at a time. She looked at the silent, stony faces of the rangers and saw the truth of their words written in their darkening expressions. They had all been out there, seen what lay beyond … and come back to tell the tale.

Sansa knew she had no choice. There was nowhere left to run, so it was time to stand and fight.

The Mystery Knight's armour had been dumped beside the heart tree, even more scratched and even more dented than it was before. The breastplate now bore a large scratch and dint where Haigh's lance had glanced off it, but it had still not been enough to throw Lyanna. Jon knelt down, studying it closely. Gingerly, between thumb and forefinger, he picked up the mail shirt and noted his aunt's bloodstains clinging to some of the metal rings. Dropping it again, he turned his attention to the breast plate and helm. Protecting the head and chest, they were the most important items among the lot. Before getting to work on them, however, he reached for a root of the heart tree and wrapped his hand around it.

"Bran!" he whispered.

Although there was no one else around, he still felt foolish calling to his brother through a tree. Nor did he understand it, but he had seen Bran here himself.

"Bran!" he repeated, more firmly.

Jon tensed. A soft wind plucked the ruby-red leaves of the boughs above his head. A nearby stream trickled by and a rat scurried through the undergrowth. Bran remained conspicuous by his absence. He looked around, squinting to see through the darkness for a minute, then gave up and returned to the armour feeling more than a little foolish. Even without equipment, he thought he would be able to straighten out the breastplate in time for the morning's joust. The helm, to his relief, was undamaged.

"I'm here, Jon." Bran's voice sounded from behind the tree. "Did you think it hadn't worked?"

Relief washed over him as he set aside the armour. "I'll get used to it."

Bran was walking again. He stepped nimbly over the gnarled tree roots to join him a few feet away, where the land had formed a convenient natural step to sit on.

"So, what's been happening?" asked Bran, then his eye fell on the armour. "Is that the Knight of the Laughing Tree?"

"Yes," he confirmed, remembering how their father had never once mentioned this to them. "Did father ever tell you about it? He said nothing to me and you'll never guess who it is, Bran."

After a quick look at the dinted armour, Bran hopped back onto the step and sat beside him. "No, never. I only heard the story from Meera Reed and I thought it passing strange that father never told us. So, who is it?"

Howland Reed's daughter, Jon realised. The connection was instant, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, for now.

"It's Lyanna," he answered. "Our Aunt."

Bran choked on his own laughter. "Really?! Does father know it's her?"

Jon nodded. "I rode against her thinking it was Benjen and she unhorsed me. Father came to see me in the tent afterwards and he told me himself it was her. Why do you think he never told us?"

Bran shrugged. "He never did talk much about Lyanna. Never in detail. It was too hard for him."

Lyanna was as real to Jon now as the ground on which he walked. Sometimes, he almost forgot that she was dead in their time and that they had never met her. All she had been was a name in a sad story about a helpless girl stolen away in the night to be raped and murdered at the behest of a tyrant prince. Over the last week or so, all these characters had transformed into living, breathing people and much of the original story didn't seem to add up any more. Father had been left with a ghost for a sister, whose memory lay on him like a shroud. The sadness in Ned Stark's grey eyes – that had been Lyanna's legacy.

"Earlier on," he began, remembering what happened after the feast. "Elia Martell came to me, warning me that the Mad King has noticed me. And he has noticed the mystery knight."

Bran frowned. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning things could go badly for us, if we don't stop drawing attention to ourselves," he answered, flatly. "Bran, I've met the Princess and I've spoken to Rhaegar Targaryen a couple of times now. He's not the type of person to … you know, do what they say he did. Actually, he seems rather noble."

Bran drew a deep breath, his expression softening almost sympathetically. "He's not very well going to tell everyone, Jon. Besides, it hasn't happened yet. Things are about to change. Don't judge anyone, not yet."

"But what if..." Jon began again, faltering swiftly. Something was off, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it so it seemed pointless trying to tell Bran. Instead, he shrugged and added: "I just think there's something amiss. Anyway, little brother, what have you been able to find out? What's going on at Castle Black?"

"Sansa's there," he answered, perking up considerably. "I've sent for her. But the brothers who remain there are all loyal to you. Too loyal to you to let your little sister go wandering beyond the wall. There's a woman knight with her, and a squire. They will follow her if she chooses to go. I skin changed Mormont's raven to listen in on everything."

"Can't you send the rangers a message?" he asked, frustrated at not being able to do anything directly. "Tell them to go with her, if they must. We need to get Sansa to you, wherever you are."

"I know, Jon. But it's not that simple," replied Bran. "Sansa will come, don't worry. Her third eye opened the day Lady was put to death, but she doesn't know what it is."

"Do you know why she's at Castle Black yet?"

The last he had heard, she was forcibly married to Tyrion Lannister and living in King's Landing. Surrounded by enemies, but with at least one protector on her side. But that was before Tyrion was accused of murder. Sansa vanished and that was the last thing he knew for sure. Like Arya, he had assumed she was dead.

"Someone brought her North and forced her to marry Ramsay Bolton," explained Bran, his expression darkening. Even in the dappled moonlight, Jon could see his brother's eyes watering. Anger and pain both evident there.

"Bran," he said, gently prompting for more details.

"I went back through the tree, just to see what happened," his voice wavered and he looked away to hide his tears. "He beat her. And he raped her every night, Jon."

The word punched him in the stomach, winding him. Then, from the tips of his fingers everything else went numb. The Boltons had taken their home, murdered their kin and now raped their sister. How much more would they take? They had nothing left to give, but the Boltons always seemed to find a way to take anyway. Now Sansa… he could not think on it. Even in his head, his inner-voice could not repeat what Bran had said to him.

"Bran," he said. "Whatever's going on here doesn't matter any more. You have to find a way to get me home so I can take care of Sansa. Can't you see? I have to go home and the past be damned."

Without even waiting for an answer, Jon got to his feet and went to the heart tree. That hateful face followed him, watching as he circled the trunk. Bran came through the tree and went through the tree. Grabbing a branch, he tried to walk through it but only bumped hard into the smooth bark. Cursing, he tried again. There was no entry, nothing. No escape. He was a prisoner of history.

"Jon, you can't do it," Bran said, watching him with pain in his blue eyes. "Please, sit back down."

Trembling with anger and frustration, he did as Bran asked and sat.

"The Three-Eyed Raven showed me something today," said Bran. "It was some old tower, in some mountains far from here. Father was there, with Howland Reed and they fought some men. Inside, I thought I heard a woman scream."

When Bran trailed off, Jon irritably snapped: "And?"

Bran looked stung, but continued anyway. "Well, not much. The raven wouldn't let me see anything else."

"So why are you telling me?" Jon demanded, irritably. He needed to go home, not be regaled with Bran's time travelling anecdotes.

"Because I called out to father and he heard me, Jon," Bran protested. "It means something, don't you see? There must be a reason why he heard me in that place."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Bran, I don't care any more. Look, let these people go to war. Let them tear each other apart for the sake of an iron chair. These people are the reason our family is scattered. They're the reason our home is gone and our sister is being raped by our enemies and our brother died with Roose Bolton's knife in his heart. So to hell with them and long may they stay there. I don't care. Just find a way to bring me home so together we can put right the mess they made. Or find a way to bring me to the Riverlands before Robb goes to that fucking wedding! Do something useful with that Three-Eyed Raven, something that can make a real difference because these people here are beyond saving."

Raging at Bran made no difference, but it made him feel better. He wanted Ramsay Bolton's guts in a bucket and his head on a plate. There were lots of things he now wanted but was powerless to get while shackled to the past.

"There's a reason you're here that will make a difference to our time, Jon," Bran repeated. "I don't know why you were brought here, but you didn't land here by chance. Nothing happens by chance-"

"Then find out what that is so I can come home," Jon cut over him. Realising he was only lashing out at the only one who understood him, he drew a deep breath and pulled himself together. "Bran, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rant at you."

Bran raised a pained smile. "It hurts me too, Jon. Just as much as it hurts you. All we can do is work out what's happening and why. But we need each other."

Jon attempted to stymie the tears by burying his face in his hands and heaving a sigh. "I know. I know. But try to find Rickon and Arya, too. Bring us all home because all of us need each other now. Then go back to your tower and find out what's in there, Bran."

Bran opened his mouth to reply, but it was another voice that said his name.

"Jon!"

Both whipped around to where Lyanna stepped out of the trees and into the clearing. Silver moonlight limned her chestnut hair and made her look as pale as death itself. She looked from Jon to Bran and back again, able to see only him.

"Lya," he said, getting to his feet and gesturing to the heart tree. "I was just talking to the gods."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Well, Bran's believed himself a god for a while now. He'll be thrilled to know he's finally got his first worshipper."

Despite his still raging emotions, Jon forced himself to smile. "I didn't mean your Bran, of course. "

She was still looking around the surroundings trees, as though her brother might be hiding somewhere. Suspicion filled her eyes. Meanwhile, his Bran was still watching, completely unseen by their aunt. Slowly, his Bran backed away, passing a hand along Jon's back as a gesture of farewell. Even then, the younger lad lingered by his tree, watching the aunt he would never know until the last moment, a sad smile playing at his lips.

Lyanna gave him a dark look, but she smiled impishly at the same time. "Are you certain Bran's not here? I definitely heard you say his name and if this is some trick the pair of you cooked up … there will be consequences."

The clearing was empty now, but for the two of them. Sadly, Jon shook his head. "He's gone. I was just praying aloud, my lady. I'm sorry."

Her intuition seemed to kick in and she noticed something amiss with him. Her expression softened as she drew closer, looking him dead in the eye.

"Jon," she said, softly. "What is it? You look like you've been punched in the face several times."

The emotion he had been just about keeping in check began to spill over. He was viewing Lyanna through tears standing stagnant in his eyes, blurring her at the edges. The more he tried to stop, the more determined they seemed to be to overwhelm him. He couldn't even talk without stammering and stuttering, so he held his silence and inwardly begged her to understand. Without saying anything, Lyanna wrapped her arms around him and eased him to the ground.

"Shush," she cooed, tightening her embrace. "Shush now. Can't you tell me what's wrong?"

Maybe he could tell her. He could tell her every crack in Winterfell's walls, every nook and cranny right down to the crypts. Enough to display his intimate acquaintance with the place and show he's not quite who he said he was. But now, whenever he conjured that castle in his mind, he saw the flayed man hanging off the ramparts. He saw Robb with Grey Wind's head stitched on to his lifeless body, paraded through the Riverlands. He even saw Lady Stark; her throat a red ruin. Most of all, he saw a monster raping his sister. He had no voice to speak those horrors aloud.

"It's nothing," he said, finally pulling himself together. "I'm sorry for troubling you."

Slowly, he extricated himself from her embrace. She looked at him intently, as though trying to read his mind. "Are you still worried about Princess Elia's warning? If you are, don't dwell on it. I hear Aerys suspects everyone anyway, regardless of what they do. And he can't burn us all!"

Seizing on a convenient excuse, Jon nodded. "Yes, that's all it is. All this, it just got too much."

Lyanna did not look convinced. "Well, if we all stick together everything will work out for the best. Don't you think?"

Jon wished it were that simple. Still, he nodded his head. Meanwhile, Lyanna smiled as she picked up her shield and studied the picture of the laughing weirwood tree.

"While I'm here I think I'll cheer him up too," she said, nodding to the real heart tree.

Despite himself, he laughed as Lyanna placed her shield directly over the tree's hateful and twisted face. She took care to align it just so the laughing face covered the place where the down-turned scowl of the real thing would be.

"That's better," he concurred.

Hours later, under the warm sun of the false spring, Jon was back in the spectator's stands watching history unfold. Just like the day before, the royals were directly behind him but Elia showed no sign of recognising him. Only Rhaegar gave his shoulder a firm squeeze as he shuffled along the packed stands to sit beside his wife. Jon turned to look up at him, getting a smile in return. Next to Rhaegar, Aerys was silent and mutinous alongside his terrified looking Queen. Pale and tremulous, Rhaella kept her wide-eyed gaze fixed on the lists.

Wary of staring too long, Jon also returned his attention to the lists. Lyanna, back in her disguise, was lining up to take on a squire from House Blount.

"Oh look," Aerys drawled behind him. "It's the cunt of the laughing tree, our old friend. Let's see him getting knocked into oblivion by whatever shit this is from House Blount."

But Aerys was wrong. Lyanna knocked her opponent clean out of the saddle and claimed his horse and armour as ransom. A rapturous applause burst from the stands and she even gave a bow from horseback. Jon couldn't help but smile to himself as he exchanged a knowing look with Eddard, who sat beside him. He could barely bring himself to imagine what Aerys was doing now.

"Whose next?" Jon asked, leaning closer to his future father.

"House Frey," Ned called back. "Gods, I hope she gets this one, too."

House Frey were notorious throughout the Riverlands, it seemed, and for all the wrong reasons. A chorus of boos and hisses went up as soon as the Frey squire entered the list, which only made them cheer the louder when Lyanna re-entered. Jon watched, tense and with his hands curled into fists. This was the last of the squires that had beaten Howland Reed so badly, giving the Starks even more reason to will Lyanna's success.

The chequered flag dropped, the crowd roared and the knights charged toward each other. Their destriers kicked up clouds of loose sand and the lances smashed into splinters on impact. And Jon watched as Frey was thrown from the saddle, landing in a tangled heap of armour and sand, his horse charging on without out. Lyanna had done it. She had beaten them all and Jon was on his feet with everyone else, cheering and applauding.

If Lyanna wanted to soak up the applause she was getting, she did not show it. She promptly reined in her mount and left the yard. Returning later with the armour and other horses of the knights she unhorsed, she kept her helm in place as she claimed her reward. A fortune in gold, by Jon's reckoning.

"I demand no ransom, ser." He heard her say, but it was strange. Lyanna made her voice boom through the sonorous helm she wore as well as her efforts to sound like a man. "I demand no reward but for the Lords of Houses Frey, Haigh and Blount to chastise their rude and unchivalrous knights for their behaviour toward those who cannot defend themselves!"

Jon noted the direct reference to the beating of Howland Reed and heartily approved. Grinning, he found the spot where the defeated squires sat humiliated and defeated. Their lords now eyeing them all with fury. Meanwhile, the mystery knight's fighting the good the fight only won Lyanna even more acclaim from the crowds.

Evidently, Lyanna had said her piece and was now leaving the yard. Only when she was out of sight did he notice the King had gotten to his feet. Suddenly, the crowds fell silent and the tension in the tilt yard rose. Remembering Elia's warning from the night before, Jon slowly turned in his seat to get the lunatic King in his line of sight.

Aerys' face had turned red with fury. His small lilac eyes were narrowed and he jabbed one yellow, curling fingernail out over the yard.

"Wh-who was that man? That mystery knight?" he demanded, voice ringing out clear. "That man is my enemy. The enemy of my people!"

"Father, please, be reasonable."

Jon heard Rhaegar's whispered plea, but it did no good. Aerys was incandescent with fury.

"I said, bring him to me! He will stand trial for his crimes against my lords and he will be adjudged guilty. Bring him. I said bring him before me, now!"

Jon had turned back to face the front as the King raged on. But it seemed as if the crowds of spectators had been stunned into silence. No one moved; no one dared say a thing. Even Rhaegar was silent now, gripping his wife's hand. Then Jon whipped back around as a sudden commotion broke out. Aerys had smacked his son around the head, then pulled him back up by the hair.

"I said, bring that traitor Knight to me now, are you deaf as well as stupid?" he roared down his son's ear.

Rhaegar recovered himself with grace and dignity. He stood up straight, betraying no sign of anger or pain. "As you wish, your grace."

Although he couldn't see the Prince, Jon heard him making his way back down the stands to carry out his father's commands. That alone seemed to break the spell of fear Aerys had brought down on them and others soon followed. Even Robert Baratheon could be seen inching out with his friend, Richard of Lonmouth, hot on his heels. But Ned remained. Rigid and silent, staring fixedly ahead. His jaw was tight with apprehension.

"We've got to find her and fast," he hissed in Jon's ear. "Come on."

Chapter Text

Everything changed on the turn of a hair. Crowds that had before seemed friendly and jubilant now seemed hostile and suspicious. Laughter echoed empty through the stalls surrounding the keep as Jon pushed his way through, heading towards the Flowstone Yard. He tried to tell himself he was imagining things, but the eyes of the people who met his own as he shouldered his way through suddenly looked like they knew too much. He tried to compose himself, to tell himself they couldn't possibly know. If he paused to look, he occasionally caught sight of a white cloaked Kingsguard vanished around a bend, or being swallowed by the crowds, as they searched for the mystery knight. Then the crowds pressed in on him, making him feel boxed in and breathless.

Eventually, his fears got the better of him and he grabbed on to the back of Ned's tunic to stop him. "My Lord, we mustn't go straight to her."

"What?" Eddard looked back him, impatient and eager to get moving again.

Jon shook his head, glancing furtively around the crowds swarming through the market stalls. They were all minding their own business and enjoying the festivities, but in his head they were watching, observing and secretly taking notes.

"We can't look like we know where we're going," he explained, lowering his voice to a whisper. "If we're being watched, we've got to make it look as if we're searching. If we go straight there they'll know."

Eddard's expression briefly clouded with concern as he realised what Jon was getting at. "Gods, you're right. Look, let's split up now and we'll meet at the godswood. Try the Flowstone Yard and the forge and I'll try the ballrooms and kitchens. But don't take too long; she must scared out of her mind."

Jon nodded his agreement and immediately split from Ned. He tried to make his wanderings more aimless, as if he didn't really know where he was going and was just being swept along with the crowds. But he could hear the frantic beating of his heart over the chatter of the crowds and knew it would not be stilled until he reached his aunt. Eddard thought she may have been scared out of her mind, Jon wasn't even sure whether she knew. For all they know, she could reveal her true identity expecting a heroes welcome, only to be marched off to the dungeons and a fiery death soon after.

As he crossed the Flowstone Yard he remembered the laughing tree on her shield. In an instant of sickening dread, he realised every man and his dog would probably now be descending on the godswood in search of that mystery knight. He changed direction abruptly, abandoning all pretences at a search and took off at a run, weaving his way through the crowds and dodging the practising sparers. Only the sight of Rhaegar Targaryen issuing commands to men-at-arms stopped him this time.

"Ser Barristan, I want you to stay with me," he commanded. "Ser Arthur, you're to search the Wailing Tower and cellars beneath, Ser Gerold is to cover the Tower of Dread and its halls; everyone else is to scour the outlying villages in case the Knight went that way." Then his eye caught Jon's. "You're to search the godswood."

They were some distance away, but Rhaegar seemed to be addressing him personally.

"Me?" he called back, breathlessly. The only reason he didn't panic was because he was headed for the godswood, anyway.

"Yes, you!" the Prince called back.

Already the others were dispersing, but for Ser Barristan Selmy and the Prince himself. The Prince, who now approached him with a purposeful stride.

"And I'm coming with you," he added, leading him toward the godswood. "Ser Barristan, stay at the entrance and make sure no one else follows us in."

"As you wish, your grace," Ser Barristan agreed with a nod of the head.

Powerless to protest, Jon followed the Prince into the godswood, jogging to keep up with him. At first, nothing more was said. Then they turned a corner along the beaten earth track and Rhaegar threw out one hand to bar his way forward. Jon halted, his mouth dry with fear as he remembered the first time he spoke with the prince after the knights tried to pick a fight with him. He had seen the armour in the cart. He had held the gauntlets. But Jon could not recall whether he saw the shield or not. Seconds later, his worst fears were confirmed.

"I saw you bringing that armour to your lord," said Rhaegar, turning to face him.

Jon was quick to protest. "It wasn't for my lord. I thought it was, but it turned out my lord wanted it for someone else. That's the truth of it, I swear to you. My lord is Benjen Stark and you saw him in the stands when the Knight was in the lists. He couldn't be in two places at once."

Suspicion etched itself in the Prince's features. "You're Brandon's squire, no? Benjen is half your age. But look, that's not the point. If you know who it is, you must tell me now-"

"I can't," Jon cut in. "I don't know, your grace."

Rhaegar backed down and stepped away, drawing a deep breath as he did so. Once composed again, he spoke in a low voice. "I have sent my men on a deliberate wild goose chase to throw them off the scent. I have ser Barristan Selmy preventing anyone else from getting in here and finding our mutual friend. Do you think I would have done that if I intended on letting my father burn this man?"

Despite the Prince's outward signs of sincerity, Jon still faltered. His own recent experiences taught him that no one was to be trusted, less still people one barely knew. But the Prince spoke sense and, if Elia was anything to go by, they were not the types to blindly follow in Aerys' rages. But he could not take the risk; not with Lyanna's life at stake. Torn over what to do next, Jon turned a circle and ran his hands through his hair. The weight of the ramifications was too great.

Then, the decision was made for him.

"Jon, it's all right. I'm here." Lyanna's voice was calm as she stepped into the pathway, but Jon could see a flicker of fear in her dark grey eyes. After dipping a curtsey to the Prince, she rose and added: "Take me to His Grace, and I can explain what happened to my father's innocent bannerman. You see, your grace, Howland Reed was set upon by those squires and beaten badly. I did what I did to defend the honour of my house, not to bring dishonour to House Targaryen, nor any other."

"It was you?" Rhaegar gasped, looking her up and down.

Lyanna was dressed like a lady again, all in blue and silver silks with the daisy chain in her hair. But all the laughter had gone from her eyes as she stood her ground, defiantly.

"Aye, your grace, it was me," she replied. "And I'd do it again, to defend the weak and uphold the honour of Houses Stark and Reed. Just escort me to your father and I will explain what happened and why. He is a gracious lord, I hear, and I'm sure he will understand."

In his heart, he knew she was clutching at straws. Still, Jon looked to Rhaegar, who knew the King better than anyone, to gage his reaction. But worry and apprehension filled those indigo eyes now, and his gaze darted furtively around the trees as though worried there were eavesdroppers. His body tensed beneath that scarlet cloak and he whipped around as quick as an adder.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Show yourself!"

Lyanna moved quickly to pacify him. "Your Grace, it is only my little brother, Benjen."

Rhaegar relaxed again, but the tension didn't quite leave him altogether. Not even when Ben, as slight and small as he was, followed his sister into the clearing. It was obvious, just from looking at the boy, that he did not share his sister's confidence when it came to dealing with the Mad King.

"Lya," he said, voice trembling. "He's going to burn us both for this."

"We can't talk here," Rhaegar said, looking all around him.

Jon quickly seized an opportunity. "The heart tree," he said. "Follow me, I'll take us there."

Without waiting for an answer, he led the way along the tracks. Although Lyanna and Benjen already knew the way, they kept a small distance behind him as he all but ran to the twisted heart tree. Once there, sat at its base near the roots and wrapped his hand around one of them, as if steadying himself. Once the others joined him, he looked to Lyanna.

"Bran," he called out as if suddenly remembering him, gripping the root and then letting go. "I just remembered, Lord Brandon is looking for the mystery knight. Should we send for him?"

Lyanna shook her head. "Certainly not."

"I agree," Rhaegar concurred. "The fewer who know about this the better and safer for all of us."

But it was his Bran who stepped out from behind the tree. He went to greet Jon, but quickly fell silent and retreated when he saw who else was there. Even though he could not be seen, he kept his distance and watched proceedings from the safety of his tree.

Meanwhile, Rhaegar sat beside Jon, beneath the ruby boughs of the trees and made room for Lyanna to do the same, while Benjen hovered near the pool of water nervously. After clearing his throat and composing himself, Ben explained what happened. From finding Howland Reed, to Lyanna asking him to procure armour to ride in the lists and Jon making the mistake of thinking it was for him. Rhaegar listened patiently, evidently trying to come up with some way around the mess they were in. Every so often, Jon glanced over his shoulder to where his Bran was listening in.

"Lady Stark," he said, gravely. "My father has already sentenced you to die and that's the inescapable truth of it. If he finds out about your brother, then he too will die."

Lyanna shook her head, the delicate hold on her composure beginning to slip. "But if I could just talk to the King, explain-"

"He is beyond that and has everyone searching for you," Rhaegar insisted. "You cannot reason with madness, please listen to what I am saying. He is going to burn you."

Reality soon came creeping up on Lyanna. Suddenly restless and fearful, she got to her feet and paced back and forth in front of them, arms wrapped protectively around her middle. "Can you speak to him for me?" she asked, giving Rhaegar a pitiful look. "I have no right to ask, but please, if not for my sake then my brother's? He did not know what he was getting-"

"Lady Stark," Rhaegar cut in, getting up to join her. "If I was just going to let my father burn you we wouldn't be here now. I'd have just taken you straight to him. Now, we need to make a plan."

But Lyanna was no longer listening. She shied from the Prince like a doe slipping the grasp of a hunter, shivering and babbling as her nerves fully kicked in. "I'll run. I'll run right away and bring Benjen with me; the King won't be able to get me in the North – my father will protect us because the North is loyal; much more loyal than the south. Aerys won't find us, anyway. We'll run north of the wall, to safety. We'll… we'll..."

Unable to watch her floundering alone, Jon got up and closed the gap between them. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders to steady her as her knees seemed to buckle. When she looked up at him, he saw clearly the desperation in her eyes.

"No one will burn!" Jon insisted, firmly. "Listen to the Prince and we'll find a way."

Jon did not let go of her as Rhaegar approached again.

"Whatever you do, do not run," the Prince stated, firmly. "If you vanish then father will know for sure you either know the Knight or that it was actually you. He'll command the Kingsguard to drag you back here and burn you both in front of everyone. He likes setting such examples."

"Then what can we do?" Jon demanded. "So far, all you've succeeded in doing is scaring her even more."

Rhaegar looked stung, then. Apologetic, even. He drew a deep breath to steady himself and gathered his wits.

"Take the Lady back to the stands and watch the rest of the jousts," he said, calmly. "Act as if everything is normal. I will enter the lists myself and that will take attention away from the Mystery Knight. There will be big money on a prince riding, you see, so no one will want to miss the outcome."

It didn't seem to be enough for Lyanna, who looked up at Rhaegar in disbelief. "Then what? Do we just hope that Aerys forgets his new mortal enemy and we live happily ever after?"

"I'm no fool, Lady Stark," he replied. "But please, leave it to me and I will protect you. I beg of you to trust me. Once this over, I will make sure you get to a place of sanctuary until this is dealt with."

"What about the rest of us?" Jon asked, worriedly. It had occurred to him already that he was now involved and burning to death, so soon after being stabbed to death, would be a terrible fate.

Before Rhaegar could answer, Ben stepped forward. He was still shaking, but his voice was resolute as he spoke.

"I always wanted to join the Night's Watch anyway," he said, with a shrug. "As soon as I sign up no king will be able to get their hands on me."

Jon tried to argue, but Rhaegar nodded encouragingly. "Excellent idea, my lord. It will make that wandering crow's day to finally get a recruit."

"Ben! No!" Lyanna cried, tears welling in her eyes. "You're far too young-"

"But it's for the best," the boy insisted. "They'll never get me and I'll never tell. Ever."

"Jon," said Rhaegar. "You're to escort Lady Lyanna south to Dragonstone and await me there. But not a moment before the Tourney ends. Do you understand?"

Jon nodded. "Yes, your grace."

"Good, now we must spread out again. Give me a half hour to get out of here, the follow me out. No one can see us all together."

Before Lyanna left, she touched Rhaegar's arm to get his attention. "Why are you doing all this just for me?"

Jon studied the Prince's reaction carefully. There was a tenderness in his eyes now, a drooping of his shoulders that Jon couldn't understand. It looked as if Rhaegar wished to say many things and more, but couldn't.

"Because I care," he answered, then turned to Jon. "I sent the Princess to you the other night. Do you remember what she said? Moreover, do you remember what she told you about this tourney?"

Jon nodded.

"Rhaegar smiled. "Good. Soon, things will be very different. Once they are different, we will all be a lot safer."

Bran was still watching proceedings from behind the tree, where Jon caught his eye. He knew what he was doing now. His purpose revealed itself, descending from the heavens in a fanfare of trumpets – at least in his head. This was no abduction and war was coming anyway. War was inevitable and the Prince had already made up his mind. It was the outcome of the war, in his time, that was all wrong.

"Sansa, wake up!"

The raven spoke with Bran's voice, beating its wings against her face. Gasping in shock, she opened her eyes and found herself in front of a burning palace. A pregnant woman was being carried from the ruins by a very tall man, screaming over the sound of falling timbers. Sansa flapped her arms, trying to cry out until a man carrying a large, scaled egg caught her eye. The scales glittered, drinking in the heat of the blazing inferno. The tall man gasped his last breath as the woman's babe was heaved into the world. When she turned around again, she saw Jon and Bran speaking beneath the boughs of a weirwood tree that had an evil, twisted face.

"Look north," said Bran's disembodied voice.

She did, and she could see the Riverlands stretching all around her. Two armies clashed in a furious river of steel, an antlered stag caving in the chest of a black enamelled dragon. She wept as Rhaegar Targaryen hit the water, rubies flying from his battered chest. "Lyanna," he whispered as he died.

"Look north!" Bran's voice grew urgent.

"I'm trying!" she wanted to call out, but suddenly it was too cold to speak.

"Look north and fly," Bran cried out.

I can't fly, she thought to herself. Even as she did so, the north wind took her and the Little Bird spread her wings and soared. Up and up, until she was surrounded by snow and ice. Winterfell's smouldering keep briefly warmed the atmosphere, but she did not stop to look. She kept going, past the Last Hearth and beyond the wall. The trees of the Haunted Forest spread out below her, and she could see an old foot path twisting along the rugged terrain. She followed, until she reached the clearing in the middle of the trees where the largest weirwood she had ever seen loomed over the pines and sentinels.

That's where she needed to be, she realised with a start, waking with a gasp. She was no longer flying, but back in the Lord Commander's chambers, where Jon snored softly in a real sleep. Melisandre's fires still burned, night and day, giving so much heat it always lulled her to sleep of an evening. Brienne and Pod were sleeping in a small antechamber, and she did not want to wake them. Her decision could wait until morning, at least. None the less, the decision had been made: soon, they would set out to find Bran, regardless of what lay in wait.

Lyanna was listless, mindlessly curling a lock of hair around her finger and gazing into the middle distance. Jon had tried to cheer her and opened the window shutters to let in the light of the full moon, so they could see out over the gardens. She loved the flowers, but now it seemed even they had lost their appeal. She just sat in the embrasure, with her elbow braced on the ledge and her head in her head, gazing forlornly out the mullion.

"How long do you think it takes?" she asked, flatly.

Jon shrugged. "What?"

"To burn," she replied. "I've heard Aerys uses wildfire, which is different to ordinary fire. It's quicker and I won't feel it. It will be quick, won't it?"

"It's not going to happen, so you won't feel anything at all," he assured her. "You heard what the Prince said."

"Someone once told me the smoke overpowers people before the flames do," she added, quickly meeting his gaze. "So maybe I'll be unconscious before the flames reach me."

"Lya, please," Jon implored her. "Stop thinking like that. No one will burn. All we need to do is make sure your brothers know you haven't been abducted and it's just that you need to go away for a while, until the Prince has done what he needs to do."

Her mood seemed to swing from optimistic to dead already. But she had put on a brave show as she had re-entered the lists to cheer as her brother, Brandon, was defeated by Rhaegar. To help keep up appearances, Jon himself had entered an archery competition and made it through to the finals. If he won, he'd get a fat bag of gold and it seemed he would be needing it.

She sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Jon. I'm doing my best, but it creeps up on me. Robert and Richard of Lonmouth found my shield propped up in the tree. Every time someone finds something, I feel like they're one step closer to realising it was me." She paused and frowned, then. "Why do you think my brothers will assume I've been abducted?"

Jon shrugged. "You know, with you going off with Rhaegar, they might get the wrong impression."

She raised the ghost of a smile and laughed. "Both Ned and Ben know what's happening. Really, Jon, you sometimes get the funniest notions in your head."

He felt the colour rising in his face. "I just worry, that's all. I mean, wars have been stared over less than a nobleman's daughter being kidnapped."

"I should imagine they have," she replied. "Anyway, tell me what Elia told you about the tourney? You told me about the warning, but not that."

"Elia told me that this Tourney was called so the High Lords would all have a pretext to get together and plan a rebellion against Aerys," he recalled. "He wasn't meant to be here, but Varys got wind of the plan and told him. Aerys decided to come at the last minute."

"Oh, my!" she gasped. "No wonder Aerys is so bloody suspicious of everyone here. Is it true, I wonder? Is the rebellion going to happen anyway?"

"It sounds like it," he replied. "It might even be for the best if it did."

They lapsed into silence then, while Jon contemplated all he had found out. She had no choice but to go with Rhaegar, or stay and be burned as a traitor to the crown. Meanwhile, she reached into the pocket of her cloak and handed him a ring.

"A gift from the Prince," she said, managing a small smile. "Isn't it beautiful? I tried to give it back, it's too much. But Rhaegar said it was a token of his loyalty to me."

Jon bounced the ring in his palm: a large ruby set in a band of silver. The stone caught the light and winked suggestively at him. It was quite some token.

"You love him, don't you," he said, handing it back. He remembered Brandon and Benjen teasing her about it, thinking they were just trying to get a rise out of her. But he could see it now, as plain as day.

Taking the ring back, Lyanna flushed in the face and looked away. "I feel like I can tell you these things because you're not my family. I feel like you have no interest in revealing my secrets."

"Never," he promised her. "I swear."

Still with her gaze averted, she made a confession. "I've been meeting him in secret, in the early hours when no one else is around. The other morning, when I thought I heard you talking to Bran in the godswood, I was on my way back from meeting him then." Her breath hitched in her throat as she stifled a sob. "I love him and I think he loves me too."

The abduction, the rape… Jon couldn't make sense of any of it any more. Maybe things were different in this time, but his own was certainly very strange. He found himself wondering whether this was history repeating, or whether this is some other, parallel dimension were everything was turned upside down. It felt like madness, but he kept that thought to himself.

"But Elia," he said, softly. "She's a good woman and does not deserve this."

Lyanna cringed, like a child caught with her hands in the sugar bowl.

"You don't understand," she protested. "There's things I can't tell you, but none of this is as it seems."

"There's things you don't understand about me, too," he retorted. "I don't belong here. I have a family who need me elsewhere, but I find myself following you and yours and I'm only being told half the story."

She looked stung then. "Are you leaving us? When? Rhaegar thinks you're coming south with me."

Jon shook his head. "I can't get to my family, so I'll stay for as long as I can."

"Why? Where are your family?" she asked, frowning now. "We can help you find them and I will be safe enough on my own."

Jon doubted that. "I can't reach my family here. There's something I must do first, but I don't know what. Maybe it's helping you, then I can go home. I just need the truth."

He could feel the facade of his assumed identity crumbling. This is his family, he reminded himself. Just, not the family he knew. Everything looked the same, smelled the same, but was completely different at the same time. For all he really knew, this was just an elaborate dream.

"If you stay, you will have a place in my retinue," she promised him. "If ever you want to talk, you can. Just be assured of that."

He realised then that she suspected there was something amiss with him, as he did her and Rhaegar. She was inviting him to confess, he could feel it. For now, however, he nodded and thanked her. Then left without looking back.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten: The Lie

It was passing strange. Davos knew the last place he had seen Long Claw. It was the same night Melisandre had tried to resurrect the Lord Commander. Believing she had failed, he pressed the sword back into Jon's cold dead hands; a mark of respect for a fallen warrior. He had even thought to take it to the forge for a replica to be made for Jon's funeral pyre. No sooner had that thought crossed his mind, the Lord Commander had begun to gasp for air. It happened so fast and so sudden, so unexpectedly, it pushed the sword right out of his head. Now, days later, he couldn't for the life of him remember what had happened to it.

He retraced his steps from that night. Once breathing again, Jon had been taken from his own office to old Maester Aemon's chambers. Then he had been moved again, to the Lord Commander's old chambers, where he was when Lady Sansa arrived. Not once could Davos say, with any certainty, that he had seen the sword. He searched under the trestle table, where Jon had been brought back, in case it was knocked off his body. Then he searched the yards and quarters, in case someone had stolen it. It was nowhere to be seen, and he still found himself eyeing every man there in suspicion. He didn't like to think it had been stolen, he wanted to believe the best of them. But there was no other explanation.

"Ser Davos."

Melisandre stepped through the door of the Lord Commander's chambers, just as he was searching under the bed. It was the same bed Jon lay in still, motionless but still breathing. He crawled out from beneath it, almost bumping his head on the frame as he did so.

"My lady," he greeted her, once upright again. "I've searched everywhere. There's no sign of it."

"Forget about the sword," she answered. "We're leaving now."

He looked through the open door, to where the dawn broke over the yards outside. Time had run out.

"Very well," he ceded, drawing a deep breath. "I would rather Tormund carried proper, castle forged steel-"

"Tormund has survived his whole life north of the wall," she gently cut over him, reassuringly rather than rude. "He knows that place like he knows his own sons."

"I know, my lady," he agreed. "But still..."

His words trailed off, admitting defeat but not quite letting go of his own safety blanket of cold steel. Valyrian steel was even better.

"Lady Brienne carries Valyrian steel," she also reminded him. "Forged from the sword of Sansa's own father, no less. None can protect her better."

Davos had his own misgivings about the melting down and reforging of the Stark's ancestral sword, but that was not the time to indulge them. All he could do was give a resigned shrug and glance down at Jon's body. Willing him to awaken failed to work; the Lord Commander slept on. It had occurred to Ser Davos that if he did awaken while they were away, taking his sword with them, he may not have been best pleased. But a girl north of the wall needed a Valyrian steel sword more than a comatose man safe in Castle Black.

"Are the horses ready?" he asked, turning to Melisandre.

She nodded. "Yes. If anything happens, any changes at all, send for me immediately."

"I will," he assured her. "You have my word."

He had wanted to go with them, but someone needed to stay behind and guard the Lord Commander. Tormund knew the north better than any of them, so he was out of the question. The other Night's Watchman could be called away at any moment, so that left Davos himself, seeing as Melisandre felt certain she needed to go. There had never been any love lost between him and the red woman. All the same, there was a kindling of respect in him now as he followed her out in to the yard.

Mounted on a garron and positioned between Brienne of Tarth and Tormund Giantsbane, Sansa Stark looked half a child. But she showed no fear as the portcullis guarding the tunnel's entrance groaned on its hinges. Coming up behind them, Pod the witless squire and a brother of the Night's Watch paired up. Finally, Melisandre joined them on a chestnut palfrey. Before leaving, their gazes met one more time.

"Make sure they look after her," he said, nodding to Sansa.

"And you make sure you look after him," she replied, nodding toward the Lord Commander's chambers. "There is more at work here than we yet understand."

That was something they both agreed upon. Nodding his assent, he stood back and watched as they set off through the tunnel and into the windblown wilderness beyond.

Ser Richard gave a sad shake of the head as he recounted his efforts to track down the Knight of the Laughing Tree. "We searched everywhere, your grace. Lord Robert Baratheon and myself, that is. Lord Robert has long been a friend of mine and I know him to be a good and honest man; a king's man, through and through. He would not cover for such a scoundrel as this wayward knight, your grace."

"I have no doubt," Rhaegar agreed.

He could see Robert Baratheon from the corner of his eye. Red faced, clutching the laughing tree shield in his hands, knuckles white where he gripped the edges. Baratheon looked back at him, momentarily meeting his gaze before looking away again. The Prince couldn't help but wonder what he would do if he ever found out the truth of who the mystery knight was. After a moment pondering the matter, it occurred to him he might just be saving Lady Lyanna from her own betrothed as much as his father.

Speaking of whom …

Aerys sat at the far end of the presence chamber, up on the dais beneath a cloth of state emblazoned with their house sigil. The scarlet dragon's heads shimmered on a draught as his father extended one long uncut and yellowing fingernail towards him, beckoning him over. An all too familiar dread stirred in the pit of his stomach and he had stop himself from rolling his eyes.

"The King beckons me, ser Richard. Do excuse me."

With that, he patted ser Richard's shoulder before making his way to the dais. There weren't many people there that day, just the Lord of Storm's End, a few Kingsguard and his father. Everyone else was still out searching for the mystery knight. Before approaching his father, he bowed as a perfunctory mark of deference. A gesture the king impatiently waved away.

"Oh, do stop pretending you respect me; we both know it's a lie," Aerys griped. "For what it's worth, the feeling's mutual."

Rhaegar had long since given up contradicting him. "I love you too, father. What do you want?"

The lines in his father's face hardened, their eyes meeting as his father raked his nails through his matted, yellow stained beard. The sound of those claws snagging on the tangled hairs made Rhaegar's stomach churn. Once, he thought he saw fleas moving about in there and the memory of it still made his skin crawl.

"Whose that little whore I see you talking to all the time?" asked Aerys, still scratching at the beard.

Rhaegar tried to smile; taking comfort in the fact that he was wise to this old man's taunts. He replied as if addressing a simpleton: loudly and slowly. "That would be my wife, father. You remember Princess Elia, don't you?"

Anger flashed in his father's eyes as he became the butt of the joke; redness discolouring his pale skin. But at least he stopped scratching at the beard. "You take me for a fool. I know your game; you're just waiting for me to die."

Me, and everyone else, he thought. "We've been through this a hundred times-"

Aerys continued as if there had been no interruption. "You're waiting to sink your scrawny arse into that iron throne and all those lackwits out there would love nothing more than to put you there. Don't think I don't know; Varys tells me everything. Varys has his birds everywhere, and that includes in your head."

"It's as well there's someone tracking what goes in my head, father" Rhaegar answered. "Because it's been quite some time since anyone knew what was going on inside yours."

Had he still been a boy, Rhaegar would have paid dearly for that. Rhaegar liked being a man grown. All his father could do was glare at him, thinking over all the ways they could rid each other of each other.

"Answer my question," Aerys said, his tone suggesting he would make a scene if he did not get a satisfactory answer. "Who is that woman you're always talking to?"

Rhaegar drew a deep breath to steady himself. "Do you mean Lyanna Stark?"

"There!" his father proclaimed. "Wasn't so hard now, was it? Lyanna Stark. Well, any more of that insolence from you, then don't think I wont be sending little birds fluttering into her camp, too."

Insofar as threats went, it was thinly veiled. "I'm sure the lady has nothing to hide."

"Now you bore me," Aerys sighed, waving him aside. "Let us hear from these lords. Some bear news of the traitor in our midst."

Verbal sparring over, Rhaegar positioned himself behind his father's seat as the first men were beckoned forwards. First through the double doors was a shaking farmer from an outlying town who had been accused of harbouring the mystery knight before the jousts. He knelt on the floor, trembling and choking on his own words as he tried to explain he'd offered shelter to many travellers making their way to the tourney. His failure to remember them all just cost him his life.

"Keep him in the dungeons," Aerys instructed, loftily. "The sentence of burning will be carried out first thing. The Queen and I will be attending."

The shock of the sentence struck the man dumb for a moment; his eyes widened in mute appeal as he looked from the king to Rhaegar himself. The prince felt the breath catch in his throat, his mind reeling as he tried to think up some likely intervention. But there was no reasoning with the man when his blood was up.

Robert Baratheon looked sickened as he and Richard Lonmouth stepped forward, bearing the shield. As they approached, the unfortunate farmer was dragged away again, his cries of protest fading rapidly. Meanwhile, he found himself studying Robert again as their gaze met. There was a note of accusation in the younger lord's eyes; as if there was something he could have done to prevent what just happened. But for all his accusations now, he knew the lord would not have the guts to stand up to his father now.

"We did not find the Knight, your grace," Lonmouth explained. "All we found was his shield, abandoned in the godswood."

Just as he suspected, Baratheon was quick to placate Aerys.

"But we will not stop searching until the traitor is found, your grace," he said, eyes directed to the floor on which he knelt. "We will not stop until all the King's enemies are dead."

As soon as the whole sorry business was concluded, Rhaegar slipped the noose of his father's making and headed outdoors. The sun was setting and he had meant to be practising for the jousts on the morrow – it was his turn in the lists. Something he hoped would distract his father from hunting the mystery knight.

By the time he reached the Godswood, it was almost dark. It was worse inside, with just the light of the full moon slanting through the canopy formed by the trees fattened on the unexpected spring weather. It wasn't so long ago they were still in the throes of winter and not even the Maesters of Oldtown had seen the sudden death of the season coming. Before too long, he found her waiting by the weirwood tree, a vision in blue and silver silks. A blue winter rose was perched behind her ear, nestled among her chestnut hair as it slid over her left shoulder. There was fear in her eyes as she greeted him now.

"What news?" she asked, by way of greeting.

"Your future husband discovered your shield in the tree," he said, instinctively turning to the weirwood with the twisted face. "He has no idea that it's you, so don't worry. But, there is something far more worrying."

Lyanna flinched. "What?"

He led her over to the tree, where they sat beneath its ruby boughs. The leaves looked black in the poor light, ominous and brooding.

"Father has noticed us together," he explained. "He's talking about planting little birds in your household."

Lyanna missed the enormity of what he was trying to explain. "Which must mean there aren't any there yet, which means they won't possibly know about my being the mystery knight. They're too late to find out."

"But are they?" he asked, tilting his head to one side. "Lya, who is that man in your retinue? Tell me again where you found him and what the circumstances were?"

Her expression closed as she realised who he was talking about. "Jon has helped me, your grace. He hasn't once betrayed me nor given any reason to doubt him-"

"Then why is he lying?" Rhaegar cut over her. "Lya, there is no House Mazin. They don't exist. Not in the Vale, not in the North, nor in any other region. And he carries a Valyrian steel sword and those don't just fall out of the sky."

Lyanna averted her eyes, frowning as she tried to marshal her thoughts. "We found him, almost naked, in the Mountains of the Moon. I saw himself myself and I saw his injuries myself. They were not faked or put on in any way. In fact, he really ought to have been dead."

Curious now, Rhaegar asked: "What makes you say that?"

She looked at him, silently pleading to be taken seriously. "Because there was a knife wound straight through his heart. I saw it, we all saw it and the Maester confirmed it. Jon ought to be dead. And that was not the only wound. There were others, cutting right through his vital parts."

This was new information that made his double take all over again. It crossed his mind that Jon might have been a spy sent to the Vale who accidentally fell in with the Starks. He tried to befriend the younger man, first to get closer to Lyanna then to try and figure out who he really was. He didn't seem like the type Varys was known to use, either. Jon's an adult, for one thing. But ever since Rhaegar discovered his lies, his hackles had been raised when it came to Jon the bastard of House Mazin.

"I want to like and trust the lad, I really do," he confessed. "He seems a noble sort. But if you had grown up at Court, as I did, you would learn never to trust anyone on appearances or first impressions. I just find it highly coincidental that it was you he found on that mountainside."

Lyanna shrank back, as though attempting to retreat from the conversation. "I understand, and there's something else about those wounds. They weren't exactly fresh; they'd tried to heal. But they had not been treated by any proper maester. If he was attacked on that mountainside, then he had been left there for some time. A day or two, at least. Exposure, as well as blood loss, should have been the death of him."

"This gets stranger and stranger," he replied, becoming increasingly baffled. "Well, keep him close if you must. But just be careful. Remember that you know nothing about him or who he really is."

"I'm not a lackwit, your grace," she protested. Then she softened again as she continued in a tone that was almost confessional: "I can't explain it. I feel like I need to look after him, even though he's older than me and a fierce fighter. At first, I thought it was because he looks so much like my brother and he speaks with a northern accent- it seemed he was one of us. But I dreamed of him, not long after we met. I dreamed I needed to protect him and I was willing to give my life for his. In the dream, I did not think twice about laying down my life to make sure he lived. It's so strange, your grace, but I've never felt like that before for anyone."

Rhaegar felt his heart sink. "Are you in love with him?"

"No!" she was quick to retort. "No, not at all. Not like that. It was something else that compelled me. Something … stronger. Stronger than mere love alone."

The fact that he was so quick to jealousy and then relieved at her answer, shamed him. He was grateful to the darkness for covering his blushes.

"I'm sure it was just a dream, my lady. Well, I'm riding in the lists tomorrow. Will you be there?"

To his relief, she nodded. "Jon's in the archery contest. But we'll both be there to see your rounds."

Satisfied, he got up to leave. They always left separately, but before he let the woods swallow him, he turned back for one final word. "That flower. It really suits you."

The sun warmed Jon's back as he took his place in the archery range. Not as popular as jousting or the melee, the crowds assembled were sparse to his relief. Only those with an interest in the outcome – who'd been placing bets – were there, along with the wives and sweethearts of the men competing. Apart from them, there were squires compelled to be there and who looked thoroughly bored. Every time an arrow met its target, the archer's victory was greeted with a smattering of polite applause rather than rapturous ovations. Only when he scored his first victory, and Lyanna had cheered loudly before falling into an embarrassed silence, did anyone make a noise. From there, even she restrained herself to clapping along as the archers shifted to the next range.

Someone once told him not to think too much about the shot and to let his own arrow guide him. Following that advice, he had shot his way to a near victory. Just one more range left to go. But it was the farthest away. Once more, for the final time, he drew back the bow until the twine creaked under pressure, then loosed the arrow in one fluid movement. He stood back and watched as it sailed home, hitting the butt with a dull thud right in the centre. More than satisfied with his first place victory, he collected his winnings and greeted Lyanna with a hug.

"Congratulations," she said, kissing his cheek.

"It was nothing," he replied, modestly. "Not exactly champion of the melee, but the gold is just as valuable. We'll be needing it, when we're on our travels."

Lyanna seemed surprised. "Surely you want to send it back to your family."

"We need it more than them," he said, vaguely. He couldn't quite meet her eye when he lied to her now and was quick to change the subject. "So, the jousts."

"What about them?" she asked.

Jon laughed. "A certain prince is riding, or so I'm told."

Soon, they were making their way across the Flowstone Yard, where Jon could see Prince Rhaegar's retinue forming up. Clearly, their prince had been hard at practise all morning. As they walked, however, Lyanna had fallen silent. She looked anywhere except at him, and seemed distracted by everything – even more than usual. He tried to pass it off as tiredness from another late night. But the longer it went on, it became harder to just shrug off.

"Is everything all right?" he asked.

Lyanna stopped walking and met his gaze again. "Not really."

Her expression was serious as she guided him the rest of the way over the yard, dodging the crowds of knights and squires all tooling up for the events ahead. When she stopped, it was in the same alcove she used the last time something was bothering her.

"You know you can be honest with me, don't you?"

She was asking him, her eyes now searching his as if scanning for the truth. Like all who harboured secrets, he felt his insides squirm. He had to remind himself that he was not lying purposefully, he was lying to stop people thinking him a madman. There was no way to prove the truth and he barely understood it himself. He had lied to the Wildlings for months, he reminded himself. But this was different, he knew.

"What makes you think I'm lying?" he asked, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

She noticed his discomfiture, setting him even more on edge.

"It's nothing," she assured him. But he could see, as plain as day, that she was just saying that. "I want you to know that, whatever you've done, you can tell me. I'll keep your secrets as you have kept mine."

But her mannerisms spoke otherwise. Nor was it the first time Jon suspected her growing mistrust of him. It had been there the night before, when they spoke in private. At first, he couldn't tell whether she was trying to coax his life story out of him to prove a point, or because she was trying to trip him up. Now, he realised, he had to give her something.

"Look, House Mazin doesn't exist," he admitted, sighing heavily. No matter how badly he wanted to tell her the truth, he knew he couldn't and the lies tripped off his tongue easily. "I'm running from my father. On my eighteenth nameday, he told me I had two choices. Take the black or go hunting. If I chose to go hunting, he would see to it that I met with an accident..."

Guilt at using Sam's own story made him want to hate himself. But he had to do it. He felt like a worm wriggling on a hook. Meanwhile, Lyanna looked back at him horrified. Before she could interrupt, he ploughed on.

"So, I chose the hunt thinking I could shake off my father and his men. I did, for a while, and I went into the mountains thinking they would never catch me there. But they did, they stabbed me and left me for dead. I didn't tell you the truth about my house because my father is still out there, looking for me, and I thought you would turn me over to him."

"Never!" Lyanna promised him, without a second thought. "But tell me now, is this the truth? Why would any father reject a son like you?"

Jon nodded; grabbing at a kernel of truth. "This is true: I'm no one's son. I'm a bastard. My father's wife forced him to do as he did. She always hated me; could never stand the sight of me."

Lyanna's eyes widened, shining with tears as he recounted his story. At least that bit was true, even if it hadn't happened yet.

"Then I'll ask no more," she said. "Come to my chambers tonight and we can talk properly, all right? But for now, we're required elsewhere and our troubles are behind us."

Hating himself, Jon nodded and let her go ahead of him. Meanwhile, he hung back and tried to diffuse the shame he felt. After allowing himself a moment to gather his wits, he jogged to catch up with her and followed all the way to the stands. Already, just as they took their seats alongside Ben and Ned, Prince Rhaegar had scored his first victory of the day. Still Jon couldn't shift the weight of the biggest lie of all.

Chapter Text

Silence fell over the Starks as they sat around a trestle table in the common hall. Silence broken only by the chink of gold coins as they were slowly, deliberately, stacked in a neat glittering column. Brandon smiled wolfishly as he placed his bet; money taken from his winnings after coming second in the seven sided melee. "Thirty gold dragons on Ser Barristan Selmy."

Jon looked to Ned, who was conferring with Robert Baratheon, getting the young Storm Lord's opinion on who would triumph at the jousts. Even when the muttering stopped, Ned looked conflicted. If he was hoping the others would help sway him, he would be disappointed. His vacillating was met with impatient stares from Ben, Lya and Jon himself. Every time it seemed he had made up his mind, he withdrew his coin-clutching hands and prevaricated once more.

"If I bet on Ser Barristan I still make a loss," he complained, despairingly.

Robert reached over Ned and staked his own bet. "There's no way Selmy's going to let Rhaegar win just because he's the crown prince and no one's better than Selmy. It's a safe bet, Ned. Here, I'll meet Brandon's thirty gold dragons."

"Well then," Lyanna declared, grinning and proffering a single silver coin. She clinched the silver between her middle fingers, holding it up for all to see. "I bet this solitary silver coin on Prince Rhaegar. Minimum stake; maximum returns, boys. That's how it's done."

"What?!" Robert choked, looking scandalised. "That's just … just..."

"Tactical thinking," Lyanna finished the sentence for him. "Now that really is what I call a safe bet."

Jon had a feeling that that wasn't quite what Robert was going to say. But before anything else could be said, Ned placed his own bet. "One silver coin on Ser Barristan Selmy. Either way, one of us will win big."

"Hang on a minute!" Brandon spluttered.

"This should up the stakes," Jon cut in, placing all his winnings from the archery contest on the table. Immediately, the others fell silent as they gaped at his stake. "All of that on Prince Rhaegar to win."

"Jon, are you insane? That's all your money," Lyanna stated, still gaping at the sack of gold.

Benjen, who had been taking a written record of the bets, stopped writing and turned to look at Jon uncertainly.

"Ben, write it down," Jon instructed him. "I'm being serious. All that on Prince Rhaegar."

Lyanna looked as if she was going to protest again, but Brandon drowned her out as he raised his own stakes. Another ten gold dragons on Ser Barristan Selmy. Immediately, Benjen scratched out the old bet and scribbled the new one in its place, just as Robert Baratheon – never to be outdone – did the same. Jon grinned as he watched their pride being piqued. He could tell them he already knew the outcome, but they'd never believe him.

"On your heads be it," he warned them.

Lyanna sighed heavily as she rose from her seat, ready to return to the stands. "You are all insane. But it's not as if anyone ever listens to me."

Leaving the gold with Benjen, who was acting as a neutral arbitrator, Jon caught up with his aunt as she made her way across the yard. The stands in the tilt yard were already packed for the grand finale, Jon could hear their voices rising in waves in the distance. By the sounds of things, the two competitors had already entered the list and now the three headed dragon fluttered from every stand and pillar in sight. Despite Ser Barristan being the hot favourite to win, no one wanted to be seen supporting anyone other than Prince Rhaegar. In the meantime, when Lyanna did not slow down to let him catch her up, Jon had to reach out and catch her by the arm.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, once he had her attention.

Lyanna offered him a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course not. It's your money; you can do with it as you will." She shrugged him off and was about to walk away again, before she realised she could not stop herself. "But you do realise, if Rhaegar loses, you will lose everything. You'll be penniless and it will be your own fault."

Chastened, he realised how it looked. But he knew what he knew, and he couldn't pass up an opportunity to swell their coffers. "Lya, believe me, please, Rhaegar isn't going to lose."

Lyanna frowned. "You heard what Robert said: Barristan won't let Rhaegar win-"

"I heard," he cut her off. "And there's something else you need to know. When Rhaegar wins, you need to get out of the stands as fast as you can."

"Whatever for?" she retorted, sharply. "If you're going to be all vague with your silly veiled warnings again, I'll just leave you standing here to scowl by yourself."

Stung by the criticism, Jon replied without even thinking. "Because he's planning to crown you the Queen of Love and Beauty."

Whatever it was she was expecting him to say, it clearly wasn't that. Taken aback, her mouth wordlessly flapped as she gathered her wits. "Don't be silly. Princess Elia will be there. He wouldn't humiliate her in public by choosing another woman."

"But he will," Jon insisted. "I heard someone talking about it."

"You also heard someone saying he's a rapist and look how that turned out," she chided. "Now enough of this, Jon. You clearly have a grudge against the Prince and you need to let it go." With that, she turned her back and walked away in long, purposeful strides. A few seconds later, when he did not follow, she turned around so the wind was at her back and fanning her hair over her face: "Are you coming or not?"

"Of course," he murmured, unenthusiastically.

Lyanna emphasised her displeasure by seating herself between Brandon and Robert, a good three seats down from him. He tried to catch her eye, but she stared pointedly out over the tilt yard. Giving up, he relaxed as best he could in his seat, grateful that were front row and their view unimpeded. Meanwhile, the crowds broke out into rapturous applause as Ser Barristan and Prince Rhaegar faced each other from opposite ends of the list. Despite upsetting his aunt, Jon soon lost himself in the joust.

A hushed silence soon fell as the huge horses, normally used in war, stamped their restless hooves in the sand. It was impossible to discern the features of either men, once they dropped their visors and couched their lances. But Prince Rhaegar stood out in his black enamelled armour adorned with glittering red rubies. Over his shoulders, he wore a fine cape of scarlet that billowed in the slip stream as his destrier galloped down the list. Ser Barristan was a white blur as he charged to meet his opponent, lances shattering on impact and sending showers of splinters spinning all round them. Jon held his breath as both riders seemed thrown from their saddles, but Rhaegar clung on where ser Barristan just slipped over the horses neck. He hit the ground in a crunch of impacting metal and rolled over and over.

The Prince's victory was heralded with a roar from the crowds and a huge sigh of relief from Jon. Forgetting what was yet to come, he couldn't resist making eye contact with his uncle Brandon and Robert Baratheon, seething at the loss of so much gold. At least Ned wasn't too bothered by the loss of his solitary silver coin. Even Lyanna, still pale and shaky with relief, looked at him a little more softly now. A smile was only just teasing the corners of her mouth.

He rose from his seat to speak with her again. "Are you sure you haven't had enough?"

"No," she replied, firmly. "Princess Elia is right behind me. He wouldn't humiliate her so publicly. He's not like that."

Jon, still kneeling in front of his aunt, glanced up to where Elia was on her feet and smiling jubilantly and applauding eagerly. Ashara Dayne was with her, whispering in her ear while her worried eyes rested on ser Barristan being carried away to the side lines. Elia nodded, at which Ashara hurried away, dabbing her eyes with a silk favour.

"Jon." Lyanna's voice brought him back into the present. "Go and sit down. You worry too much."

She was trying to be reassuring, but it didn't work. By the time he got back to his seat, Rhaegar had finished his victory lap of the stands and now had the laurel in his hands. Jon could see the blue winter roses made vivid to the point of gaudiness in the afternoon sunshine. He watched, as if in someone else's bad dream, as the stands fell silent and the Prince rode past his Princess, leaving her standing there empty handed. It was in front of Lyanna that he reined up, all eyes in the stands turning to her.

"I would crown you, Lady Stark, as my Queen of Love and Beauty," the Prince declared.

No one cheered. No one applauded. Lyanna kept her gaze fixed on her lap, her face burning bright red in shame. Next to Jon, Ned couldn't look. He averted his gaze in horror, while Robert Baratheon looked like he wanted to punch the Prince. But Lyanna had no choice. There was no way to back out without humiliating one of the most powerful men in the realm and causing a fuss in the process. Stiffly, awkwardly, she had to get up and accept the wreath of winter roses. Jon watched her carefully. As Rhaegar placed the wreath on her head, she turned to look at him, Jon, her eyes wide with shock and fear. After several agonising moments, the silence was broken by Elia's footsteps as she left the stands alone.

Despite the harsh conditions, the camp fire was warm and snug. Wherever they set up camp, it was always sheltered by ridges and hills, beneath the canopy of the Haunted Forest. At nights, they huddled around the fire for warmth and Tormund told them stories. Some true, some Sansa suspected he had made up on the spot. "Once, I fucked a bear," he insisted. She listened all the same. Not soon after setting out, she had seen a shadowcat. It moved like smoke made flesh: soundless and graceful as it swept down the hillside and vanished into the darkness of the trees. She tried to follow it, to get a second glance, then remembered that even direwolves feared shadowcats.

It was as she turned back to return to camp that she saw her first dead man walking. She stood stunned and rooted to the spot as the thing lurched toward her with its guts hanging from a wound in the belly. She met its ice blue eyes and screamed so loud the birds took flight from the trees overheard. Seconds later, a burning arrow whizzed past her head and hit the wight straight through the heart. Startled all over again, she spun on her heels to where a brother of the Night's Watch lowered his bow, standing on a natural ledge in the forest. Satisfied the thing was dead, he lowered his bow and gave Sansa a nod.

"Thank you," she stammered up at the man. Her knees felt weak as water.

"You were lucky, my lady. They normally travel in packs."

She regained her breath and scanned the forest surrounding her, dreading the sight of more of those undead creatures. Mercifully, that one was a lone wolf and gone the way of all lone wolves. But they did not keep her waiting for long.

It was as they set up camp past the Skirling Pass that the attack came. Scores of them, from all directions, moving at a breathtaking speed. Brienne and Tormund were the first in line, weapons drawn to ward them off. Pod had pulled her down a small ravine to get out of harm's way, the pair of them rolling down the incline. But, no longer willing to stand around screaming, Sansa hauled herself back up and tried to fight them off with a burning tree branch pulled from the camp fire.

Brienne cut the arm off one of them and it landed at Sansa's feet. She watched in horror as its hand continued clenching and unclenching, the decayed muscle going into spasm as it squirmed around in the snow. Without thinking, she screamed and plunged her burning branch down on the flesh, where it sizzled before falling limp. They tried to retreat farther up the Pass, wielding burning branches and torches, as well as swords. Their guide from the Watch fired arrows in all directions, too fast for Sansa to see.

Melisandre muttered something in a foreign language that Sansa could not understand. Then, seconds later, a fire blazed as R'llhor came to her rescue. She didn't know what to make of the Red Woman's strange god, but if he got them out of this pass, she decided she didn't mind him one bit. It warded off the wights attacking from the south, but Sansa turned to run and found more advancing from the north. Before she could cry out and fling her burning branch, a giant elk burst through the ranks. On its back, a man swathed in black swung what looked to her like a burning morning star. Whoever he was, he cut a path through the undead that gave the others time to finish them off. Brienne and Tormund led the way once more, swinging their weapons and cutting through their attackers, before pushing them back into Melisandre's flames.

Breathless and dazed, she watched the man riding the elk. It was an unconventional mount, she thought. But he had saved their lives, she was sure of it. Once moor rooted to the spot, she wanted the elk settle and the man slide down from its back. He was swathed all in black, even with a woollen black scarf over his face. Meanwhile, with the wights all despatched, the others formed up behind her.

"My lady, he could still he hostile," Brienne whispered in her ear.

"He saved our lives!" Sansa pointed out. But she knew Brienne would be failing in her duties if she did not warn her of possible danger.

Pod, ever fearful, shivered as he rejoined the company. As always, Mel wasn't afraid of anyone. But Brienne had her sword drawn.

"We give thanks, ser," she said to the stranger. "More so, if you would show yourself."

At first the man didn't seem to hear. But he lowered his hood and removed his scarf, before turning to Sansa, so they could see each other properly. She could scarce believe her own two eyes any more. With a gasp of shock, she stepped closer to him, shrugging off Brienne's protective arm as she went.

"Hullo, niece," he said.

"Uncle Benjen!"

She closed the gap between them in one leap and threw her arms around him.

"We thought you were dead." Sansa gazed into the new camp fire as she spoke. "Father got word of your disappearance just before he tried to flee King's Landing."

Speaking of her father again made tears well in her eyes. She looked up at the starry night sky above, as if tilting her head back would be enough to stop her grief from spilling over. Poor Benjen, she thought, he had no idea of all the woes that had befallen the Starks since last they met. Nor did she wish to burden him, when he had clearly been to hell and back himself. His skin was paler, eyes red rimmed and his cheeks hollow. But, he was still unmistakably uncle Benjen.

"I thought I was," he confessed, pressing a horn of ale into her hands. "I was hit by one of those creatures, but the Children found me. Saved me, before I turned into one of those things."

Sansa looked back at him, breathing a sigh of relief. It was clear to her that something awful had happened, but hadn't dared ask exactly what. "Then you can come home with us-"

"Not quite," he cut her off, shaking his head sadly. He met her gaze and gave a curious smile. "Of all people, you're among the very last – if not the very last – I would expect to run into out here. Last I saw you, you were a little girl off to make her debut at Court, full of hope and dreams."

"That stupid little girl really is dead," she stated, flatly and firmly. "She's dead and she'll never be resurrected like one of those monsters."

A log on the fire sputtered, sending up a shower of red sparks. She was grateful for the warmth as she recalled the horrors of the last few years. She knew he had to know the truth,

"Father is dead," she said, softly. She could not bring herself to look at him, but she heard his muffled grunt of pain. After a pause, she looked from the tail of her eye to where he gazed into the flames, silent with grief. "So is my mother. So is Robb. For all I know, so is Arya. Jon is comatose, but breathing. We've lost Winterfell to the Boltons. We've lost everything."

Benjen's breathing became laboured as he took in all that had happened. But he remained stoic, composed. "How..." he began, then faltered. "What happened?"

She recounted everything, as best she knew it. Meanwhile, Brienne – ever protective – watched from a distance. She began with her father's death, then Robb's and her mother's. Then Jon being made Lord Commander and the betrayal of his brothers. It was like the floodgates had opened as she relayed everything. When she finished, she felt flat and empty.

"But Bran is still out here somewhere," she added. "I have to find him. If I don't find him the Boltons will come to Castle Black to drag me back to Winterfell-"

Benjen cut her off, pressing one cold finger to her lips. "That won't happen," he assured her. "I know where Bran is. I know where the Three-Eyed Raven is. I'll get you there safely, I promise."

The doors opened with an almighty crash. Alarmed, Rhaegar spun on his heels to where Lyanna was striding down the aisle towards him, anger flashing in her dark grey eyes. She tore the wreath of roses from her head, heedless of the thorns snagging in her dark hair, then slammed it into his chest as they met. Bright blue petals smashed into his red cloak, staining it darkly. Staggering back to absorb the impact of the blow, he braced himself for the oncoming rebuke.

"How dare you disgrace me so publicly," she spat, venom dripping from her tone. "I will never, ever, live down the shame you just brought upon me."

"I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't think," she concurred, stepping back. "Gods have mercy, I will be the scandal of all Westeros and across the Narrow Sea."

Whatever servants and attendants were left had the good sense to discreetly leave. Soft footed as they were, Rhaegar saw that Lyanna had noticed and was watching the side door click closed. Once they were alone, tears welled in her eyes and he tried to put his arm around her. Only she shrugged him off with a forceful shove to the chest.

"Don't!" she hissed. "Don't you touch me."

He felt the heat rising in his face, shame and guilt. Why had he done it? He had wanted to see his father enraged. He wanted to see Aerys spitting wildfire at him. He had played politics with them all, now regret came dripping bitterly into his life. To give her space, he busied himself with pouring them each a glass of wine. Why had he done it? He could scarce remember.

"Forgive me-"

"Why should I?" she demanded.

He gave her a glass of wine. A fine Arbour gold. She took it in her shaking hands, looked at it and then back at him, before tossing the contents over his tunic.

"I cannot be seen talking to you now," she snapped, before he could say anything. "I was a foolish girl, swooning over you like a lackwit. You're a married man and I'm betrothed-"

"I gave you flowers," he snapped, finally reaching the end of his tether. "What will that drunken oaf give you? Two black eyes and a split lip, I would wager-"

Anger flashed in her eyes once more as she yelled back: "Don't! Don't you try and justify this. I would thank you to leave me in peace, from now on."

She turned on her heels and began stalking away again.

"Lyanna, please-"

His pleas were answered by the double doors slamming behind her back, sending up another shower of dust motes that sparkled in the light of the spring sunshine. All warmth had gone from him now, as he refilled his glass and prepared to drown his sorrows. But as he went to refill his glass, he noticed Elia standing in the servant's doorway. Silent and passive, she carried on watching until he set the bottle down again. Only then did she approach, her thoughts unreadable, but her eyes full of sadness.

The sight of her made him wish she would rage like Lyanna had. Anything was better than this silent pain. Barely an inch from him, she came to a halt and looked him dead in the eye. Inwardly, he pleaded with her to say something, anything, to appease the guilt he felt over her now. Then, quick as a viper, she struck. The back of her hand connected with his cheek in a slap that resounded to the rafters overhead. Reeling from the blow, he brought a hand to his burning face. He knew he deserved it.

"Elia," he whispered.

She shook her head. "I don't want to hear it."

He saw the second blow coming, but did not try to stop it. It rang out again, the other side of his face now inflamed and stinging. Even his ears rang.

"You knew what you were doing," she stated. It wasn't a question. "You knew what you were doing to me in front of all those people."

"I never meant to hurt you," he explained, the words sounding hollow even in his own ears. "It wasn't aimed at you. It was not a slight against you."

Elia laughed, hollow and empty. "But it was. You know that. And the only thing more humiliating than that public display would be letting the man responsible back into my life, no questions asked. I'm not a strong woman, Rhaegar. I'm not robust and I know I'll never bear another child. But I still have my dignity. I'm still a Martell of Dorne and I am not prepared to be publicly humiliated. Not by you, not by anyone. I am a Martell, a Princess in my own right. Unbowed, unbent, unbroken. Those are the words I raised with; those are the words I live by. If they're the words I die by, I will die proud."

He could no longer meet her gaze, but nor could he turn away. He didn't want to hear what she was saying, but he knew all too well where she was headed. "Elia, please, make no hasty decisions-"

"Listen to me," she cut over him. "I will not tolerate such humiliation and I, therefore, release you from your vows to me. I will return to King's Landing and wait for four months, on the chance that I may be with child again. After that, I will return to Dorne, where Oberyn will be waiting for me."

Panic flared in him again as he tried to stop her from walking away. "Elia, listen to me, please. We need to talk about this, when we're both calm and rational."

But she was as calm as a milk pond. "In case you hadn't noticed, I am really quite relaxed. Now stop begging. It is unbecoming in a Prince. I am leaving you now, goodbye … husband."

True to her word, she turned and walked away without looking back. He felt like he had been left hanging over an abyss.

Chapter Text

Those who came to Harrenhal for the prize money had already packed up and left. But those who remained still made enough noise for Jon to hear the closing night feast all the way in the heart of the godswood. Distant and muffled, the drum beat drifted into the northmen's sacred space, with the sound of voices raised in a raucous song he did not recognise. Meanwhile, he was out in the dark and the cold, shivering in borrowed furs and scowling into the river. Only the sound of Bran's footsteps drew his attention to the back to the weirwood. It was still so strange to see his brother walking that it made him smile, despite all else that was imploding around him.

It had rained all evening, and the earth was soft and springy beneath his feet as he joined his brother at the tree.

"Sansa's close by, so I don't have long," Bran explained. "But next time we meet, I'll bring her with me."

"You can do that?" he asked.

Bran seemed certain. "We are all wargs and I opened Sansa's third eye again. She knows there's more to her dreams now. When she arrives, I'll have them prepare the paste for her. As soon as she has that, she can come with me. Just remember, no one here but you will be able to see her."

"Paste?"

There was still so much Jon didn't understand. Now Bran's expression darkened and he shook his head. "It's best you don't know. What you should know is that Uncle Benjen is with her."

"Benjen's alive?" he gasped, all worries about strange pastes gone in an instant. "Are you sure it's him?"

"It's him. I saw him, through the raven," Bran confirmed. Jon felt almost weak kneed with relief. It was the first piece of good news he had had in a long time. "What's happening here? I've been so busy guiding Sansa that I haven't been able to come back to you."

Before he could answer, Jon drew a deep breath as he marshalled his wits. He began with the bet he won by using his foreknowledge, Lyanna's being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty and Princess Elia leaving Rhaegar and returning to King's Landing – their marriage as good as dissolved. Lyanna's public humiliation they already knew about, but the dissolution of the royal marriage was new to them both. But Bran had other concerns.

"If you keep using your knowledge to try and circumvent history, they're going to know there's something odd about you," he cautioned. "You cannot explain away why you know so much about the future and you were already sailing close to the wind just by telling Aunt Lyanna that Rhaegar is a rapist."

Jon sighed impatiently. "Bran, do you know how hard it was for me when father and Robb were murdered; when Winterfell was taken and I thought you and Rickon were dead? I was stuck at Castle Black, unable to do anything. Here, I might be able do something and if I can I will. Neither you nor some three eyed bird are going to convince me otherwise." He paused for breath, but before Bran could get a word in edgeways, he continued: "And you said it yourself: I am here for a purpose. I cannot believe that that purpose is to do nothing more than passively observe as our family are butchered all over again. What's the point? We know what happened here; we already know how this story ends. So there must be something more to this, Bran. There has to be. Especially now, when Sansa needs me; when the North needs me."

As he grew more heated, Bran took him by the shoulders to calm him. "I agree with you; I swear I do. All I'm asking is that you don't go charging in and revealing the future to everyone and attempting to rewrite history. Not until we know more. Please, Jon."

Frustrated, he pulled away and took a moment to compose himself again. Lashing out at Bran wasn't helping him and it certainly wasn't helping reveal the purpose of his being stuck in the past. He turned back toward the river that nourished the godswood, torn between the past and the present. Meanwhile, Bran was keeping his distance.

"There is something I've learned," said Bran. "Ser Davos Seaworth is tearing apart Castle Black looking for a Valyrian steel sword you now own. I was watching through Mormont's old raven."

Instinctively, Jon's hand found its way to Longclaw's hilt, where it was still sheathed at his hip. He flexed his hand around it for comfort, then drew the blade to show Bran. The Valyrian steel soaked in the dappled moonlight, making it shimmer like rippled glass.

"It's here," he said, holding it up for him to see. "It came with me. Even the clothes I was wearing came with me."

The clothes were little more than a loin cloth to preserve his modesty. The memory made him flush in the face. Meanwhile, Bran sharply focused on the sword.

"Physical objects can be transferred through time barriers," Bran observed, answering Jon's curiosity. "Give me something from this time and I'll see if I can bring it back to ours."

Jon thought for a moment, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a single rose bloom. "This was from Lyanna's laurel, before she bashed Rhaegar over the head with it. I picked one out to press and dry for her, as a keepsake. But … I don't think she wants it any more."

Bran stifled a laugh as he took the flower. "Good, now let's see what happens when I bring it into our time."

He slipped the rose into his pocket and they prepared to go their separate ways again. But, before he left, Bran called him back.

"Where did you get the information about Elia and Rhaegar's marriage?"

"Ashara Dayne," Jon replied. "We spoke just before I left the feast. She's Elia's lady in waiting, so she's bound to know. Just so you know, I told her to get Elia and her children straight to Dorne as soon as possible, and not come back for any reason."

Even from a distance, Jon could see Bran's eye-roll. "You really shouldn't-"

But Jon turned his back on the lecture and strode out of the godswood. Besides, he didn't for one minute think Elia would listen, let alone act on it. Thus far, history had done a good job of thwarting him.

A glimmer of glazed ivory caught the Prince's eye. Elia's hair grip, sitting on the night stand and reflecting the candlelight. Dejectedly, he picked it up and absent-mindedly pulled out a long strand of brown hair still tangled between the teeth. She must not have realised it was still there when she left for King's Landing. The pillow on the bed still out of shape from where she had lain her head the night before and the twisted sheets still bore the creases from her legs. The essence of her was everywhere he looked; the smell of her still lingered in the air.

Perched on the edge of the bed they had shared, he looked toward the door and wondered if she might walk back through it. But the door stayed closed and no footsteps sounded from the hallway beyond. Rhaegar was alone with only the distant sounds of the closing night feast to keep him company. His father had summoned him; a summons he ignored and the consequences be damned. Aerys would want to haul him over the coals because of the Dornish alliance; while all he needed was space and time to absorb the impact of this blow. A shimmer of guilt ran the length of his body as he realised it was the children he couldn't bear to lose, rather than her. Aegon had barely drawn his first breath and Rhaenys had been the light of his life since the moment her big brown eyes and met his. But, there had to be one more. The dragon has three heads and he needed his Visenya.

These thoughts reminded him of the special pack beneath the bed, where his most prized possession was being kept. He leaned down from the edge of his bed to check on it, before getting distracted by Lyanna's discarded laurel. Reaching down to gather it up again, he looked at the crushed petals with sadness in his eyes as he remembered how the story went. The single blue rose left on the girl's pillow after she had been stolen away into the night, enraging the Lord of Winterfell. But that was just an old story the Starks told their children and he was not an abductor. She had to come willingly; he had to make her see…

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his door.

"Your Grace, it is I: Brandon of House Stark."

In a belated act of discretion, he chucked the rose laurel under the bed where Lord Stark would not see it. Only then did he answer the door himself.

"Lord Stark, be welcome. Can I get you anything?"

Brandon Stark was a towering man, and broad shouldered with it; a fierce fighter, or so they said. But his rugged exterior belied the charming nature he deployed on the women of the realm with a devastating ease. Ashara Dayne was the latest notch on the Northman's bed post. Poor Catelyn Tully …

"A white wine wouldn't go amiss, your grace," Brandon replied.

His dark grey eyes roved over the chambers he found himself in. The Prince could not tell whether he was impressed or not. Nor did he much mind. Meanwhile, Rhaegar summoned a servant to fetch the wine. Wine, he realised, they both needed. When the servant appeared, a small boy dressed in a shabby livery that Rhaegar had not seen before, he pulled out seats for them both at a window table and fetched fresh candles. Then he decanted the wine.

Rhaegar watched him, curiously, the slid a gold dragon over to him. "Buy yourself some sweets."

The advice made the boy's hands tremble, sloshing the wine over the edge of the glass. Although Rhaegar didn't mind, anyone else would have given him a slap for that. Especially if he had been a real servant.

"That was generous," Brandon remarked, once the boy was gone.

"More generous than Varys, I hope," replied Rhaegar.

Comprehension dawned on Lord Stark's face. "Ah, now I understand. Do you think he's gone running to the nearest confectioner's? Or is he loitering around somewhere in hope of more rewarding sweets?"

It was a good question; Varys had them well trained. And they never went anywhere alone. Rhaegar got up and checked the passageway outside, then the servant's door. Finding it empty, he returned to Brandon in the antechamber and shut the door securely behind him. He even opened the window to make sure no children had shimmied up the wall on grappling hooks. Needless to say, the coast was clear. Had this been the Red Keep, he would be able to hear them scratching around like rats in the wall cavities. Try as he might, he'd thus far utterly failed to work out how this urchins managed to get in everywhere.

"You're making me even more nervous," Brandon laughed, sipping at his wine. He had come from the feast and was still hot and flushed in the face. "Who is this Varys? It sounds like he knew about my sister before even she knew it herself."

Rhaegar laughed drily. "That really wouldn't surprise me, my lord. He's a Eunuch from across the Narrow Sea. I don't know where exactly, no one does. That's the thing; he knows everything about everyone, but no one knows anything about him."

"So, that little display with my sister this afternoon." Brandon's expression hardened as he met his gaze. "Was that to throw Varys off the scent? Send your father into such a rage with you that he forgets the Knight of the Laughing Tree? What?"

"Do you know who the Knight of the Laughing Tree is?" he asked, suspecting he fully did.

Brandon nodded. "Ben told me in the end. I refused him permission to join the Night's Watch and he became near hysterical. He's a boy and can't be expected to harbour secrets like that. But tell me, your grace, is this really the only way to keep Ben safe? By having him shipped off to the Watch? And what of Lyanna? I tell you, if our father finds out then King Aerys will be the least of her worries and there are no sisterhoods to keep her safe from the endlessly grasping tentacles of Varys the spy-master."

"No one at all can touch Benjen if he's in the Watch," Rhaegar reminded him. "Besides, we need to reinforce the Night's Watch in whichever way we can. Remember that, my lord, when you come into your inheritance. There is more than one war coming."

A frown creased Brandon's heavy brow, but he sipped his wine again and pushed the issue of Lyanna. "And my sister? I cannot have any harm befall her. Regardless of how it seems, I love her with all my heart."

"Of course! And I was going to send her to Dragonstone, but that's no longer an option," he confessed. "My wife has left me. I want her and our children to live there from now on. They'll be safe there and, if need be, they have easy access to the Free Cities. I just hope Elia will listen to reason."

The other man's expression softened. "I'm sorry for your troubles. Soon, lord Robert is returning to the Eyrie with my brother; they'll both be safe there. Perhaps Storm's End is a viable hideaway?"

Rhaegar didn't like the sound of it. Not with the other Baratheons, Stannis and Renly, still there. True, one was a child. But Stannis was a cold and frosty thing. Lyanna could not come and go as she pleased with him watching over her. Also, despite his distaste of Robert, he may need the Storm Lord to raise his banners at a moment's notice. As he explained, Brandon topped up their glasses himself.

"I must say, your grace, I am not in the least bit comfortable with this idea of Lyanna roaming the realm like a hunted animal," he confessed. "I must know where she is at all times; how to get in touch with her and how to reach her in an emergency."

Then, an idea struck him. "What about that Crannogman she saved? Lord Reed. Surely he will be able to offer her a shelter, should she need it. Or even Moat Cailin, for the time being. She will be close to the North, with easy access to the south. In the meantime, she could even remain here, at Harrenhal. Just for the time being."

Brandon did not answer immediately. He sipped his wine with a frown on his face, mulling it all over. After what seemed an age, he looked back up at the Prince with a look of calculation on his face.

"Is there really a war coming? Are you really going to rise against your father?" he asked. "Forgive me, your grace, I know things must be extremely difficult. But has it really come to this?"

"The Lannisters have abandoned him and he's alienating many other noble houses," Rhaegar explained. "He's already burned two Hands of the King for reasons best known to himself. We've tried to keep it quiet, but he's long past caring who knows of his madness. He's also got pyromancers working on making wildfire which he plans to rig up all over the city. A precaution against rebellion. If anyone steps out of line, he'll blow the whole place. Whatever the cost, he must be stopped."

Maybe he would be remembered as a kinslayer. But rather a kinslayer than letting millions die in a sea of wildfire. Once he was king, Varys would be first on the chopping block for the fear and madness he instilled in Aerys.

Brandon drained his glass and placed it back on the table between them. When Rhaegar went to refill it, he placed his hand over it to stop him. Their eyes met, Brandon's glittering menacingly as he spoke:

"I am trusting you, on your honour as a Prince of this realm, with the safety of my beloved sister. Should anything happen to her, I will hold you responsible."

Rhaegar swallowed, finding his throat dry and constricted. "I will give my life for her. Gladly."

"Why?"

"Because I love her," the Prince answered without hesitation. "I pray your father will raise his banners for us, when the time comes."

He knew Brandon was far from convinced, but so far he had not refused permission. Even if he hadn't exactly granted it either. Now he rose to his feet and stood behind his vacant chair as he shrugged on his furs, ready to leave.

"If I suspect that she has come to harm, we will not hesitate to raise our banners against you," he warned, eyes narrowed.

Rhaegar sighed. "I've already confessed my love for her. Now, you should be aware that the Dayne's also feel equally protective over their womenfolk. Remember that, my lord, in your future dealings with Lady Ashara."

Whatever furious retort Brandon had, he bit it back and simmered silently. "It was a moment of madness-"

"You dishonoured her," Rhaegar cut in. "Ser Barristan Selmy witnessed it and your own brother who comforted her afterwards, so don't think this won't come back to haunt you. Now go, and remember who Ashara's brother is."

"I didn't force her-"

"No one said you did. We said you dishonoured her," the Prince corrected. "There is a difference."

However, Brandon was already half way to the door and Rhaegar soon found himself alone again.

Muffled thumps and thuds emanated from behind Lyanna's closed door. Before knocking, Jon paused to listen. It sounded like she was rearranging the whole room, instead of just packing up her belongings. Suddenly apprehensive, he knocked anyway and waited for the all clear to step inside. Inside, all fell silent and footsteps approached the door and it opened revealing a tear stained face. Lyanna hastily composed herself when she saw him standing there.

"Come in," she beckoned, voice hoarse.

The room was in disarray, reminding him strongly of the day Arya packed to leave Winterfell. The last time he had seen her, when he gifted Needle to her.

"I looked for you at the feast," he said.

"You didn't seriously think I could show my face there, after what happened," she replied, drily. "No, I've been here all day and getting ready to leave. I've decided, I'm going home to Winterfell and the Prince be damned."

She avoided his eye and busied herself with tidying up the mess. Silk stockings of mismatched colours were scattered around the floor and dying flowers sat wilting in vases. One case was completely over-stuffed, while another sat forgotten and neglected, beneath the bed. In an effort to help, Jon knelt down and retrieved. She thanked him, still not meeting his gaze. She flung it open and dumped an armful of clothes inside without folding a single garment. Then she stopped and exhaled a breath she'd held.

"You knew," she said, eyes still on the messy bundle of clothes. "You knew Rhaegar would win and you knew he was going to crown me in front of all those people."

Even though she wasn't looking, Jon nodded. "I suspected."

"No," she whipped round and caught his eye at last. "You knew. You spoke in certainty."

"I told you, I overheard his people talking about it," he lied, fluidly. "Those roses only grow in the North, so he had to order that laurel especially for you. That was what got tongues wagging, I think."

Lyanna looked momentarily startled. "Gods, I hadn't even thought of that. He really did have this planned out in advance. We've been here for a fortnight. That's not long for a consignment of winter roses to be brought from the North, is it? Unless they sailed, it takes more than two weeks just to pass the Neck."

Now that she was elaborating on his lie, he began considering it himself. She was right, unless the Prince just happened to have a bunch of those roses just handily sitting around somewhere. Coincidental, but not impossible – he supposed.

"Come and sit down with me," he implored her. "It's late and we're not leaving until morning. You will have time finish before we leave."

Clearly fed up with the onerous task, she didn't take much persuading. They were soon sat before the open fire, warming themselves and sipping spiced wine a servant brought for them. The youth of the servant struck Jon, he was barely a child.

"How do you feel about Rhaegar now?" he asked, as soon as they were alone again.

Lyanna was thoughtful for a moment. "Angry … furious, in fact. But-"

Her sentence broke off.

"And?" he prompted, when she failed to pick up the thread.

Instead of answering, she fixed him with a steely look from over the rim of her goblet as she drank deeply.

"You said he was a rapist and an abductor," she continued. "What made you say that?"

To his dismay, she was back on the subject of his foreknowledge.

"Rumours."

"The same kind of rumours you heard about the laurel and of Ser Barristan throwing the joust for him?"

"No, my lady," Jon replied, shaking his head. "I honestly think I was woefully misinformed. He just … he just isn't like that. He don't think he would."

He couldn't say why, exactly. But everything he had seen of Rhaegar, everything he now knew, it all felt wrong. As a bastard, he had learned from a young age to observe people, to read their body language and pick up on silent cues. He knew how to read people and assess. Sometimes, he found himself more curious about the Prince than he did his own father. But he had to admit, it had been Lyanna who drew him the most. Out of all them, he gravitated toward her with a force he had no control over. Poor Prince Rhaegar seemed afflicted with the same compulsions and she was sweetly oblivious to it all.

Now Lyanna just looked sad. "It's my father I worry for. My shame is his. He's going to be in a rage over what happened and even if I really did want to go straight back to Winterfell, I cannot. I was fooling myself thinking I could go back so soon after such a show."

"But it wasn't your fault," Jon protested. "Surely Lord Rickard would see that."

She sighed wistfully. "You know how our lordly fathers work, Jon. Privately, they know that. They can acknowledge that to themselves. But the world is going to see him accepting his husband stealing whore of a daughter back into his home, no questions asked. That would be unacceptable to him and to the realm as a whole." Laughing drily, she added: "Do you think Rhaegar knew that? He might even have done it on purpose, knowing I would be in such trouble as to need to lie low."

"I don't think he thought that," Jon stated. "I don't think he thought at all. More's the pity. Did he give you no clue about what he was planning? Did he not say anything during your meetings?"

Lyanna shook her head. "We talked about many things, but not that. He showed me his dragon egg and I told him about that silly story the small folk of Winterfell always tell. That there's a dragon living deep inside the crypts of Winterfell. I thought it would amuse him."

Jon had heard that story, too. He and Robb had even gone looking for the dragon, only to find their path blocked by fallen masonry about six floors under ground. "Did it not amuse him?"

Lyanna looked distant as she recalled the conversation. "He took it really seriously. I tried to tell him it's just a story told to children, to scare them into behaving. Believe me, Benjen and I tried looking for it."

"No sign?" he asked.

"Well, we didn't get very far," she confessed, sounding more than a little disappointed. "We couldn't get past the fallen masonry and our father expressly forbid any attempt at an excavation."

Jon had to stop himself from laughing. It seemed every generation of Stark children had gone in search of the fabled dragon, only to be thwarted by the same fallen masonry.

"Did you say Rhaegar has a dragon egg?" he asked. One of those would come in useful against the white walkers, he admitted. Also, even at Castle Black, there had been rumours of a Targaryen princess hatching three of them. Rumours brought to them by sailors who sailed the known world.

Lyanna sighed, happily this time. "You should see it, Jon, it's beautiful. Blue and silver and warm to hold. He swears it's alive, but all I can feel is the heat."

Jon smiled. "Is he trying to hatch it? Most of his family die terrible deaths in the attempt."

"Not him, but he thinks his children will," she replied. "It's such an odd thing. He grows very heated when he talks about this stuff. But he's convinced his son, Aegon, is the Prince that was Promised and that he will hatch the dragon."

"The Prince that was Promised?" he asked, curiously.

"Azor Ahai, as he's known to the likes of you and I," she clarified. "Everyone has a different name for him. But you know the story, don't you? That this man fights the Others and drives them back into the land of always winter, in the far north. Rhaegar has it in his head that this war will one day, soon, be fought again."

Jon didn't know what his face was doing. But his heart was suddenly racing again and Lyanna looked at him, concern suddenly etched in her face.

"Jon, what's the matter?" she asked. "You've suddenly gone all pale and interesting on me."

"The war against the Others," he murmured. "What does the Prince know?"

Baffled by his sudden change, Lyanna shrugged. "I was barely listening, it's such nonsense. Stuff he read in some book, written by a long dead magician."

He didn't know about the Prince that was Promised. But the war Rhaegar clearly feared really was happening and he, Jon, was caught in the middle of it. He had seen the Night's King, he had seen the dead rise and march against the living. Memories of Hardhome made his skin crawl and his blood run cold.

"I must speak with the Prince," he said. "As a matter of urgency."

"What?" Lyanna spluttered. "Jon, it's just speculation-"

"It's not," he cut in. "Believe me, it's not."

They had to know, now. He knew that. He didn't know what he would say to make them believe him. But he had to think of something, and quickly.

Bran released his grip on the roots of the weirwood tree. His body felt like it had been squeezed trough a tight tube and spat out at the other end. His breath was short and laboured, while he composed himself and got his bearings back. The Children had gone and, seemingly, taken Meera and Hodor with them. Only the Three Eyed Raven remained, impassive dozing up in his seat among the roots and tendrils of time.

He remember the bloom Jon had given him and reached into the pocket of his jacket. It was still there, blue and fragrant. In palm of his open hand, it filled the air around him with sweetness. Then, even as he watched, the petals withered, turned black and shrivelled away to dust as it aged almost twenty years in the space of a few seconds. Soon, there was nothing left as the petals turned to dust and blew away on the draught.

That was curious, he thought to himself. For Jon did not shrivel back into nothingness when he went back in time.

Before he could dwell too long on the conundrum, a commotion broke out close to the door. He heard Hodor's voice calling out excitedly. "Hodor! Hodor! Hodor!" A girl cried, echoing sobs, and it definitely wasn't Meera. Running footsteps charged down the passageway and he knew who it was.

"Sansa!" he cried out, furious at his broken body and inability to get up and throw his arms around her. "Sansa, I'm in here!"

As if she knew where "in here" was. All the same, she spun around the corner and crashed to a halt at the sight of him. He saw all the fear, the grief and the pain melt away from her face as her gaze locked into his own. Still she could not believe it was him, as if a spell had been cast, she hesitated.

"Sansa," he said, choked with emotion.

Without wasting any more time, she swooped down on him and they held each other so tight neither could breathe properly. She was cold, so cold, from her journey through the frozen wastes beyond their tree. He resolved not to let her go until the warmth returned to her.

Chapter Text

"Wait!" Lyanna's voice stopped him before he reached the door. "You can't just go barging into the Prince's chambers. His guards will have you arrested. Sit down and talk to me first, then we'll decide what to do next."

Jon hesitated, his palms still flat against the double doors as if to push them open. Had he been north of the wall in this state he'd hang back and calm himself down, before charging in and making fatal mistakes. It was the same now: he had to be in control of himself. So he drew a deep breath and turned to face her.

"Maybe you're right," he ceded. "All this business about heroes and Princes Promised is the stuff of soothsayers and superstition. But the war is real. I know it's real."

Lyanna was now looking at him as if he was a pet turned savage, worried that any false move would set him off. To ease her obvious worry, he slowly moved from the door and sat back down in the seat he so recently vacated. The fire was still blazing in the hearth, his spiced wine glowing ruby red in the reflected light. He picked up the glass and sipped at it to help settle his scattering nerves. Although the hour drew late, when silence fell in the room he could still hear the distant sounds of the closing night feast in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths.

"It's hard to explain how I know," he told her. "But I do know."

His aunt drew her chair closer to his, so that when she sat back down their knees were almost touching, This close, he could see deep into her dark grey eyes. So grey, they were almost black, even in the firelight. They were identical to his own, and met his own in quiet understanding.

"No matter how hard it is, Prince Rhaegar is going to need to know how you got this knowledge," she explained. "He – anyone in fact – isn't going to just take your word for it. But start with me, and I'll back you up. It's better than just barrelling in there and blurting it all out. Whatever it is."

This was far from the first time he had wanted to tell her everything. He'd lain awake on more than one night, framing the conversation perfectly in his head. He thought he knew what he would say, predicted her reactions and framed responses that were concise and clear. All that went flying out the windows and up the chimney now that the moment seemed to have come.

"I've travelled a lot," he began, not entirely untruthfully. "Mostly north of the wall. I've travelled through the Frostfangs, the Skirling Pass and Hardhome. I fell in love with a Wildling girl whose name was Ygritte..."

He trailed off, wondering why he even mentioned Ygritte. All she did was pick open a wound that had barely healed since her death and he could feel his eyes burn now, just by raising her ghost. Noticing his distress, Lyanna reached over and placed her hand on his arm.

"Is she dead?"

Jon nodded. "But I stayed with her and her people; they were the only reason I survived out there. So, you see, I know what's out there. I've seen the Others with my own two eyes. At Hardhome, I saw them raise the dead and turn them against us. They come from the north and they're migrating south. So if Rhaegar knows something about this war and how to beat the dead armies, I need to know. I need to take it back with me if we're to stand any chance at all."

Lyanna's expression was inscrutable as she listened, her head cocked to one side. For a long time after he finished explaining, she remained silent as if mulling it all over.

"How come you were with the Wildlings?" she asked, eventually. "Because I think I've fathomed out the truth about you, Jon. Tell me honestly: are you a deserter from the Night's Watch? If so, all this talk of Others and dead men rising won't be enough to save you from the penalty for desertion."

A sudden chill made him shiver as he remembered the deserter his father killed not long before he left Winterfell. He had talked of Others then and Jon had barely understood what he meant. And, living up to Lyanna's cautionary words, it had not been enough to save him from justice. The memory of Theon Greyjoy kicking the man's head made his stomach turn in revulsion.

"I'm no deserter," he assured her, sotto voce. He tried to think of something else to say that could prove it, but there was nothing. He felt like he was being slowly backed off the edge of a sheer cliff. "Had I been a deserter, do you think I would have talked to that wandering crow who was recruiting here? I even brought Benjen to him and helped him sign up."

Lyanna looked visibly relieved. "Forgive me if I offended you. But I remembered finding you with no clothes on. I thought maybe you saw us Starks coming and dumped your black cloaks. That, and your story about travelling north of the wall … well, you can see how it looked."

He could indeed, because she was so close to the truth now. And Jon could see, by looking at her, that she had a lot of unanswered questions and was struggling to join a myriad of dots.

"I am a brother of the Night's Watch, though. But I'm no deserter," he confessed.

Lyanna smiled wryly. "So, that story you gave me about your father hunting you down was just another lie? One, it would seem, designed to make me feel sorry for you. I don't know why I still trust you, but I do. Anyone else would have tossed you out the window by now and I begin to think I'm going soft in the head. But I warn you Jon, don't take advantage of my bleeding heart. Even I have my limits."

The accusation stung, but he could see how his behaviour looked. Reddening in the face, he found he could no longer look her in the eye.

"The truth is simple, but it makes no sense," he began, voice still low. "That's the only reason I haven't told you."

Lyanna sighed in exasperation. "Surely the truth is easier than making up all these fictional families? I mean, you told me about your brothers and sisters-"

"They are real," he cut over her, suddenly. The pain of separation caught him in the chest once more. It wasn't just distance that divided him from them now, but years of pure time. "I wish I could just explain it, but to explain it I'd have to understand it and I just don't. I don't understand any of this. I don't understand why I'm here, how I got here or what I'm meant to be doing here."

Confronting the reality of his situation made him anxious and jumpy with pent-up frustration. He couldn't help it. All his life he had been able to apply logic or reason to any situation. If something happened, he could see it was a consequence of a separate event. But this was arbitrary and senseless and it defied logic. Meanwhile, his aunt was looking back at him without a trace of comprehension in her eyes.

"When you were attacked were you hit on the head?" she asked, all sympathy once more. "Amnesia is common enough."

Her sympathy grated on his nerves and turned his mood waspish. "I remember perfectly. I remember it all; every face of every man who stabbed me. Like I said, I couldn't tell you what happened because I don't understand it myself." He paused for breath, unsheathed Longclaw and placed it on her knees. "That sword was a gift from the old Lord Commander to me, the new Lord Commander. I told you about the Others, well I wanted to make a deal with the Wildlings so we would all fight against the Others together. Wildlings and Brothers alike, all united against the armies of the dead-"

"Jon, this makes no sense," she cut in, a frown darkened her face. "We would have heard. The Lord Commander is Quorgyle. He's alive-"

"I know!" he cut her off, unable to disguise his anger and frustration. "But listen to what I'm telling you."

"Alright, alright," she retorted, holding her hands up in a placatory manner. "Take your time."

Before continuing, Jon drained the last of his spiced wine. He was growing angry and confused, helping no one and scaring his poor aunt. None of this was her fault and it certainly wasn't her fault that he made no sense.

"The pact between the Night's Watch and the Wilding tribes was seen as a betrayal," he continued, at length. "Then one evening, I was in my chambers reading over despatches and my squire came in to tell me there had been news of a missing ranger. He was our first ranger and one of our finest men, so I was keen to hear it. I followed my squire outside and saw a group of brothers all conferring together. I ran to catch them up, but when they parted to let me through I saw they had nailed a sign to a post and painted the word 'traitor' on it. Understandably insulted, I turned back to find out what they meant by it. But when I did, they had all drawn daggers and took it turn to stick the blade in. I blacked out, I died and then I woke up in the Mountains of the Moon … twenty years in the past."

"Well, that explains why I've never heard of any of this," she replied, wide eyed and utterly baffled. "Just so I'm clear, you're telling me you're from the future?"

Before he could answer, she laughed like it was all some grand jest. But she soon composed herself and began muttering about his stab wounds.

"The Maester said it was a miracle you survived. The knife went through your heart. Right through the heart tissues," she muttered. "We all know you ought to be dead. There's no explanation..."

When she trailed off into silence, he took up the slack. "I bet all my money on Rhaegar to win because I already knew he would. I tried to warn you about him crowning you Queen of Love and Beauty, because I knew he would. My father is here and he told us children all about this Tourney. I tried to warn you about Rhaegar, because we were told he was a rapist who …. well, never mind that just now. I think we might have been lied to."

Her gaze snapped back up to him, her expression intense and scrutinising. "It certainly sounds like you need to tell me. Who was he supposed to have raped?"

Dismayed, Jon felt his heart sink. "Well, you, as it happens."

Lyanna laughed again. "No man will rape me, Jon. I'd tear it off and shove it down his throat."

"I thought as much," he answered.

She shook her head and topped up both their glasses. "Here's what I think. When you were attacked, you must have been unconscious for quite some time. I think, perhaps, you dreamed all this stuff about the Watch and the Others and when you awoke, something happened in your head to make you think it was real-"

"Your bedchamber in Winterfell is the first door on the left of the turnpike stair of the south tower," he cut over her. "There's a loose brick to the left of the fireplace. If you pull it right out, you can see where you engraved your name into the back of it. The year is marked as 278 AC."

She gasped audibly, almost dropping her glass and the sword alike. "Gods, Jon, I did that when I was ten. I'd almost forgotten it myself. How could you possibly have known?"

The question seemed to be directed more at herself than anyone else. While she pondered that, he described the castle in as much detail as he could rightly recall. He named the rooms, the layout and the quirks of the fortress. He knew the crypts, the rusted swords and the direwolf statues. He knew the missing gargoyle on the battlements, fallen in ages gone by. He knew every crack in the flagstones and even some of the older members of staff. He knew things about Winterfell only those who lived there could know and she knew he was no servant – she would have known him if he was.

By the time he finished, she looked back at him in mystified silence. It was impossible to believe, but there was no other explanation. The conflict between truth and logic was being fought out in her manners and expressions. One second she looked resolute, but the next full of doubt. Tremulous and shaky, she got to her feet and began pacing the room. She'd brought her glass with her and drank from it without realising it was empty. Even after she took a sip, she didn't seem to realise it was empty – her brain was functioning elsewhere. Had the circumstances been any different, he would have laughed.

"Gods, I thought you were Ned," she said. "Me and the boys couldn't get over how much you looked like Ned and I knew, right from the off, that you were a Northman. There's no hiding that accent. You even have Ned's brooding nature about you. But it's madness. Complete madness."

"Ned's my father," he said. "Don't you see why I couldn't tell the truth?"

She put down the empty glass and buried her face in her hands. "No, no, no! This cannot be right."

He watched her in deepening sadness. There was no hope of getting anyone to believe him, no matter what he knew. If he was lucky, she would have him cast out to shift for himself. If he was unlucky, she would have him locked up as a madman and the key thrown into the depths of the God's Eye.

Although the pacing had started again, Lyanna soon fell still again. Still and contemplative. "When you came too on the mountainside and we spoke, you asked if Ned had a sweetheart somewhere. I laughed and said Ned would never do that. It's true that you don't know who your mother is, isn't it?"

Jon nodded. "He never told me anything and he forbade his wife from talking about it."

She turned to him with a frown on her face. "That's passing strange. That's not the Ned I know at all."

"But that's what he did," Jon replied. "Look, I don't expect you to believe me. All I ask is that you don't have me locked up. I'm not mad and I mean you know harm at all. But this is the truth. This is what's happened."

Her expression softened as she closed the gap between them. She kept her eyes trained on him, unflinching but kind and gentle. The way she usually looked at him. When they were close enough, she cupped his chin in her hands and peered into his eyes.

"You're a Stark right enough-"

"A Snow," he corrected her.

"A minor detail, nephew," she laughed, but not unkindly. She let go of his face. "Who found my name scratched into the brick?"

"Your niece, Arya Stark," he replied. "She's just like you. In looks, in temperament."

She chuckled drily. "Poor girl!" Then she heaved another sigh and threw her hands up in the air. "This is madness. There must be some explanation as to how you … how you know all this. But there isn't. And all that money you bet on Rhaegar to win … well, I think we'd all do the same if we had that kind of foreknowledge. And thank you for trying to warn me about Rhaegar. I did wonder how you seemed to know all these things and all those convenient excuses you had for how you knew."

Jon himself managed to laugh. "Forgive me, I did want to tell you. But how could I?"

"I know," she replied. "I understand. If I found myself twenty years in the past, I know I'd fear telling people. They'd think me mad, as part of me also thinks you are mad. And I cannot deny it. It's a tall story to swallow. But the evidence is all there, so I cannot disbelieve either."

Through the haze of his own despondency, Jon could actually tell this was the best reaction he could have hoped for. She wasn't throwing him out. She wasn't laughing him all the way back to the Wall either. She was genuinely doing her best to understand it and explain it. He didn't think he could have done the same for someone else in his position.

"It is not in my nature to lie," he stated. "Lord Stark raised me better than that. It's why my story kept changing. The lie was hard to live up to. When I was with the Wildlings all I had to do was pretend to be a deserter. Here, I had to make up a whole new family."

She frowned again, just then. "Ned is Lord Stark?"

Inwardly, Jon cursed. "Uncle Brandon is… well-"

"No," she said, holding up her hand. "If Ned is Lord of Winterfell then there can only be one explanation and I don't need to know. Nor does Bran, Jon. Life is fragile, we all know that."

"Of course," he replied, unwilling to burden her just yet anyway. "The ink is dry. I can change nothing."

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she held him in a mischievously curious look. "What about me? You didn't seem to recognise me up on that mountain. Mind you, I must be quite old in your time."

He felt his heart being squeezed painfully. "You? We never see you, Lya. You're too busy and happy, with your husband and children. They love you, you love them – more than anything else in the world. You're far too busy to come and visit us at Winterfell. They need you far more than us. And we all understand that."

Another frown puckered her brow. "That really doesn't sound like me."

You're a coward, his inner voice informed him. But he could hardly say 'you're dead', not when that death was due to happen in just over a year. If he couldn't save her, there was no use in scaring her.

To his intense relief, she dropped the subject. "'Belief' is a very strong word for what I feel right now, Jon. This is simply too much to take in at once. But I'm happy to give you the benefit of the doubt and I can tell, from looking at you and listening, that you're convinced this is what's happened to you."

Jon shrugged. "So, what are you saying? That you both believe me and you don't believe me?"

"I'm saying I have no other explanation," she pointed out. "Your word is the best I have right now, and I know you believe it. So, on that basis, we better think of something to tell Rhaegar. That is, if you still think he has the answer to your war against the Others."

"Rhaegar cannot be told about all this," he stated, abruptly. "He'll think me mad-"

"Just as I do, I know," she replied. "And he won't be as wonderfully understanding as I am."

"Exactly," he laughed.

"Look, we'll think of something. But let's leave it until tomorrow. We should both sleep."

Jon didn't think he would. But he knew they were both exhausted. He nodded, turning toward the antechamber where she often let him sleep when they talked into the night. Whether she believed him or not, however, he suddenly realised he felt a hundred times later for having unburdened himself.

Sansa lay sleeping, wrapped up in the Red Woman's cloak. After some warm food, she had settled quickly and sleep wasn't far behind. Still, Bran resolved to watch over her through the night. It looked as if she hadn't slept properly since before leaving Castle Black, and he was not about to disturb her for anything. For all he knew, she hadn't slept properly since leaving King's Landing. As such, even the truth and their strange mission could wait until morning. Meanwhile, the Red Woman sat with him, complaining of the lack of fire.

"We're inside a tree," he pointed out. "Light a fire in here and what do you think will happen?"

She didn't need to answer, but she still complained until the Children agreed she could light one outside, so long as she kept it under control. Now, several hours later, she returned while Brienne, Pod and Benjen all talked in another room some distance away. The Others and the wights were their concern.

"I've seen you in the fires," she said, at length. "You and your wolf. First you're a boy, then you're a wolf and then you're a boy again."

He looked up at her, concerned. "I'm a warg. Sansa, Jon, Arya and Rickon are, too."

Melisandre smiled knowingly. "Ah, but we know you're far more powerful than they."

Bran just shrugged. He didn't want to brag, but he knew she was right. "Why is R'llhor showing me to you? Did you think I was your enemy?"

"Maybe," she confessed, glancing up nervously at the Three-Eyed Raven. "It wouldn't be the first time I was wrong."

"After my brother was stabbed, what did you do?" he asked, no longer caring what she thought of him or her fires.

"Nothing, at first," she confessed without guilt. "Ser Davos, a man I travel with, convinced me to try and use my powers to bring him back. The Lord Commander was dead, for sure. After I agreed, I performed all the necessary rites and ceremonies. I thought I failed, but he gasped for air so loud Davos came running out, shouting 'he's alive! he's alive!' But Jon did not awaken and he sleeps to this day. Breathing, sleeping, sometimes murmuring but never awakening."

"He hasn't awoken because he's twenty years in the past," he stated, baldly.

It was his hope that she would know why, or that she had heard of it happening before. But all she did was frown and cock her head, quizzically. It was clear she was as flummoxed as he was, to his dismay.

"What do you mean?"

"I saw him in my visions, speaking with our dead aunt," he explained. "Later, I was able to speak with him in person. He's at the Tourney of Harrenhal, with our family. That tourney happened almost twenty years ago and he's there. How did he get there? Did R'llhor send him? Surely you know something."

Her expression became blank. "If so, then R'llhor has a purpose. You say Jon is with your family?"

Bran nodded. "Many of them are dead now. Some died before we were born. All I can do is explore what happened in that time using the trees, because Jon is just stuck there while I can go back and forth. So far, I've turned up nothing. Well, nothing except that Rhaegar Targaryen might not have been a rapist. Jon seems to think he and our aunt were in love."

"This is so strange," she said, finally betraying some human feelings. It felt more satisfying to Bran than her simply stating that R'llhor has a purpose. "Even if it makes no sense from here, there must be a reason why Jon's gone back. There must be someone there he needs to meet, or something he needs to do. But the past cannot be changed, which I'm sure you know."

"He's trying," he stated. "After the tourney our aunt was abducted and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen and she died because of it. Our father went to war and met Jon's mother, who's name we don't know. Maybe he needs to find her? She might even have what R'llhor is looking for. Could you find out more in your fires? If they reveal things to you, they will give you the name of his mother."

Melisandre frowned, her red eyes narrowed as she regarded Bran closely. "I can promise you nothing, Brandon Stark. But I will call upon the Lord of Light to show me something."

Disappointed, he fell silent and watched her leave. All through the conversation he had swung between thinking she knew every secret of the universe to believing she couldn't even tie a bootlace. Poor Jon, he thought to himself, catapulted back in time by one fanatic's incompetence.

Rhaegar awoke to a broad morning light streaming through the drapes of his windows. Another fine spring day, emphasising his empty room and silent corridors. His mouth tasted like a small animal had died in it, so he rolled out of bed and gargled lemon and mint water. The taste was so tart he grimaced all through the process and spat it out into a porcelain bowl as if it had done him some personal wrong. His body servants helped him to dress, but they didn't help his mood as they explained that no one had come calling, no one had left any messages and no one needed him. The only thing alleviating his dour mood was the knowledge that his father had finally packed up and returned to King's Landing.

Seeing no reason to leave his room, he pulled back the heavy velvet drapes and looked over the scorched ruins of Harrenhal. The scars of Balerion the Black Dread still marred the turrets and towers all around him. Scars still visible, but the dragons long gone. But, as he watched the now empty grounds, he saw two figures walking across the flowstone yard. He was too far above to make out their faces, so watched and waiting until they passed beneath the stone archway and a smile spread across his face at last.

"Admit Lady Stark and her companion immediately," he called out to the nearest groom.

"Yes, your grace," he replied, before bowing out of the room.

While he waited, he instructed another servant to prepare a light meal on which they could all break their fast. That looked like Jon, another man he was keen to speak to – seeing as he didn't seem to exist. And by the time they arrived, he was more than ready to receive them.

"Your grace," they chorused.

Lya curtsied and Jon knelt, until he bid them rise. "I thought you would both be gone by now. Did you speak to Lord Brandon?"

Lyanna looked blank, answering his question immediately. "I think he's sleeping off last night's celebrations, your grace."

"More than likely," he agreed. "Well sit, both of you. Join me for breakfast."

To his relief, they both accepted the invitation and sat at the newly prepared table. They were out on the terrace, in the morning sun and overlooking the Flowstone Yard. With the tourney events concluded, it was peaceful and they could talk uninterrupted.

"This is not an entirely social visit," Lyanna stated.

He remembered the last time they spoke, when she hit him with the laurel he gave her. "I didn't think it would be."

"It's about the prophesy," Jon explained. "The Prince that was Promised."

Of all the reasons he had tried to guess as the nature of this visit, that one hadn't crossed the Prince's mind. Somewhat taken aback, he set down the honeycomb he was using to cover his wheaten bread. Given how many people secretly thought him mad for indulging these ancient prophecies, he became wary.

"What about it?" he asked, tersely.

Jon swallowed his bread and washed it down with some tea before continuing. "It's not so much the Prince that was Promised, your grace. More his purpose in life. We all know the story: that Azor Ahai tempered a special blade that won the war for the dawn against the Others, driving them back into the Land of Always Winter."

"That's the basic gist of it," he confirmed. "They say he's going to be reborn under salt and smoke, to wake dragons from stone and so on and so forth."

"Yes, but the original Azor Ahai beat the Others," Jon said, pulling the subject back around to the supernatural. "Is that you think your Azor Ahai will do?"

"They say the war is coming, and I believe them," said Rhaegar, still reluctant to lay himself open to ridicule.

"Well, I know it's coming and I know when it will come," Jon said, looking him dead in the eye. "I've seen the Others and I've seen the armies of the dead, north of the wall."

Rhaegar shifted his gaze to Lyanna, who was helping herself to a boiled egg. She paused and looked up at him, earnestly.

"Your Grace, I think you need to hear him out," she said. "I wouldn't have brought him here, otherwise."

"Go on then," he urged Jon.

While Jon talked, he sat back and listened intently. The longer it went on, the more he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Finally, someone believed him. Finally, someone was willing to listen.

"So you were a brother of the Night's Watch when you were attacked by Wildlings and given temporary leave?" he asked. Something about that seemed odd, but he did not question its sincerity. "When do they expect you back?"

"Just as soon as I'm healed," answered Jon.

"Just so you know," Lyanna added. "I remember overhearing my father discussing the Others with his Master at Arms. We actually have heard rumours of sightings. But Jon confirms it, which is why I brought him straight to you."

The only problem was, he thought, was that the Prince that was Promised is currently still in swaddling and sucking at the teat of his wet nurse. But still, he had the dragon egg. Rising from his seat, he excused himself and went to fetch the box he kept it in. He brought the box back to the table and opened it for Jon to see.

"Pick it up," he instructed.

Jon seemed hesitant at first, but soon picked it up and cradled it in his cupped hands. His expression changed, curious and distant as if trying to figure something out.

"It's moving," he said, glancing up at him. "It's hot and it's moving."

Rhaegar smiled, glancing over at Lyanna. "I told you. It's alive."

Still, she did not look convinced. "Let me try," she said.

Jon passed over the egg and she held it tenderly, prodded at the smooth surface of the stone shell. "No, it's just stone. How come you two can feel it move and I can't?"

"What?" Jon spluttered. "That is alive; I'm telling you I felt it move. Try harder, maybe you're holding too tight."

Lyanna still looked like the victim of some great injustice.

"Well, if we can hatch that, the Others won't stand a chance of taking the realm," Rhaegar explained. "My family are dragon riders. If we can hatch this, then we can hatch others."

"Are there others?" Jon asked, taking the egg back from Lyanna.

"On Dragonstone, but I'm not sure where," he confessed. "My father brought this to Summerhall and it changed on the night of the fire – from solid stone to something half-alive. The same night I was born. It made me wonder if I had done it, but instead I think it will be my children who ride the dragons. And I need one more. One more child, that is. If I can bring that to pass, then the dragon will have its three heads and we're sure of victory."

He couldn't help but glance at Lyanna, despite all that had happened since they last spoke civilly to each other. Ice and fire, he reminded himself, ice and fire.

"I don't think the prophecy matters," Jon stated. "All we need is fire. A lot of fire."

The other man sunk in his estimation. "Of course the prophecy matters. If we can fulfil that, then the dragons will rise again. The dragons rise and ice monsters fall. It stands to reason."

Jon still seemed to believe that fire alone could defeat his foe, while Lyanna looked perplexed still. But he knew he was making headway now. It was enough to renew his flagging hopes, to revive his determination to bring the prophecy to pass. Later, when he was showing them out of his chambers, Lyanna paused and whispered in his ear: "Godswood; nightfall."

She set out as soon as the sun set, a hood pulled up over her head to ward off the evening chills. Sometimes, it didn't feel like Spring at all. It grew cold quickly and rain showers fell out of nowhere. Four seasons in one day, she often thought. Still, she honoured her promise and headed to the godswood. The ground was soft and springy beneath her feet, still wet from the rain and even the animals seemed to prefer their burrows and setts. They had more sense than her.

All that day she had been dwelling on what Jon had said and, several hours later, she still had no idea what to make of it. But something in her stirred. Something told her she would be a fool to dismiss him. Only a Stark, or a lifelong servant of Winterfell, would know what he knew about the castle. That afternoon, she had sought out her brothers to see if they had told him inside information as part of some kind of joke on her. But they hadn't. Brandon hadn't even seen Jon in days and was more preoccupied with talking her into remaining at Harrenhal. Now, Brandon had gone and taken Benjen with him. Ned and Robert had returned to the Eyrie and she was alone with her confusion.

When she reached the twisted weirwood, she averted her gaze from that angry face and sat down on a dry spot beneath its boughs. In this place, the river bubbling past soothed her troubles and the Old Gods gave her comfort. Once settled, she let Brandon into her thoughts. Jon had more than implied that Brandon would die before ever becoming Lord of Winterfell and she thought the Old Gods ought to know.

"Poor Bran," she murmured, touching the pale trunk of the tree. The bark was smooth and silver beneath the pads of her fingers. "And what about me?"

If Jon really was who he said he was, and from where he said he was from, then she didn't like what he had said about her. That she was happy with her husband and children. Far too happy to return to Winterfell. Ever. He did not know her, either. He had not recognised her before the introduction on that mountainside. How curious…

His description of her future self was all too picture perfect. A lie, but it seemed a well intended lie. You tell someone a beautiful lie like that because you want to protect them from a terrible reality. Sometimes, she acted the fool. But wasn't really a fool.

"Too blissfully happy with my husband and children to ever come back home?" she asked the tree. "That could never be, because I'd never be happy away from my home and my people. No, I think perhaps I too am dead in his time. Death is the only thing that could stop me being with them."

Death defined life, Lyanna knew that as much as anyone. No one is immortal. But now she felt a chill creep over her that had little to do with the temperature inside the godswood. It was the chill of her own mortality. It was the knowledge that, perhaps, her time was shorter than even she imagined.

"Maybe I have it all wrong and Jon is right," she said aloud to the weirwood. "But what if I don't have it all wrong? I'm not prepared to take the risk and, at the moment, I am definitely alive. Before I die, I want to live."

The Old Gods remained silent, but she continued her conversation with them. She didn't wish to know the causes, reasons or wherefores of her own demise. She certainly didn't wish to know when. If she knew when, she would waste her time dwelling on that moment or fighting to avoid it, running instead of living.

"For what it's worth," she said aloud. "I hope I'm reading far too much into this. I hope Jon's just had a knock on the head and all of this is in his imagination. But I won't take the risk and my mind is made up."

"Is it?" a man answered.

She spun on her heels, to where Rhaegar stepped out from between two trees. "Forgive me, you were communing with your gods and I interrupted."

"No, your grace, stay," she implored.

He looked relieved. "Why did you invite me here?"

"Because I want you to know," she began, then faltered until she composed herself. "Jon said something today which made me realise something. That life is short and unpredictable. So yes, your grace, I will come with you. I love you, and I will stand with you come what may."

For a long moment, he didn't seem to take it in. His eyes narrowed, as if suspecting some trick.

"Do you mean it?" he asked, stepping closer. "Are you sure?"

Lyanna nodded. "I've never been more certain of anything."

She heard him draw a deep and tremulous breath. "There will be a scandal, so soon after Elia has left me. But not even your father can disapprove once you're Queen of Westeros."

"He will come around," she said. "I'll return to Winterfell and explain everything. He will be upset, I know. Angry even. But once he knows how serious this is, he will come around."

"But first you must lie low," he cautioned. "Remember, my father is still king. Your brother already knows you're staying here so hold tight."

Lyanna nodded. "Of course. Once your father is gone, we can be married?"

"No," he replied. "We can be married as soon as Elia and I release each other from our vows. It will take a month or so. That's all."

Rather than jubilant, it made her nervous and edgy. So much could go wrong. So much was at stake. Before she could get too nervous, he had closed the gap between them and kissed her deeply. When they drew apart, she wondered again what Jon had told her. Why did everyone think Rhaegar raped her?

"You would never hurt me, would you?" she asked.

"Never," he assured her. "What makes you ask?"

She smiled and laughed it off. "Nothing. Just an over-active imagination."

For the first time, they left the godswood together.

Chapter Text

Since the day she left Winterfell as a child, Sansa had absorbed a lot of shocks. The downfall and murder of her father; Joffrey being an absolute shit and her forced marriage to Tyrion Lannister. Her brother and mother had been murdered, her home had been stolen and she had unwittingly played a role in the murder of a king. She had been a traitor's daughter and a rebel's sister, then she was a wanted fugitive masquerading as Petyr Baelish's bastard daughter. Then she married Ramsay Bolton before being rescued by the same man she thought had murdered her other two brothers. She reached a safe haven, only to find her protector had been stabbed by his own brethren. She was used to shocks. She almost expected them. And even when she expected them, the shocks still lived up to their name and shocked the sense right out of her.

By the time she reached Bran's tree and sat there ladling a bitter tasting red paste into her mouth, she thought she might be beyond shocks. Then Bran sat beside her and told her what had happened to Jon after he was stabbed and Lady Melisandre's attempts to bring him back. By the time he finished talking and Sansa knew as much as he did, all she could do was put down her bowl and say:

"I thought nothing could shock me anymore, but I think you've proved me wrong."

Bran urged her to finish the paste, which she did while sat cross-legged on a shelf of roots inside the vast weirwood. While she ate, she was able to think. There was one other thing all life's shocks had taught her, it was how to adapt and survive. This was no different, only now she had to make sure Jon and Bran survived too. This was their new reality and she had to learn to work with it.

"Lady Melisandre knows what she is doing," she pointed out, spotting the red woman talking to Uncle Benjen by the escape tunnel. "I've seen her do amazing things with fire. She lit a fire out of nothing and used it to kill Others and they fled before her. Even if she did not intend to send Jon back in time, her magic did and there's a reason for it. It won't be an accident. Anyway, uncle Benjen is over there. Asking him is a lot faster than travelling back in time."

Bran's face flushed and she realised he hadn't even thought to ask their uncle since he arrived. It occurred to her he might have worked himself up into a state to the point where he wasn't thinking straight.

"Bran," she said, not unkindly. "That uncle Benjen over there is the same uncle Benjen who was at Harrenhal. But, I still want to see it for myself though, if we can. I want to see our father when he was a boy and Lyanna and Uncle Brandon. And Benjen too, of course."

Over-hearing his name, the man himself called over: "Is it just me, or my ears starting to burn?"

"Forgive me, Uncle, we were just discussing Jon's predicament," she replied. "But you can tell us yourself what happened there and what it is Jon might need to do."

At that, both Benjen and Melisandre came over to join them. Meera had been stewing a hot drink for them all and she reappeared as well, with Hodor helping her carry the cups of honey mead. Sansa welcomed it, now that she had finished the bitter and foul-tasting paste. Only the thought of seeing Jon again had compelled her to eat the lot.

"Thank you, Meera, come and sit beside me," she said, making room for the Crannog girl.

Meanwhile, Benjen had reached for one of the lanterns hanging from a branch and placed it on the floor in the middle of their circle. Above them, the Three-Eyed Raven slept on, slumped over in his tangle of roots. Or so it seemed to Sansa, he looked half-dead. The others, Brienne, Pod and Tormund, were all out hunting that night's supper.

"Uncle Ben," said Sansa. "If the ink is dry and we're not doing anything that hasn't already been done before, then surely you would remember Jon being at Harrenhal? Even father would have remembered."

But the man shrugged, shaking his head. "There was someone Lyanna met, but thinking on it I'd swear it was my lady Reed's father, Lord Howland."

"Father said Lady Lyanna saved his life," Meera confirmed. "He talked about her all the time."

Benjen smiled, swirling the contents of his cup. "Did Lord Howland ever tell you who the Knight of the Laughing Tree was?"

"No!" Meera retorted. "He told us everything, except that. And it puzzles me. Aerys was dead by then, the same as Lyanna and Rhaegar, so what was the big secret?"

"Was it out of respect for King Robert?" Sansa asked, looking to Meera.

Meera laughed. "Hardly. He thought Robert overbearing and arrogant."

Even as Sansa had speculated, it made no sense to her. It wasn't as if Robert would be passing through the Neck to even hear Howland Reed talking of Lyanna and her exploits. But one thing that did occur to her was that Lyanna was at the centre of everything. And Rhaegar. So far, all Bran's discoveries had been about them. Jon was with them, in person, seemingly out of the blue. It was their story Bran and Jon had unearthed the most discrepancies in. And it was those two that Sansa could not help but home in on now. Then, as she mulled it over, she remembered something else. Something that, at the time, she thought passing strange and then forgot soon after as her life delivered its next dose of shockingly awful events.

"When Baelish brought me to Winterfell to marry Ramsay, we went down to the crypts and I told him who Lyanna was and what happened to her," she recalled. "When I told him she was abducted and raped he gave me this look. A sly look he gives everyone when he knows they're talking horse shit. I remember it because he made me feel like a liar."

"Because it was a lie," Benjen confessed, meeting her gaze through the light of the lantern. Silence fell as everyone else waited for him to continue, which he did after drawing a deep breath. "It was not a lie you consciously told, niece. It was a lie you were all raised on. But now all those at the centre of the lie are cold in their graves, myself and Lord Reed not-withstanding. And I beg your father's pardon, Lady Meera, for betraying his trust now."

Meera was quick to assure him. "He would understand, Lord Stark. Especially now, with so much at stake."

"Well then, here's the short version," said Benjen. "Rhaegar loved Lyanna and Lyanna loved him back. Everyone knew it. Even your father. Personally, I think Robert could not deal with the rejection and just took it into his head that she had been abducted and raped."

Sansa was aghast. "King Robert went to war because his pride was wounded?"

"Robert didn't start the war," Benjen corrected her. "Aerys did. When he lynched my brother and burned my father … shame about Rhaegar, though. From what I saw of him he was perfectly decent sort."

Stunned, Sansa found herself staring vacantly into the middle distance. People knew. Her father knew. Everyone knew, except them. The ones left picking up the pieces.

"Even Petyr Baelish knew," she murmured, to herself more than anyone else.

"His name is familiar," said Benjen. "Sansa, who is he?"

Jolted out of her thoughts, she met his gaze across the small space dividing them. "He was Master of Coin for King Robert. He grew up at Riverrun with my mother and loved her."

Benjen sighed heavily, one hand slapped against his forehead. "Of course! Brandon duelled with him for Cat's hand in marriage. Cut him up pretty bad, too. Brandon was bragging about it when we all met at Harrenhal, I remember now."

Sansa felt her hackles rising but kept her suspicions to herself, for now. None of them knew Baelish as she did and it would take too long to explain. Before she could say anything, she heard a voice calling Bran's name. She looked around to see who it was, but none of the others seemed to have heard it. Except Bran.

"Sansa, did you hear that?" he asked.

She nodded.

Bran smiled. "Good. The paste worked. That was Jon calling. We need to go now."

Her belly squirmed with apprehension and excitement as she reached for her brother's hand. Remembering his earlier instructions, she shuffled over to the tree root and took one in her free hand and felt her eyes rolling to the back of her head as the world turned black.

Jon stood back from the tree and waited, breath held until he heard the sound of scrambling feet. Only one, he thought. Until Bran spoke, and not to him.

"You're all right Sansa," he said. "You've done it."

Jon swung around the trunk of the tree, stopping dead when he saw his sister brushing down the front of her cloak. It took a split second for her to notice him too, then her gaze locked into his. Without hesitation, he caught her in a tight hug and held her close for longer than he cared to keep track of.

"Jon, oh dear gods Jon it's really you," she said, voice muffled by his shoulder.

Bran took himself off into the godswood, affording them some privacy. Meanwhile, Jon lowered her carefully to the ground, where they lay in each other's arms beneath the boughs of the weirwood tree. When they looked to one another again, neither felt inclined to pretend they hadn't been crying.

"Thank the gods you're safe," he said, kissing her tenderly. "I swear, no one will ever hurt you again."

How he intended to keep that promise while stranded in the past he didn't know. He just knew he would. Somehow. When they finally separated and composed themselves, they burst out laughing with relief. Such was the erratic nature of human emotion. Then Jon stood up first and held out his hand to help her up.

"Come on, let's walk," he suggested. "And tell me everything that happened."

Now that the tourney was over, Harrenhal was empty but for Lyanna and Rhaegar. Even Rhaegar was leaving soon. So, Jon had no worries about walking around and seemingly talking to himself. Only the state of the grounds betrayed what had just happened here. Refuse and discarded food wrappings fluttered on the soft breeze like so many autumn leaves. Bits of horse bridle and scraps of silk favours cut from maiden's hankies were caught on the splintered stands. That was all that remained of the pomp and chivalry. Scraps of silk and a bad smell. Over it all, the broken towers of Harrenhal itself loured ominously, their shadows long and disjointed.

As they walked, Sansa recounted what had happened to her from the moment she escaped King's Landing until she reached Bran's tree. It didn't take long for his mood to reflect his desolate surroundings.

Rhaegar frowned as he let himself into Lyanna's apartments. "I swear I just saw Jon walking around the Flowstone Yard talking to himself."

Lyanna turned from the flowers she was fussing over and frowned at him. "Everyone does that … don't they?" As an afterthought, she added: "I know I do."

The Prince laughed as he removed the sack from his shoulder and placed it carefully on the table in the presence chamber. Inside was the box with his dragon egg inside.

"Take good care of her for me, won't you?" he asked. "Once what needs to be done is done, I will come back for her."

She approached the box and flipped open the lid, running a finger over the smooth shell. He knew how much she loved the colouring of the egg. It was all silver and blue swirls, the colours diffusing into each other seamlessly. "How do you know it's a girl?"

Rhaegar shrugged. "Strictly speaking, dragons are inter-sex. So, she's both male and female. But to me she's a girl. A particularly lovely girl, I might add."

The last thing he wanted was for Aerys to get his hands on it. All he asked was that the egg was well hidden and safe from whatever battles lay ahead. Once he was king and the third head of the dragon had been born, then it would be ready for the hatching. Closing the lid again, he nudged it closer to Lyanna and kissed her lips.

"I'll miss you," he said, embracing her. "When I return, we will be married."

She sighed deeply. "I'll miss you too. Please hurry back."

The moment of separation came, and Rhaegar wasn't one to draw it out. He kissed her one more time, ran his hands through her hair and turned sharply toward the door. It was time to begin.

That evening, Jon sat at the table and used his fork to push some food around a plate. He was dimly aware of Lyanna watching him, worry etched in her face. But he couldn't bring himself to talk to her. After that, he found himself in a large stone bath and sat stock still until he realised that the water had grown cold. He hadn't even noticed the temperature steadily decreasing. Done with his cold bath, he returned to his chambers and made ready for bed. Sleep eluded him as he stared up at the canopy of his four-poster. He didn't even notice that he'd been crying, but the tears slipped down his face anyway. It was dark and there was no one to see, so he didn't care even when he did notice.

Footsteps padded up to his bedroom door, but he rolled over at the sound of the knock on his door. When it opened, and soft candlelight sent the darkness into relief, he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

But Lyanna was not fooled. "I know you're awake."

He heard her placing the candle on his bedside table, followed soon after by the mattress dipping where she sat beside him. She lay reclined leisurely, placing one hand on his bare shoulder.

"Talk to me," she said, quietly. "All evening you've been moping around with a face like a slapped arse. I'm worried."

There was no point ignoring her. It wasn't worth the effort. "There's things I must not tell you. But if I start, I won't be able to stop myself."

"Is it about the future?" she asked,

She hit the spot and it hurt. He wished he could tell her everything, about Robert being king and Cersei his queen and all the storms that union brought to the Stark's halls. But he didn't see how he could and he didn't see how it could help. Not with her being eighteen years dead.

"You didn't fool me, Jon," she continued. "Whatever the future holds, I know I'm not part of it."

His heart sank again as he turned onto his back, forcing her to shift over a little. When he got her in his line of vision, he could see she was calm. Even half smiling at him in the semi-darkness.

"You are part of it," he stated. "In one form or another."

Lyanna made no reply, drew a deep breath and carried on watching him with that half-smile on her face. Her hair and eyes were dark as night in the poor light. Half a ghost already.

"I still can't get my head around where you've come from," she eventually continued. "From the little you've told me, and what little you've said of your sisters, things don't seem so good at your end. Am I right in thinking it's something to do with that?"

"It's not my sisters," he said. "Well, it is, but it isn't."

Lyanna laughed. "It is, but it isn't? And to think you men are always complaining us women can never get to the point."

She was only teasing him good naturedly, trying to get a rise form him. But it wasn't working. Realising the fact, she changed tack. "Tell me then, how many children does Ned have?"

"Five and me," Jon replied. "Robb's the eldest, then Sansa. Arya came next, then Bran and Rickon. I'm a little younger than Robb. Apart from us, there was Theon. Balon Greyjoy's youngest son and father's ward."

"There must always be a Bran in House Stark," she laughed, toying with a loose thread in his blankets. She was sitting with her legs curled under her now, but he couldn't begin to fathom what she was thinking. Whether she was envisioning a future she already knew had nothing to do with her or trying to second guess how these things came to be. "So, it's not Sansa or Arya keeping you awake, which of your brothers is it?"

"Robb," he admitted. "He wasn't just my brother. He was my closest friend and I loved him so much I'd have followed him to hell and back, had he asked. But he did something unforgivable and now innocent people are suffering for it."

"'Unforgivable' is a very big word, Jon," she said. "What could possibly be that bad?"

"He rebelled against the crown after his lords declared him King in the North," he explained. "At first it went well, but he was betrayed and he ended up losing Winterfell, the North and his life. Thousands of Stark bannermen were slaughtered at the Twins, the Boltons were given Wardship of the North, Sansa was forced to marry Roose Bolton's son."

Lyanna was silent as she tried to make sense of it. "Are you telling me that, in twenty years from now, the Boltons will have the North and Winterfell? Where is Ned?"

"Dead," he stated, bluntly. "He was Hand of the King, but Cersei Lannister conspired his downfall and execution. That was why Robb rebelled."

She was wide-eyed and silent, motionless as if the future had turned her to stone.

"Lya, it's bad. We really have lost everything," he continued. "Father married Catelyn Tully in Brandon's place, so the Riverlands supported him. He was meant to marry a daughter of Walder Frey in return for use of that damn bridge of his and a few thousand extra fighting men. But he broke his oath and married a girl from the Westerlands. Robb executed one of his own lords, and lost several thousand men overnight. He trusted an Ironborn, which led to the loss of Winterfell. Instead of riding back north to defend his own home, he trusted the Boltons to do it. He put his gains in the Riverlands first, instead of prioritising his own people. Greed and stupidity led us to hell."

"And my niece, Sansa, is married to Domeric Bolton?" she asked. "Roose is an utter cunt, but Domeric's a nice enough boy. I do not think he would be cruel-"

"Domeric's dead," Jon cut in. "Roose's legitimised bastard killed him, or so they say. Now they have Winterfell and Ramsay Bolton is holding it in his father's name. Our servants have been flayed, our people live in fear and my sister was raped and beaten every night until she escaped. Now I'm stuck here, unable to help anyone."

Lyanna fell silent again as she slowly rose from the bed and began pacing the floorboards. Too despondent to get up himself, Jon contented himself with tracking her movements as she passed to and fro, chewing nervously at the tip of her index finger. After what seemed an age she stopped abruptly, fixing him in a calculating look. He heard a breath hitching in her throat, but if she was going to speak, she suffered a last minute change of heart. Then fled the room.

Thinking to go after her, he rolled off the bed and began pulling on his breeches. But before long, he heard her hurrying back inside. When she reached the bedside, she dropped a large wooden box on the bed and opened the clasp. Inside the box, the dragon egg caught the candlelight and shimmered sweetly.

"You say it's alive," she said, breathlessly.

Confused, Jon frowned at her. "Yes, but-"

"Pick it up!" she snapped.

He did so and, once more, he could feel the heat inside, pulsing like a heartbeat. Beneath the thin shell, small wings and a long sinuous tail brushed the membrane under his fingers. It was alive in there, he could feel it. He was half-tempted to split the damn thing open and pull the dragon out himself. But why could she not feel it? He didn't have time to wonder.

"Rhaegar needs it well hidden until after the war against his father," she said. "I was already considering the crypts of Winterfell anyway. What with this war against the dead coming, we needed it in the north, no matter who holds Winterfell. Even Rhaegar said so."

Jon's mind cleared and it felt like a beautiful dawn had broken through the dark clouds of his own introspection. His hands were trembling so much that he had to put the egg down before he dropped it.

"I-if," he stammered, then paused to compose himself. "If we can hatch this, then take it to Winterfell and hide it deep in the crypts. Then-"

Lyanna grinned as she finished the plan for him. "Give it twenty years and there's a fire breathing surprise in store for the Boltons."

"We both heard the stories," he said, softly. "What if there's rumours of a dragon in Winterfell because we put it there?"

"But we were told the stories too," Lyanna pointed out. "Which means it must have been there when we were children."

"Did your father hear the stories when he was a boy?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Said he'd never heard such nonsense in his life. But I think he would have said that anyway, just to put us off."

As the complications to their fledgling plan opened up to him, his hopes began to fade. He remembered the rose he gave to Bran, that shrivelled up and aged and died within seconds of passing through the time barrier. Without nourishment and food to help it grow, the dragon would just shrivel up and die like that rose did. How could he keep a dragon secretly living below Winterfell for so long? What would it eat? How would they get it down there and sustained for over twenty years? Who had the freedom to break the time barriers at will….

"Bran," Jon whispered, in reply to his own question.

"No, he knows absolutely nothing about dragons," Lyanna replied, thinking he meant her brother. Jon didn't bother to correct her.

Giving himself a shake, he continued dressing himself. "First things first, we need to hatch it. Does Rhaegar know how?"

To his dismay, she shook her head. "He's trying to find out."

Bran would know what to do, he thought to himself. Sansa might even have heard about Daenerys Targaryen while she was at court. There were bound to be rumours of how she went about hatching three dragons. It would be complicated, it was fraught with problems, but it was the only plan he had. A half-alive dragon was the only weapon he had.

"There's someone I need to speak to," he said. "Someone I think might be able to help."

To his relief, she didn't ask who. She just nodded. "I'll check the library here. There's bound to be old books lying around."

Given that they were in Harrenhal, he suspected the only dragon books in this library would be ones about flame proofing your turret towers. Never mind nurturing dragons for use in combat. Still, there had to be way. If there was a way, he inwardly resolved, he would take back all Robb had lost. The rape and ruin of Sansa Stark would be answered with fire and blood.

Chapter Text

Thin mists wreathed a perfect circle of tree stumps, slowly melting away like ghosts under a summer sun. The beating of wings drew Jon's attention to the raven perched on one of the stumps and he greeted it like an old friend. It cawed loudly at him before flapping away into the pre-dawn gloom. Jon expected no less. It was just like that old bastard to bring him somewhere and then leave him to figure it out on his own. But he knew already and triumph surged in him, making him feel like he'd bested fate.

Tree stumps in a perfect circle. Thirty-one of them. If he knelt and ran his hands across the surface, he could still feel the nicks and welts left by the axes of the First Men as they cut down these sacred weirwoods. Time and the elements had smoothed down their rough and abrasive edges, but they still told their story. If he looked hard enough, he thought he might even see the blood of the Children of the Forest who were massacred here. High Heart. A place sacred to the old gods, a shrine to those massacred in the brutal onslaught of the First Men and their new religion.

Standing straight again, Jon looked over his shoulder to where the God's Eye shimmered in the far distance. It was still silvery from moonlight and the castle of Harrenhal was nothing but a blackened speck on the shore. The Isle of Faces, where the pact of peace between the Children and the First Men was signed, was shrouded in darkness still. Before him was a picture only partially revealed.

"Why do you come to my hill?"

Startled, Jon whirled around toward the source of the voice. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Tiny, she was. With white hair that trailed the ground and red eyes that glowered in the light of her lantern. In her other hand, a crooked black stick aided her in standing. She used it to lurch forward, closing the gap between them.

"The Three-Eyed Raven-" he began, but she cut him off with a sharp poke of her walking stick.

"Oof!" he grunted as it hit him in the belly.

"I've not had a moment's peace since you got here, wolfboy," the crone complained. "Begone! Begone with you!"

He felt as if he'd been thrown off a cliff edge, plunging down and back into his own body as he awoke with a gasp. Still jittery from the dream, he rolled right out of bed and pulled back the shutters on his windows. He was back in Harrenhal, in a room overlooking the God's Eye. The hour was late and the sun already up. Down in the yard below, Lyanna was walking arm in arm with Lord Whent's eldest daughter, laughing inaudibly at some jest. Almost as if she had sensed him looking, she turned her face up to his window and waved.

Sansa found Lady Reed beyond the door of the weirwood, skinning the rabbits Tormund and Brienne had captured during the hunt. Close by, Pod was trying to light a fire with a flint. He was the first to see her. As always, he turned a deep and vivid shade of red and gulped loudly. No matter how friendly she tried to be, he was always the same. Shy, nervous and awkward.

"Good morning, Pod," she greeted him.

In response, he gulped again and gestured toward some nearby bushes. He tried to speak, before giving up and stumbling into the same bushes. Meera put down the rabbit and watched him go, a look of utter bemusement on her face.

"What is wrong with him?" she asked, looking up at Sansa.

"Nothing, he's just very shy," she answered, sitting beside the Crannog girl. "I've known him for years and he's actually not as bad as he was."

"That's all right then," replied Meera. "I was worried in case a southern village was missing its idiot."

Sansa laughed. "I know how it looks. But don't underestimate him. He saved Tyrion Lannister's life at the Battle of Blackwater. If it had been anyone else, he'd have gotten a knighthood and some good land for his valour."

Meera frowned. "He's too shy for a reward?"

"Oh, no," she corrected. "I meant if he had saved anyone other than Lord Tyrion."

"But that's the Queen's brother!"

"And it was the Queen who sent a kingsguard out into the field to kill him and make it look like one of Stannis' men had done it," Sansa explained. "The fool didn't even have the sense to take his cloak off. He certainly didn't reckon on Pod and his pike."

"Poor Pod," Meera retorted. "He's a hero and no one cared."

Sansa smiled as she recalled the reward he did get. She remembered overhearing Tyrion talking to Bronn about it.

"Well, that's not quite true," she explained, leaning in close to the other girl. "Let's just say the girls in Baelish's brothel weren't quite prepared for Pod and his pike either."

Meera's eyes widened, before she burst out laughing. "No!"

Sansa grinned. "Oh, yes."

As they spoke, the man himself reappeared struggling with an armful of chopped logs for Melisandre's fire. He almost dropped the lot when he saw the two girls watching him, desperately suppressing their giggles. Mercifully, he valiantly kept himself together and carried on toward the fire pit set up well away from their tree.

"Who knew?" Meera whispered, just as he vanished from view.

Sansa shrugged and changed the subject before they got completely side tracked. "Anyway, I came out here to ask if I could help. I'm not a butcher, but I can peel and cut vegetables and I know good berries and mushrooms to pick."

"It's all right, Lady Stark-"

"Please, I want to help," she cut in. "And you can call me Sansa."

More than anything, she was sick of feeling useless. She had been useless in King's Landing, she had been useless on the run in the Vale and she had felt useless and abandoned in Winterfell. She relied on Baelish to save her, then Theon and now Brienne. Meera seemed to sense her powerlessness and eventually nodded.

"All right, Sansa. Why don't I teach you to skin and bone a rabbit?"

Sansa beamed. "I'd like that, thank you."

True to her word, Meera helped her learn the new skill. It wasn't until she fled from Ramsay that she even learned how to forage for edible forest food. Before then, everyone had done everything for her, keeping her helpless. Now she felt like she was doing things for herself even without Baelish's tutelage.

"I also wanted to thank you for taking care of my brother," she said, as she pelted her first rabbit.

Meera stopped what she doing. "It's an honour to help him."

"But still, I wanted to thank you," Sansa persisted. "You've stayed by his side even when all was lost. Without you, and Jojen, he would have had nothing and no one."

At mention of her brother's name, Meera's eyes misted. Inwardly, Sansa cursed herself for raising his ghost. But she knew what it was like to lose a brother.

"We can never repay the debt we owe you, so I won't insult you by promising that we will," she continued.

"Jojen knew," replied Meera. "The truth is, he probably knew before we even left Greywater Watch. Like Bran, he had the greensight. He saw the sack of Winterfell long before it happened. That's how we were able to escape. He knew the way to the Three-Eyed Raven, because they've always known each other."

"I never knew such powers existed," said Sansa. All her life she had followed her mother's faith, the faith of the seven. Only now, when she had lost everything, did the power of the old gods reveal itself before her. She could almost feel it resonating through the ground she walked on and the trees she sheltered beneath.

"Sansa," said Meera, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Forgive me my forwardness, but I heard about your marriage to Ramsay Bolton and …. and what he did to you."

Sansa felt herself grow tense. "It's over now, I'm free of him."

"Forgive me," Meera repeated. "But, on the off-chance that there are other consequences … that perhaps you're keeping hidden …. I just want you to know that I can brew the tea that will rid you of those consequences."

Although her moon blood had come three or four times since her escape, gratitude washed over Sansa. "Thank you, Meera. But I have bled since then. The first time it happened after my escape, I cried for happiness. Before, when I was convinced he'd put a baby in me, I swore I would kill myself rather than birth his monster."

It had been late. Weeks late. She was checking every day and even every few hours, praying all the time that the cramps she normally dreaded would come and herald her time of the month. Shae once told her that the more you worry about it the later it is, as if playing games with you. Then, one night before reaching Castle Black, her mental anguish ended and the aches woke her before dawn. She really had broken down and wept with relief.

Before Meera could reply, Benjen stepped out of the doorway of the tree. "The Raven wants to see you, niece."

"Me?" she asked, puzzled.

"You better go," said Meera.

But before she left, the two girls wrapped their arms around each other in a tender embrace.

Inside, Bran was positioned directly below the old man in the tree. Sansa craned her neck to look up at him, realising he wasn't just in the tree. He was part of the tree. The thing had consumed him. She looked to Bran to see if he knew what was going on, but all he did was shuffle aside to make room for her.

"Are we going to find out how to hatch dragon eggs?" she asked, recalling the previous evening's discussion with Jon. She had been no help to him. All she remembered about Daenerys Targaryen was Joffrey throwing a tantrum over the issue.

"I don't know," he answered. "There's something he wants to show us."

Sensing something else going on, she probed no further and settled down next to Bran. It was only her third time and she still wasn't used to the feeling of being sucked back in time. Rather like being squeezed through a tight tube and spat out the other end. First it was frightening, now it was uncomfortable. And when she opened her eyes again, she was greeted by the sight of battered corpses strewn along a riverbank.

Gasping audibly, she jumped back and almost knocked Bran over. She would have fallen herself, had he not been there. Apologising, she gripped his hand and let her gaze rake over the scene of carnage before her. It wasn't the gore that shocked her, that was nothing she hadn't seen before. But having it sprung on her, out of the blue, proved a little much.

"It's the Trident," she said, noting a dead destrier blocking the river downstream.

Bran had released her hand and was kneeling next to a dead man in black enamelled armour. She could she the three-headed dragon sigil on the caved in breastplate and the breath caught in her throat. The bloodied waters of the Trident washed over Prince Rhaegar, carrying away the rubies embedded in his armour. A ribbon of grey silk trailed from his wrist. Cautiously, she stepped into the water and knelt to look at it properly. A white direwolf was embroidered in miniature alongside Lyanna's name.

"Raise his helm," she said. "He might be alive."

But Bran shook his head. "No, he's dead."

The stars twinkled back at Rhaegar as he looked up through the skeletal roof beams of Summerhall. Underfoot, debris crunched as he trod across the blackened floor. Back in its day, this burned-out shell of a pleasure palace had been a grand place. All marbled floors and sweeping, winding staircases. The banqueting hall was almost as big as the one at Harrenhal, but much more majestic. But it's once ornate pillars and statues now stood broken and bent, melted in the heat of the fire that had consumed it.

Summerhall was at once his favourite place and the saddest place in the world. Many asked him if, once he was king, he would order it to be rebuilt. But there was nothing he would change about Summerhall as it was now. The ruins possessed a beauty of their own. They were a whisper of the once grand past, a trace of human history that spoke of an age of beauty long lost. He had been born here, amidst the raging fires and choking on the thick palls of smoke, almost drowning in the tears of his mother and those grieving for the many dead that night.

He knew the names of those who had died: Ser Duncan the Tall, Prince Duncan the Small and his wife, Jenny of Oldstones. A woman he loved so much he set aside his claim to the throne to marry her. The little dwarf woman Jenny brought here had perished, too. The one who made the prophesy that the Prince that was Promised would come from the line of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen. When Rhaegar came here, he played his harp for them in hope they could still hear it … wherever they are.

Here and now, however, Ser Barristan Selmy was leaning against a blackened pillar and watching him with that look on his face. That look which spoke of disapproval, but he couldn't say it to him because of his station. The Prince hoped it would pass soon, but when it didn't he sighed and turned to his old friend.

"Ser Barristan, say it please," he beseeched the knight.

Ser Barristan righted his stand. "I don't know what you're talking about, your grace."

"You know very well, so out with it," Rhaegar commanded. To show he wasn't letting up, he closed the gap between them so they stood shoulder to shoulder.

"I just wish I knew why your grace keeps returning to this sad place," Ser Barristan replied. "And, I confess, every time you come here I fear you will indulge in some folly. Some sorcery to bring back that dragon of yours."

"Then rest easy," he assured the knight. "I've left it with Lady Lyanna. Where she's taking it, it will never be found. Speaking of which, when we're wed I think I'll bring her here."

"As to that," Ser Barristan cut in. "Don't you think you're rushing things, just a little."

Rhaegar sighed heavily. "I don't have forever. We're already running out of time and I feel like I haven't even got started. The dragon is still stone."

He tried to explain it half a hundred times, and always failed. Before Jon came along, no one else even believed him. But then, he knew, Jon was his own conundrum,

"Barristan, do you know that boy Lyanna takes everywhere?" he asked.

"Jon?"

Rhaegar nodded. "I thought he was one of them: a Stark. He's identical to them. Don't you think?"

"I assumed he was Eddard," Barristan laughed. "He's about that age."

"It's more than that," he insisted. "Lyanna told me she felt like she needed him, or that she knew him from somewhere. The thing is, and I did not tell her this, I felt the same."

He stopped talking and turned to Barristan, gaging his reaction. Whether he thought he was mad or going off on a flight of fancy – Selmy could never hide his thoughts from him. However, the older man now just looked mystified. After a moment's clear struggle for something meaningful to say, he fell back on familiar ground.

"He's an excellent fighter, your grace. Dare I say it, the equal of Ser Arthur Dayne no less. He carries a good sword, too. Valyrian Steel. I thought, perhaps, you might be looking for a position to give him."

"He also said he saw the Others," Rhaegar said. "What do you make of that?"

The old knight looked sceptical. "And you believe him?"

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, I do. Which is why there's no time left to waste. We've got to get moving."

He turned back to the ruins of Summerhall, certain in the knowledge the dragon would only stir in there. Somewhere.

A harsh head wind slowed the horse's progress as it struggled up the steep hill. Jon dug his spurs in again, but knew it was no good. He couldn't change the weather and the animal was already suffering enough. After another hour, he dismounted and took the bridle in his hands, leading the way himself. The path he followed was blighted by loose rocks and treacherously uneven ground. He stumbled often and scuffed the toe of his boots. Then, to compound matters, the rain began to fall. Pulling his supplies off the horses back, he wrapped his cloak around them to keep him warm. A local told him, even if he did find her, she would not speak unless he gave her offerings.

He left Harrenhal over two weeks ago, unaware of just how long it would take. Worse, when he reached the top, there was no one there but him and his horse. Cold and soaked through, he gave the palfrey a dejected look. "He's sent us out here on fool's errand, hasn't he?"

The horse whickered in response, before pulling away to crop at the wet grass. Jon let him go and turned his attention to the stumps of the weirwood trees. He would set up camp in the middle of the circle and begin the long journey back on the morrow. The area was wide enough, but there was no hope of striking a flint in the persistent rain. But she found him before he could even think to go looking for her.

The rain had got her and she looked like a drowned woman. Limp pair hanging around her tiny frame, red eyes dull against pale white skin. Without saying anything, she turned and walked away. Taking it as a cue to follow, Jon went after her. Down the hillside and into an opening he had not seen in the dream. It was fortified with stones forming an arch, but it was warm inside and a fire smoked deep in the burrow. Jon let the sack fall from his shoulder and let it fall in the middle of the room he found himself in.

Squinting through the poor light, he could see where the roots of the weirwoods had grown down through the roof of her burrow. They hung from the ceiling, or what passed for a ceiling, in twisting, snaking tendrils.

"I don't have much to offer," he said, locating her again. "But it's better than nothing."

"You have nothing to offer but grief." She had her back to him, where she was pottering around with instruments he could not see. When she returned, she was empty handed but gestured to the fire. "Sit."

Hesitantly, Jon did so. "The Three-Eyed Raven brought me here, but I suppose you already knew that."

Despite her earlier accusation that all he brought was grief, the old woodswitch was now rummaging through his bag. She found the wine and hard cheese, homing in on it as if she'd sniffed it out a mile away. But Jon did not begrudge her. Not if she could tell him anything. His discomfiture grew as she maintained her silence.

"You said in the dream that the old gods have given you no peace since I came here," he recalled. "I think you know who I am, where I've come from." Eying the tree roots, he added: "The Raven gave you advance warning of my arrival, I take it."

She drank from his wine skin and flopped down beside him. "I gorged on grief at Summerhall, now the old gods bring me yours. Don't talk to me about Brynden Rivers."

Summerhall, again. "That place comes up time and again. Bran and the Three-Eyed Raven showed it to me when I first got here. My aunt says the Prince is obsessed with the place. Now you just happen to drop it into conversation that you were there. You mean the fire, don't you? Is that where the dragon awoke?"

The old woman turned her red eyes toward him. "The Prince that was Promised will be born amidst salt and smoke, and wake dragons from stone. He will come from the line of Aerys and Rhaella. My Jenny knew that and whispered to the Dragonfly."

Jon frowned. "It was you? You made the prophecy?"

Her expression clouded as she rocked gently back and forth. Her red eyes reflected the fire, but she held her silence and reached for the wine again. She drank so deep it ran down her chin.

"For all the grief it brought me, for all the grief it's yet to bring," she lamented, eyes dull with pain. "I was there on the night of the fire, when they tried to hatch the egg. I saw my Jenny burn…"

Her pain was real. Jon could see it in her. The Targaryen obsession had all but destroyed the poor old crone. But he had to persist, or face being stuck in the past forever.

"Rhaegar was born that night," he reminded her. "And the dragon egg they were trying to hatch awoke. I've felt it myself. Waking from stone isn't the same as hatching from stone, is it? Did Rhaegar's birth wake that dragon. Is he the Prince that was Promised?"

A smile played at her thin lips as she met his gaze for the first time. He had struck a nerve and could almost feel the resonance himself.

"So, I must save him," Jon murmured, almost to himself rather than the crone. "But how can I do that without changing history?"

"How did you get here?" she asked.

The method was etched in his very flesh. "I was killed-" He broke off himself, realising a way out. "If Rhaegar is dead, then bringing him to the future doesn't change anything. He's dead here and he stays dead throughout the reigns of Robert and Joffrey. The ink stays dry, but the future is unwritten. That's it! That must be it. But how do I bring him back to my time if I'm stuck here?"

The old crone eyed him suspiciously. "You were sent here for another reason? Yet you didn't bring it with you."

Jon sighed heavily. "The dragon egg. I need to find a way to hatch that dragon between now and the Trident."

"Fire and blood, Jon Snow. Fire and blood."

He smiled as it all slotted into place. "Summerhall. And you're like the Three-Eyed raven – you can take me back there. That's why it keeps coming up. That's why it was shown to me. I need to go back there with the egg."

Jon looked up at the weirwood roots hanging from the unseen roof. "Is Brynden Rivers the Three-Eyed raven?"

"Of course," she replied. "Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, bastard son of Aegon the Unworthy. I knew him well."

It led Jon on to something else that had been bothering him. Something that bothered him more, now that he knew his reason for being here had nothing to do with his family.

"Why me?" he asked. "Why do I have to be the one to save Rhaegar and hatch dragon eggs? People die every day, yet I'm the one who gets sent back to do all this."

The woman looked at him long and hard, calculating. "You really don't know, do you?"

"What?" he asked, nonplussed.

But the woman just laughed. She laughed so hard tears rolled down her cheeks.

"I could tell you everything," she said, once she composed herself. "But somethings a man must learn for himself."

Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be great, if you have a minute.

Chapter Text

Jon sat with his back to the trunk of the weirwood, watching as Bran paced and Sansa nudged at the river water with the toe of her shoe. Knowing her luck, he thought, she would be pitched in at any second. Mercifully, she soon gave up testing the water and came to join him beneath the boughs of the tree. So far, it seemed, they had found out little of interest on their travels. They informed him that Rhaegar definitely did die on the Trident, that their father was present at the sack of King's Landing and that it was the eunuch, Varys, who opened the gates of the city to Tywin Lannister's forces.

"So much for serving the realm," Sansa had griped as Bran recounted all they had seen.

Meanwhile, he had news of his own to tell and a dragon egg to show them. "I have to return to High Heart just as soon as Rhaegar gets here. Then I need you, Bran, to meet at the fire of Summerhall with the Three-Eyed Raven. Look at this."

He brought the box with the egg out of its sack and opened it in the clearing, where they could all see it. Sansa leaned forward, running her finger down its smooth, scaled edge. Bran stopped his pacing and came over for a closer look.

"The first fire didn't hatch the egg," he stated. "So what will you do differently?"

Jon thought he had the answer. "They used wildfire to basically set the thing on fire. They had seven of them. All sitting in a pool of wildfire, of all things. No wonder the whole palace went up."

Sansa grimaced, no doubt reliving her own memories of what wildfire could do. Jon knew she had been at the Battle of Blackwater, where the same substance was used to decimate an entire fleet of ships, and most of the crews along with it. As for Jon, he recalled Stannis and Davos telling him about it. It had been their ships at the heart of the conflagration that night and Jon shivered just to imagine it. The whole river had been ablaze and using that stuff in an enclosed place like Summerhall had been asking for trouble.

"What's needed," he added. "Is a proper blood sacrifice. Blood from the Prince that was Promised, I think. It's there in the Targaryen words: fire and blood. And Rhaegar was born that night, amidst salt and smoke and fire, from the line of Aerys and Rhaella. Just as the prophecy said."

He was still cautious of setting too much stock in prophecy. It was vague and treacherous by nature, open to interpretation. But, for want of anything else, it was all he had to go on. He fulfilled what criteria there was and was now merely hoping for the best.

"Then we'll do it," Bran replied. "We'll meet you there. But, what about you? How will you go back?"

"The Ghost agreed to help," Jon assured his brother. "Did you know the Raven grew up here? He was the son of Aegon the Unworthy. He came to the Wall with Maester Aemon. His lover was Sheira Seastar and they practised magic together, Bran. I need him there when we go back to Summerhall."

Bran's eyes widened in surprise, as though he hadn't considered what his mentor did before he became an all-seeing tree. It was Jon's hope that he might even know something about using magic to hatch dragon eggs. Either way, he knew he could not do it alone.

"If he knows, he will help," Bran replied. "What about Sansa?"

Jon thought on it for a second. He hated leaving her out, but there was something else entirely that he needed from her. When he returned from High Heart, he learned that he had missed more than just his aunt's fifteenth name day.

"In a month's time, Lya is going to wed Rhaegar," he told them. "I will still be at High Heart when it happens, so I need you, Sansa, to witness it for me."

Disappointment clouded her expression, making him regretful. Hardly surprising, given her own woeful marital history. Hastily, he added: "Unless you don't wish to. You know, bad memories and all-"

"I'll do whatever I can to help," she cut in. "It's just that I would like to see the baby dragon, if there's a way."

Bran was quick to reassure her. "There will be a way. Actually, we'll both be seeing a lot of the dragon. If Jon manages to hatch it." After a brief pause, he asked: "What does Rhaegar think you're doing with it?"

"Lyanna's told him it's being taken to Winterfell, to incubate in the hot springs in hope of a natural hatching," Jon explained. "It could even work, for all I know. But we can't afford to wait and take the risk. We need it hatched now, ready for attack."

"And does Rhaegar know his princely blood will need to be spilled in order for it to work?" asked Sansa.

"Not all of it," replied Jon, defensively. "So much as a shaving cut would suffice, but to be safe I want a willing sacrifice and a goodly amount. He'll agree though, so don't worry about that. What I still don't understand is why it's me that needs to be the one to do this. I asked the Ghost, but she just laughed me out of her hill."

The other two were thoughtful for a long moment. It was Sansa who eventually answered.

"Because you're the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. It's you who will be commanding the troops that save the realm from the Others and the wights. This dragon isn't just taking back Winterfell, he's saving the realm."

He wanted to tell her he was no such thing any more. His brothers killed him. His watch had ended. But she was talking about him like he was one of the heroes from her favourite stories, the ones she stopped believing in a long time ago. He couldn't quite bring himself to say the words.

"Speaking of which," he eventually said. "I need to be at the Trident. When I do, I need Melisandre back at Castle Black. It's imperative."

Sansa nodded. "Is that when you will come back?"

"I don't know for sure," he replied, doubtfully. "Just on the off chance, I need her there. And you, preferably."

As she agreed, their meeting drew to its natural conclusion. Before they slipped away, however, he caught Sansa in a hug and kissed her forehead. "I'll see you both soon," he promised.

He made his way back to Harrenhal under the warm spring sunshine, without lingering to enjoy the weather. Straight up the southern tower, to where Lyanna was waiting in the chambers allocated to her. In his absence, she had grown close to Oswald Whent's eldest daughter and they were rarely apart. But now Rhaegar was due back any day and secret preparations were being made for the secret wedding. However, when he did find her, she was sitting in a window embrasure overlooking the God's Eye, lost in her own musings. It took a full minute for her to realise she was no longer alone.

Jon cleared his throat to get her attention. "Lya."

She gasped as she was jolted out of her reverie. "You startled me!"

Still, she greeted him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Forgive me," he said, settling down in the window seat beside her. Their view looked out over the vast lake, all the way to the Isle of Faces in the middle. On the north shore two young lovers were entwined in each other's arms.

"Aren't they sweet," said Lyanna, smiling down at them.

Jon managed a smile. The girl was a redhead, reminding him forcefully of Ygritte. But when the girl turned her face towards the castle, he realised she looked more like Sansa. In fact ….

"Is that Catelyn Tully?" he gasped.

Lyanna laughed. "Of course not. It's her sister, Lysa. Not sure who the boy is, though. Some sweetheart who's set his cap at her, no doubt."

"She's a long way from home," he observed. "Where is her father? Her siblings?"

"I asked after Cat, but she's still at Riverrun," she answered. "Lord Hoster and Edmure are here, though. They're just stopping for an overnight rest before moving on to the Fingers."

Even though she did not know him here, he was relieved to hear Catelyn was safely at Riverrun. The memory of her was quite enough, without the flesh and blood reminder. Then, he remembered, she was due to marry Brandon in just a few short months. It was little wonder that she was trekking across the Riverlands with her family.

Having seen enough of other people's happiness, Lyanna turned from the window and looked over at him. "Are you sure you're not going to be able to stay for my wedding?"

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling guilty over it. He had missed her name day, too. But bought her a bolt of cream silk to make up for it, to form part of her wedding gown. "When will you write to Lord Robert?"

"This evening," she replied, her face darkening. "As soon as Rhaegar gets here. I'm dreading sending the letter, but it must be done. I don't even know why, seeing as he has a store of lovers secreted away."

"I don't know about that," he replied, but otherwise kept his feelings to himself. In his time, Robert Baratheon's reputation went before him. But it was now that something was due to go horribly wrong. It was now that everything was poised to go to hell, and only he knew it. But he couldn't understand how. Even if things were being done underhand, it was all pretty clear.

While he and Lyanna lapsed into a natural silence, he turned back to Lysa and her man. It seemed they had begun to quarrel, with Lysa forcing the man to touch her belly and him pulling violently away. Oh dear, he thought and soon lost interest.

Rhaegar winced as the blade of the knife bit into his palm. Nevertheless, he closed his hand around the blade until he felt hot, sticky blood oozing through his bunched up fingers. The droplets splashed against the shell of the egg, running down its sides and tracing the lines of the scaled edges in vivid red. He then opened his fist to let the blood run straight from the deep cut and onto the shell. The egg itself was sat in an earthenware bowl, ready to be packed in wool to keep his offering of blood sealed into its porous membrane.

He was less than convinced that this blood sacrifice would work, but anything was worth a try. Meanwhile, Lyanna was standing by with a clean linen cloth, ready to bind his hand. Jon hovered close by, ready to set off immediately.

"What now?" he asked, watching as Jon began binding the bloodied egg up.

"There's hot springs deep below Winterfell," answered Jon. "I'm taking it back there, where no one will find it. We're hoping the heat of the hot springs will incubate the dragon until it hatches of its own accord."

Still unconvinced, he nodded while the box was closed on the egg and the other man bore it away. Stepping into Jon's empty place, Lyanna bound his hand before the blood could spill on his clean tunic.

"Is it stinging?" she asked.

"Some," he replied, biting his lip as her bindings made the pain worse. But the sting soon subsided to a sharp throbbing. "Is Jon leaving for Winterfell already?"

Lyanna nodded. "He will meet up with us again on the road to Dragonstone, I think. Although, I thought Elia and the children would continue to live there?"

"That was the first plan," he admitted. "But she is content to stay in King's Landing until the war against my father is over and I am king – for the sake of the Dornish alliance."

"She's a lot more generous than I would be, in her situation," said Lyanna. "In fact, I think I would cut your …. oh, never mind."

But Rhaegar was under no illusions. "It's not for my sake! Regardless of how Elia and I really feel for each other, Aegon is soon to be next in line for the throne. Aegon's part Dornish and nothing will change that, so it's in their interests to make sure the alliance stands for his benefit. I know I've dishonoured her and her brothers. I just hope you understand that I must do everything I can to make it up to them. Including having Elia at the Red Keep, just until the succession is settled. Once it's all over, I will offer Elia a good castle and a generous pension. But I doubt she wants to remain in Westeros. I hope you don't mind. We never loved each other, but Elia's a good person who didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve me."

A frown marred her brow, but she was still beautiful to him. "Of course, I understand. It's all so very complicated. But, my love, have you considered what will happen if you lose? Then Elia, your children and even yourself could all be in great danger."

He hadn't considered it, because it wasn't going to happen. Every lord in the land wanted Aerys gone and he was the promised change; he even had the Tyrells raising their banners at that very moment. If it hadn't been for Varys' snooping, the over-throw would have been planned during the Tourney itself. As such, he offered his betrothed what assurances he could and kissed her cheek.

"If I do this right, it might not even come to war," he said, cupping her face. "But, before all that, let's forget everything and look forward to our wedding."

Her cares melted away and she managed a wan smile. "Yes. Yes, we can. And if it does come to war, I'll take to the field myself with my sword in my hands."

That was more like it, he thought, and kissed her again.

Jon didn't stop until he reached High Heart. Over a week's hard ride for the hill and another day to scale the damn thing. Only once he was back with the Ghost did he check his package. Rhaegar's blood offering had been packed it with linen and wool, keeping it safe from the elements. He unravelled it in front of her, slowly and carefully, while she sunk a bottle of wine he'd brought as a gift for her.

The events of that night had driven the little dwarf woman half mad with grief and he knew what he was asking by getting her to bring him back there. As such, he bought her a good Arbour gold, some fine Riverlands cheese and a barrel of salted fish from Salt Pans. It was just enough to soften the emotional blow he had dealt her.

"The sooner we get this started, the sooner it ends," he told her.

Apparently, she agreed. Cradling the dragon egg, pressing it close to his heart where it beat in tandem with the pulsing life within, he and the Ghost reached for the roots of the ancient weirwoods. When he opened his eyes and stood up again, he found himself looking up at a magnificent pleasure palace surrounded by feasters and revellers. Music thrummed from within the halls and voices all talked loudly over the melodious din.

Before setting off for Summerhall, he looked around for Bran and found no sign of him. Muttering a curse, he stuck by the Ghost as she rocked and sobbed at the sight before her. Despondently, he realised she would be of no further help to him that night.

"Leave her be."

Jon whirled round, to where the Three-Eyed Raven was making his way through the crowds. Although still startled, he breathed a sigh of relief and hugged the dragon egg close to his chest. Not only was Brynden Rivers a dab hand in mystifying people, but sneaking up on them too. To Jon's relief, Brandon was close by.

"If we're to do this we need to go now," Rivers advised.

Jon nodded. "Then let's."

It wasn't far to walk and, invisible now, they slipped past the guards with ease. The doors were already open, along with plenty of windows. Jon realised that, later in the evening, the breeze coming in would only help the already raging flames.

In the marble banqueting halls he found himself in, the people were already assembled. He looked straight to the high table, where the king was seated beside his queen. Not far from them, a heavily pregnant Princess Rhaella held the hand of her husband, Aerys. The difference in them was striking. They were young and beautiful, not yet ravaged by madness. After them, it was a central trestle table that caught his eye. The seven dragon eggs were laid out in nests of kindling. A vivid green liquid oozed in the dishes in which the eggs rested. Wildfire, he realised, and felt his blood run cold.

"The flames won't touch us," he said, looking to the Three-Eyed Raven. "I mean, we can't die here in these visions, can we?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'll wait outside," he replied, darkly.

A tug of regret pulled at Jon's heart as he realised this was the Raven's family. Whether or not he knew them scarce mattered. But he was a Targaryen bastard and these were his people, about to be burned alive, with nothing they could do to stop it. Bran, however, had no such reservations and lingered by Jon's side.

"Here they come," he said. "They're about to light the fire."

Silence in the hall fell suddenly, causing Jon to shrink back against the far wall. All candles were extinguished, plunging the hall into darkness. Nerves prickled in his belly, his heart racing and his mouth running dry. Suddenly, he had second thoughts, but even as he tried to pull Bran away a spark briefly lit the room, before the hiss of the wick could be heard. Every voice hushed as the tension swelled.

Sansa sighed deeply as Lyanna and Rhaegar joined hands in the sept. Her aunt wore a gown of white and gold satin, trimmed with cloth of silver. Her thick chestnut hair was loose about her shoulders and her eyes full of adoration as she looked up at her new husband. And the Prince … had Sansa been just a few years younger, she would have been weak at the knees from the moment he first stepped into the room. It was almost enough to make her start believing again. But then she remembered what happens next.

Pushing those thoughts aside, she turned to the septon with his crystal crown and watched the light dance and sparkle as he prayed. Meanwhile, Sansa kept to the cloisters and watched her poor aunt muddle through the ceremony which she clearly didn't understand. Like all Starks, her gods were the old gods. But when the moment came, she knew what to say.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days."

She did not hesitate and a tear slipped down her cheek as Prince Rhaegar recited his own vow to her. No regrets and no second thoughts. They were man and wife. A pact sealed as Old Lord Whent handed Rhaegar the Targaryen wedding cloak, embossed with the three headed dragon. Lyanna knelt as he wrapped it tenderly around her shoulders.

A green flash tore through the darkness and the excitement in people's voices turned swiftly to terror. On instinct alone, Jon shoved Bran out of the way as the first whoosh of flames sounded behind him. Many of those assembled to see the dragons hatch still thought it was part of the ceremony and tried to reassure the others, not realising how bad the situation was. To his relief, the more sensible were taking no chances and already heading for the doors and windows.

"Bran, are you all right?" he asked his brother.

Bran didn't answer, but took Jon by the arm and led him deeper into the banqueting hall. The flames had taken hold already, the plaster in the ceiling was melting in the intense heat and dripping down on fleeing guests. Already, Jon could see the King engulfed in flames. He tried to run, but was soon overcome and collapsed, folding in on himself as he shrivelled in the heat. All Jon could hear now were screams and howls as living people were swiftly turned to charred meat in the deadly conflagration.

"The Princess!" Bran yelled over the noise, pointing to the high table.

Rhaella was screaming, piercingly and shrill. But she did not move. She had fallen to the floor and was now curling up under her chair, screaming in pain. Without thinking, Jon shoved the unhatched dragon egg into Bran's hands and ran to Princess Rhaella's aid to do what little he could.

"Your grace!" he shouted as loud as he could, kicking the chair out of the way and overturning the high table. It fell with a deafening crash into a pit of fire below them. Aerys, it seemed, had already been pulled free of the fire and left his wife there to burn. Anger filled Jon as he looked around for the king, only to be shoved aside by a tall man as yet untouched by the flames. Jon kept forgetting that no one could actually see him, but he still managed to clear the other man's path to the future Queen.

"It's ser Duncan," Bran reminded him. "She will be all right now."

Jon whipped around to where Ser Barristan Selmy was helping people escape the fire, along with the rest of his Kingsguard brothers. They were distorted by the heat haze and smoke as they retreated into the cool night air beyond. And soon, so very shockingly soon, the voices fell silent as everyone in that hall was either saved or burned alive. All that was left was the roar of the raging inferno, and Jon in the middle of it holding the dragon egg once more.

Even Bran had left him now, as he went to observe what was happening outside. Anger filled him. Anger like he had never known.

"Fire and blood!" he snapped. "You've gorged on both tonight and still you sit there in silence."

Giving up, he turned and ran for the entrance just as the roof beams caved and fell, blocking his escape route. Drawing a deep breath, he backtracked and tried to stay calm. Still cradling the egg to his chest, he turned to face the heart of the fire. With his eyes closed, he stepped forwards and into the heat of the blaze. Even with it not affecting him, it was still so nerve racking he thought he might throw up. He kept his eyes shut even as the floor caved in, the noise so loud it made the earth shake beneath his feet. He heard the cracking of stone, the falling of timbers and the smashing of glass. As he suspected, the breeze was only making everything worse.

It's not so bad, he realised as his breathing calmed and the feel of the flames was pleasantly warm on his skin. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open as the flames leapt and danced all around him, wreathing him and balling in his hands. The egg was gone now. He couldn't remember dropping it, and he didn't stand a chance of finding it again. But, even as he watched, he saw the flames in his hands taking shape. The flame formed into flesh in his very hands, roping into fiery muscle and sinew. Fire made flesh, the creature formed and sprouted up before his very eyes.

It's done, he thought with his heart once more leaping out of his chest, it really is done.

Sweat beaded Lyanna's brow as she rolled over, bringing the covers with her. Slowly, Rhaegar regained his breath and looked up at the ceiling, still hot from the consummation. Beside him, Lyanna rested her weary head on his shoulder, eyelids fluttering closed with a faint smile on her lips. Her face was flushed from the urgency of their love-making, her thigh still wet with blood of her maidenhead.

"Now we are husband and wife," she whispered softly, breath warm against his shoulder.

Without saying anything, he flipped over so he was above her again. He leaned his head down and trailed kisses down her naked front, all the way down to her navel. There was no going back now.

Naked and dazed, Jon sat cross-legged in the ashes and embers of Summerhall, caked in soot and dirt. Naked, he reminded himself, how did that happen? Naked he was, though. His clothes gone in the fire. Exhausted, the fire had also drained him of all energy and he sat there listlessly, dimly aware of the creature curling around his forearm. It met his gaze with eyes as blue as sapphires. Not quite believing it had happened, he smiled at it like a simpleton until a gentle voice drew him from his daze.

"Jon, you're awfully nude."

Bran was already wrapping his cloak around Jon's shoulders, for which he was grateful. This was the second time he was naked in a public place.

"Never mind that," he said, holding up the new born for Bran to see. "Go and get Sansa, she wants to see the baby dragon."

It twisted its long neck, the blue and silver scales glimmering dully in the morning light. Smoke curled from its nostrils, greeting the newcomer with a shrill shriek.

Chapter Text

Out of nowhere the old man stirred among his tangle of tree roots, fixing Sansa with his dull red eyes. Thinking he was looking for Bran, she thought to try and bring him around from wherever he was. Summerhall, presumably. Before she could do that, Meera nudged her and drew her attention back to the Raven. He was still looking at her.

"There's something I want to show you," he said, nodding to the place beside her brother.

After exchanging a glance with Meera, she lay beside her brother and took hold of the same root he clung to. Immediately, she found herself being pulled backwards, out of her own skin and down the time barriers.

Thinking he was taking her to Summerhall, she stifled a gasp as she opened her eyes and found herself face to face with her mother. Catelyn Tully dismissed her handmaids, just like she did at Winterfell when she wanted a moment alone with her daughter. It made her heart ache to think she was invisible to her now. Around her shoulders Catelyn wore the Tully wedding cloak and a gown of ivory satin hung the length of her body. Every inch a beautiful bride, she withdrew an unopened letter from a drawer and hesitated before opening it. The wax seal bore he the sigil of the Braavosi giant. Preparing to read what it said, Sansa moved to her mother's shoulder just as Cat changed her mind and touched the parchment to the flame of a nearby candle. The giant sigil stretched and elongated as the wax melted in the heat, before the unread letter was tossed into the open hearth. Sansa watched in dismay as it blackened to ashes and blew up the chimney.

The old man's hand landed on her shoulder. Before she could resist being taken away, the vision faded and she swiftly found herself in the crypts below Winterfell. Terror seized her as a piercing shriek sounded from far below and a monster came rampaging through the ancient passageways in a hail of dust and falling masonry. The Raven tugged her elbow sharply, as if pulling her out of its path and the scene reformed before her very eyes.

She was high on a hill, in a camp set up between tree stumps. Beric Dondarrion was there, with Thoros of Myr. And…

"Arya!" she called out to her sister.

Arya turned her face and, for one heart stopping second, she thought her sister could see her. But it was a little albino dwarf with white hair that hung to the ground, taking centre stage. The old woman was talking low and urgently… "I saw a maid at a wedding with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs. Later, I saw the same maid slay a savage giant in a castle made of snow".*

Before she could even take it in, she was whisked away yet again. This time, she was in a glade in the middle of some woods. She stood, looking all around her in confusion. It seemed she was alone, until gut-wrenching sobs drew her attention to a broad old oak tree. Cautiously, she approached and peered around the trunk. A young Petyr Baelish gave her a jolt as he appeared, curled up on the ground and crying piteously with his face buried in his hands. She could scarce remember a time when he didn't have that supercilious smirk on his face. She had certainly never seen him crying before and, if the puffy eyes and flushed face were anything to go by, he'd been there for quite some time. Suddenly, he stopped and composed himself with a few deep and shuddering breaths. A sniff or two later and his expression hardened, his eyes narrowed and he swiped his tears away. A second later, Petyr got to his feet and dusted himself down, before striding away and out of sight.

Sansa found herself lamenting the fact that the trees couldn't show her what people were thinking.

"And now to Summerhall," said the Raven. "Your brothers are waiting."

"But, I-"

Before the words left her lips she was there.

What she thought was an early morning mist was smoke that still rose from the ruins of the palace. The smell of it hung in the still air, acrid and biting. But through the burned out doors she could see Jon sitting among the cooling ashes wrapped in Bran's cloak. Without a second thought, she hitched her skirts above her ankles and ran to join them.

Jon rose to greet her with a kiss, remembering to hold his cloak closed as he did so. The kiss left a sooty mark on her pale cheek and he apologised hastily. By that time, however, she had spotted the dragon hatchling stretching its wings and attempting to fly.

"Well, we did it," he said, gesturing to the creature. "We're not sure how, but we did it."

A hundred and one questions were buzzing through his mind. Something he remembered when he saw the Raven there with her. Brynden Rivers was standing some distance away, regarding the scene with something like approval.

"Can I hold him? Is it a boy or a girl? Is he safe?" Sansa's voice was an excited babble as she knelt as close to the baby dragon as she dared. In a fit of daring, she stroked the dragon's neck with the tips of her fingers. Just the lightest brush that tickled its scales. It answered with a screech that made her laugh. The sight of her smiling made him smile. But he couldn't enjoy the moment for long, and soon found himself walking over to Rivers. By now, the hot coals were burning his bare feet.

"I need answers," he told the old man. "What happened last night? How did I not get burned to a crisp even thought my clothes did?"

For a moment, it looked like he wouldn't answer. But then thought better of it.

"It seems you didn't intend to use blood magic, but you did," he answered. "You know the people at the feast were also using sorcery to hatch those eggs, don't you?"

Jon nodded. "I heard it mentioned that sorcery was used. And was it the blood? I used Prince Rhaegar's blood? He is the Prince that was Promised, after all."

"It was both," Rivers answered. "And a third element, which I am sure you will discover in due course. Your blood magic combined with their fire magic, creating this great reaction. Not as impressive as Daenerys Targaryen, I must say. She did it with blood magic alone. In the meantime, Lord Commander, you need to go back."

Despite the backhanded compliment, Jon felt his heart lift. "You mean, back home to my time? I'm done now, I've finished. Maybe once I'm there I'll be lucky enough to get dragon hatching advice from Daenerys Targaryen."

"Wasn't there something else you wanted from this time?" Rivers asked, sounding like he already knew the answer.

But Jon was clean out of patience. "Look, I can't hang around here. Getting to know my aunt and the crown prince has been an honour and a privilege, and I will even see to it that Rhaegar's name is cleared for her abduction and rape. But-"

"Return to them, Jon Snow," Rivers cut in, abruptly. "And learn all you can, and do what you can. Only when you are ready will you return home again."

He felt himself deflating, shrinking again. "Very well. But what about the dragon? I can't carry it around. It needs to be in Winterfell."

"Leave it to me; I'll guide him to Winterfell in this time," Rivers answered. "You know who I am and what I can do with dragons. And I have the time. Now go and find out who you are."

"But how-" he began.

But the other man had already walked away, leaving him standing there in the cold and wet grass. Jon supposed living in a tree for almost a century and manipulating time gave the Raven powers he could never begin to fathom. He was still curious, though. After returning to bid farewell to Sansa and Bran, and the dragon, he made his way to the nearby stream to wash. Only once he was clean would he make his way back.

It was as he dipped in the cold water, sluicing the soot from his chest, that he noticed it. The livid stab wounds had faded to little more than pale pink scars that dotted his abdomen and crossed his breast.

Lyanna was resting her head against his shoulder as they trundled through the countryside in the back of a carriage. Her face was turned toward the window, but not really seeing anything as they passed. It was all a slow blur, anyway. Rhaegar leaned down and kissed her head.

"Let's just say your dragon did hatch," she said. "What would you name it?"

Rhaegar shrugged. Amidst the clamour to hatch the thing, he'd barely given it any thought. It had seemed a distant prospect and naming it before it was born felt like tempting fate. He didn't reply immediately, as he afforded himself some time to consider it.

"Back in the old days we named them after Valyrian gods," he stated, eventually. "But this one would be different. This one would be ours. I think I would name it Soñar."

Flushing with pleasure, she smiled. "What does it mean?"

"Winter, in Valyrian," he replied. "I think it quite apt."

Clearly touched by his gesture, she leaned up to kiss him again only to be violently jolted by the carriage suddenly listing. He was hoping it was only a pot hole in the road. But outside, his guard's voices all rose in anger and the horses reared up, braying loudly. Alarmed by the sudden commotion, Rhaegar flung open the passenger door to see what the fuss was about.

"Ass! You appeared out of nowhere!" one man yelped.

Another, well known to him now, made hasty apologies. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But please, let me pass. I must see the Prince and Princess."

The guard burst out laughing. "You must be joking! Look at the state of you!"

"Please, you don't understand-"

Lyanna, composing herself quickly, frowned. "Jon?"

"It is," Rhaegar confirmed. "He's damn near naked."

"Not again," she sighed.

Now Rhaegar was scowling. "Does he make a habit of public nudity?" Without waiting for an answer, he stuck his head out of the door again. "It's all right, let him through."

Although she ignored the question, her exasperation gave way to relief. "Actually, not as bad as last time. He has a whole cloak, even if it is ill-fitting. All he had was a loin cloth, last time." She broke off there, leaving Rhaegar to his imagination, and called out to her peculiar friend. "Jon! Where are your clothes? What have you been up to? I can't keep getting you new clothes if you're just going to lose them again."

She sounded like a mother scolding an errant child, which made Rhaegar smile. Meanwhile, Jon hurtled himself into the back of the carriage, and settled opposite them. Disapprovingly, Lyanna motioned for him to close his legs, which he did abruptly.

"You made it to Winterfell and back swiftly," said Rhaegar, hoping to break the tension. "No more than eight weeks."

Still wide-eyed and thoroughly startled looking, Jon nodded. "I took a ship. Tyroshi, I think. They're always the fastest."

"You're back in one piece, and that's what matters," said Lyanna. "And I didn't mean to scold you. I'm sure we can find some suitable clothes in the next town."

Just then, he leaned forward and whispered something he could not hear into Lyanna's ear. Clearly surprised, she pulled back and looked him in the eye.

"Seriously?" she asked.

Jon smiled and nodded. "It's done," he assured her.

Whatever it was, it made his new bride happy and that deserved a reward. To those ends, Rhaegar shrugged off his own coat.

"Here," he said, handing it to Jon. "For services rendered … and for decency's sake."

Jon coloured, thanking him as he gratefully put it on over the tatty old cloak. Luckily, it was a perfect fit.

Back in the weirwood, north of the wall, Sansa climbed groggily to her feet. Remembering what the old raven had shown her, she sought him out straight away. She had tried to piece together the fragments she had seen, but each image seemed like fragments from several different paintings. To her dismay, Brynden Rivers looked half dead again and submerged with the tree that surrounded him.

"He's skinchanging into that dragon. He'll be gone a long time." Brandon's voice sounded from behind her.

Sansa turned to him, frowning. "You mean, he's inside the dragon's body and controlling it. Like he was with Mormont's raven."

"Basically," replied Bran. "If it gets too much for him, I'll take over and guide it to Winterfell. But one of us needs to be there, in the castle, ready to take it down to the crypts. Although we're in the body, we still can't open doors or navigate obstacles like humans can."

Sometimes, her brother's powers worried her. She'd heard about him skinchanging into birds, his wolf and even Hodor. He was a warg, a skinchanger, a greenseer and now he was permanently hooked up to a maze of trees as old as time, able to explore anywhere at any time. It defied comprehension, but he made it look easy. As wondrous and complex as it was, she could see it had its downside. The downside was currently tangled in a nest of roots and completely lost to the current world.

"Bran," she said, settling down beside him. "You're not going to end up like that old man up there, are you? I mean, it's all very intriguing, but you need to come home. You can't live forever in this tree."

Bran's expression softened, his eyes almost sorrowful. "I will, but we need to get our home back. Then we need to fight the Others. Winter is coming, Sansa. And we all need to play our part to defeat it. This is my part."

"I understand that," she assured him. "But once your part is done, can't you come home with us? I'd rather a short life with my family in my home than an eternity locked in this tree watching over other peoples'."

At that moment, Meera Reed appeared and greeted them both warmly. Sansa looked from her to Bran and back again. She knew there was a reason why Bran couldn't stay here forever, like that strange old man. She could see it, even if they couldn't.

Only once he was on the ship to Dragonstone did Jon finally get a chance to think things through again. But the moment they hit the high sea and the vessel was rocked soothingly on the rolling waves, he found himself slipping into a deep sleep. Dreamless and deep, he didn't stir again until he felt a soft hand rocking him by the shoulder. Bleary eyed, he looked up into his aunt's regretful face.

"Sorry to wake you," said Lyanna. "But we're disembarking now."

"Already?" he gasped, struggling to get his wits together. "How long was I asleep for?"

Lyanna laughed. "A full day." When she composed herself, she added: "I couldn't bring myself to disturb you. If I didn't do it now, though, the ship would have sailed off to Bravos with you still fast asleep on board. And then where would we be? … except Bravos, of course. You're no good to me in Bravos."

He pulled on a clean shirt and breeches, procured for him before they boarded the ship. Already all their belongings were being carried up to the castle. A foreboding fortress that looked like it was built into the vast grey rocks that surrounded it. Its walls were huge and thick, with sally ports at regular intervals. Behind those walls, he could see Dragonstone itself, topped with gargoyles not dissimilar to the ones at Winterfell.

Prince Rhaegar himself escorted them inside, showing them to their chambers within. They passed through a drum keep, where the sound of the sea was amplified and boomed all around them. Winterfell had one similar, too, but so far inland they weren't kept up all night unless there was a particularly nasty storm raging outside. Thankfully, their rooms were set in the turret tower away from the drum keep. They looked inland, to the mouth of the Blackwater that led to the capital itself.

That evening, they all dined together in the Prince's chambers. A fish starter, followed by venison in a red wine sauce, with steamed vegetables. Not realising how hungry he had been, Jon troughed the lot while Lyanna and Rhaegar chatted among themselves. But that evening, once Rhaegar had retired for the night, Lyanna came straight to his door.

"So, how did it happen?" she asked, referring to the dragon egg.

He told her everything. From meeting the Ghost of High Heart to travelling to Summerhall and the fire. There was no holding back on the truth now – it did no harm and it made more sense. In so far as blood and fire magic made sense to anyone who hadn't spent their entire lives studying the magical arts. Lyanna listened quietly, but attentively. She remained quiet, even after he stopped speaking.

"When you told me about Winterfell, and all that's happened there in your time, the only reason I didn't give into despair is because I know you'll do something," she said, at length. "And now I really know you will. I worried in case the dragon would be too old, but Rhaegar said Balerion the Black Dread was fifty when flown into battle. So, who knows, maybe ours will be just as huge as Balerion?"

Jon smiled. "Then the Boltons need to watch out."

Lyanna cheered up, her expression brightening as she sat by the window and overlooked the Blackwater. Night had fallen and moonlight rippled on the dark waters, but still he could see small lantern lights from fishing boats bobbing around. Barely a few miles upriver was another of those places Jon thought he would never see – King's Landing.

"I wrote to Robert," said Lyanna. "I never heard back, but then I never expected to."

"What about Brandon?" he asked.

Lyanna nodded. "Yes, but just to let him know where I am. If he needs me, he's to go to the Red Keep and ask for Rhaegar. It's all right, Jon. You don't need to worry. That boy we saw with Lysa, he even let me use his raven." She grinned and added: "I got to use the Targaryen seal for the first time."

"Given what I was told about you, don't you think they'll look at that seal and assume Rhaegar sent the letters pretending to be you?" he asked. "Or that you were coerced."

"Why would they?" she asked, giving a shrug. "All they need do is write, or come to the capital, and ask for me. Then we'll explain everything. I know it's not perfect, Jon. But, under the circumstances..."

Her explanation trailed off, leaving the rest to his imagination. But none of it added up. Unless the rape and abduction really was invented long after the event, used to justify a war against a long established dynastic house.

"I need to go to the Red Keep soon," he told her, thinking ahead to Brandon's arrival. By now, he ought to be on his way to wed Cat Tully. "There's someone I need to meet there."

"Sure," she agreed. "Rhaegar's leaving in a few weeks, so why don't you go with him?"

Relieved, Jon nodded. "That would be good."

"Bring a spare set of clothes though," she advised.

"What?"

"You know, for when you do your … thing," she said. "You always seem to come back naked. Put the spare set somewhere safe, so you don't lose both at once. Aerys really won't be so understanding about it as Rhaegar and me."

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "No, there's none of that going on. It's just me physically travelling to the capital. And keeping my clothes on."

Lyanna breathed a sigh of relief. "That's all right then."

With that, she crossed the room to where a full length mirror was fixed to the wall. Jon smiled at her as she fussed over her hair and gown, knowing she was getting ready to visit Rhaegar's bed. He got up to join here, hugging her gently. No matter what assurances he had, he still felt everything was destined to go belly-up at any minute. After a second, he lifted his face to look at them both in the mirror. The two of them together.

"Gods, Jon, you and I look alike," she said, laughing. "I'd never noticed until now and I can see us both together."

Jon had been thinking precisely the same thing. "I know I'm a Snow, but really we're both Starks to the last fibre."

Bran was right. The Three-Eyed Raven steered their dragon all the way from the Dornish marches and up to Winterfell, arriving at the gates already bigger and stronger. It had been fed along the way, clearly. Then they slipped unseen into the crypts, and the dragon had perched on Sansa's shoulder as they walked in side by side.

It was strange going in there and not seeing uncle Brandon and aunt Lyanna's statues waiting for them. Even lord Rickard hadn't made it yet. He was living above ground, with his pregnant wife. Hardly anyone had mentioned Lady Lyarra Stark, but Sansa thought her pretty. And she made stony-faced Lord Rickard smile. By her own reckoning, that was uncle Brandon in her belly, rather than their father.

"Bran," said Sansa, as they went deeper and deeper underground. "I remember what you told me about what the Raven said to you. That would never walk again, but that you would fly."

"That's what he said," Bran confirmed.

Although he walked in the past, as he was at that moment, he couldn't do it with his own body in his own time.

"Well, this is it, isn't it?" she said, feeding a scrap of seared bacon (pilfered from the kitchens prior to entering the crypts) to the dragon. "You will be the one flying this dragon. That's what he meant. You're the most powerful skinchanger and greenseer of all time, and you will fly."

Bran stopped in the middle of a vault, turning to face her. Although the light was poor, all the had was a lantern lit by the flame of their dragon, she could see his eyes full of wonder. She heard him gulp before he answered.

"I don't think I'm ready to skinchange a fully grown dragon-"

"You can," Sansa insisted. "You know you can."

They continued in silence, until they reached a spot where the path was blocked by fallen masonry. It was not so bad as they recalled it, so it was easily climbed over. Meanwhile, the dragon was still small enough to fly over it. Sansa heard him landing softly on the opposite side, then emit a burst of flame by which they could see where they were going. She thanked him, grinning as she did so and tossing him another scrap of bacon. He caught it in mid air.

"While we're away from the others," she said, once they were safely past the masonry. "There's something else I want to talk to you about. I think this is a more private matter, between you and me, and Jon."

"Oh," Bran replied. They reached another turnpike stair, leading deeper underground. "What is it?"

"I was at aunt Lyanna's wedding to Rhaegar Targaryen," she began. "It was all so very beautiful. She was so happy and perfect, they looked so in love. And him..."

She broke off, suppressing a sigh. Meanwhile, Bran laughed.

"It's so good to hear you talking like you used to," he said. "Like when we were children, and you dreamed of your hero prince."

"Not quite," she corrected him. "Bran, stop a minute. This is serious. I'm not just being a dreamer here. That silly girl is dead."

Bran looked crestfallen as he stopped and faced her again. "I'm sorry, Sansa. I didn't mean it as an insult-"

"I know you didn't," she assured him, kissing his cheek. "But, think about it for a moment, Lyanna and Rhaegar were married. They were happy and in love. Robert rebelled, inventing this rape and abduction to justify his war. All Targaryens were slaughtered, even the babies. Lyanna dies. And father comes home with a motherless bastard. Bran, given what we now know, isn't there anything funny about that? All through that wedding, I thought how Lyanna looked like Jon. At first I saw Arya, but only Jon after that. Eyes, hair, nose, everything. And he's the exact same height and build as Rhaegar. He has Rhaegar's manners. All quiet and broody."

Bran took a backwards step, putting some distance between them as his face crumpled. To her dismay, he seemed angry. "Sansa, what are you saying? Our father would never do anything like that, he would never lie like that."

Exasperated, she drew a breath to compose herself. "But he did, Bran. Even Benjen told us. He lied about Rhaegar abducting Lyanna. No, he didn't invent the lie. But he let us all believe it nonetheless."

Her exasperation gave way to sadness as she realised Bran was not angry with her. He was angry with their father – a man who had taken his secrets to the grave. Now he was looking at her, wide-eyed and uncertain. Full of doubt, when he was only just recovering his old self. She began to feel terrible for sowing the seeds of doubt herself. But over the last few weeks, she had realised that they did know their father after all. He would not have lied unless he really had to. The honour that had condemned him would also have compelled him to save an innocent.

"Bran," she continued, more gently. "Father lied when he admitted to committing treason against Joffrey. He lied in front of the council, the queen, the king and all the commoners because he was worried that Arya and me would be in grave danger if he was executed. He could lie if the lives of others depended on it, he would have done the same for any of us. Including his sister and Jon."

Bran was still struggling, but eventually gathered himself. "We don't know anything for certain. But I agree that we need to find out."

"So we will look into it?" she asked, for certainly.

Bran nodded. "As soon as the dragon is safe, we'll get onto it."

That was her priority and kept her suspicions about Baelish to herself. Petyrs day would come.

Chapter Text

Although the décor was different, and Targaryen banners still hung from the rafters, Sansa recognised the Red Keep's throne room instantly. Dragon skulls lined the chamber, half-shadowed in the cloisters but it was still the iron throne which dominated the room. Behind the throne, the light from the oriel windows was poor and cast the new king in silhouette. She could see that Robert Baratheon had indeed been handsome in his youth. Her eye roved down the steps of the throne and she sucked in a sharp breath as she caught sight of Cersei Lannister.

The soon to be Queen was gazing up at Robert, a hungry look in her bright green eyes. Beside her, Jaime was scowling and standing apart from his Kingsguard brothers – or what was left of them. Poor Ser Barristan was still propped on crutches and wheezing through broken ribs sustained on the battlefield. Sansa linked her arm through Bran's and, together, they walked past them all, unseen and unheard.

As she passed Cersei, Sansa could not help herself. She leaned in close and spoke in a low voice: "Whore! I helped kill your mad son."

Cersei shivered, as if she'd caught a sudden chill. Otherwise, she gave no indication of having heard or seen anything and turned to face the back of the room.

Meanwhile, Bran was trying not to laugh. "I'd wager that felt good, sister."

"It did, rather," she admitted, blushing all the same. As she did so, she tightened her grip on Bran's arm: "Look over there, it's father!"

Eddard Stark was right up at the front of the crowds, closest to the king. For so long now Sansa had been unable to think of him without remembering that awful day on the steps of the sept. Now, here he was in front of her, as if brought back to life. To see him again made her heart beat race, even if he was wearing a look of cold fury.

Lost in the vision of her long dead father, she almost didn't hear the doors at the rear of the hall opening. When she did notice, she certainly did not welcome the arrival of Tywin Lannister. He was mounted on a finely caparisoned destrier, followed by attendants dressed in the Lannister colours. In their arms they bore large packages wrapped in scarlet cloaks of some sort. She remembered then, and a sickening weight settled in the pit of her belly. A sickening feeling that got worse with every step the Lannister procession took.

For reassurance, she glanced up at her father. Although he could neither see nor hear her, his presence was enough to strengthen her resolve to see what she needed to see. His jaw was clenched, his lips a thin white line and his eyes dead and cold. His obvious fury made her tremble.

As slight as the princess was, Elia's corpse had to be carried by two men. Blood matted hair dangled from the open end of the cloak and, when dropped close to Cersei's feet, made a nauseating thumping noise. The baby, Aegon, was nought but a bloodied pulp of flesh, sinew and bone. He looked like offal tossed from a butcher's back door at closing time. Rhaenys, on the other hand, looked like Rhaenys. Like a little girl who'd been skewered on a sword. She still looked human and it hit Sansa square in the gut. Even Bran baulked but, like her, could not tear his gaze away. They gripped each other's hands so hard Sansa though the skin might be broken.

Meanwhile, Tywin had dismounted and now bent the knee to his king, offering his tokens of fealty. As he did so, the hall was silent. Some turned away, but most looked as if they were in a trance and powerless to avert their gaze. Sansa steadied herself with deep breaths as the ordeal ended, and the crowds hurried away. But her father remained. Even after Cersei and her family had gone, Ned Stark stood unmoving and unflinching. His gaze tracking King Robert as he slowly made his way down from the throne. Even he couldn't bring himself to look upon the pulped corpses as he passed.

"Was that necessary, your grace?" said Ned, finally approaching the king.

For a moment, Sansa thought Robert was going to feign ignorance. Or just ignore the question completely. He swiped a hand across his brow and sighed heavily.

"It's war, Ned. It's what happens in war. People die-"

"But children!" Ned cut in, furiously. "The children could have been spared … sent into exile with their grandmother, anything but this."

"So in ten years they can raise an army against me?" Robert shot back. "Do you think me a complete lackwit, Stark?"

"Compassion is not a weakness, Robert. Didn't Jon Arryn teach us that? Is that why we undertook this rebellion in the first place?" Lord Stark was implacable as he pushed his hand into Robert's chest, preventing him from walking away. "From what I've seen here today, you're already turning into the thing we fought against. What was the point if all you do is replace one tyranny for another? Tell me, Robert-"

"Careful, Ned," Robert growled. "Be fucking careful."

If Sansa had been in her father's place, she would have run by now. But Lord Stark was not relenting. His hand was still against Robert's chest, his gaze not wavering from the King's.

"This not who you are, Robert. This is not what we planned. Now, the slaughter of those babes will be stain on your reign, on your name, from this day until your last-"

"Babes!" Robert cut in again, swinging a punch at his friend's jaw. Sansa flinched, as if she felt the pain of the blow herself. "I see no babes; I see only dragon spawn!"

Cradling his busted lip, Ned straightened himself and looked at Robert as though he were a treasured pet suddenly turned savage. His breathing was ragged, the air rattling through him as he tried to compose himself. "I will go to Storm's End and lift the siege, your grace. Then I will try to find my sister, whereupon she and I will return to Winterfell and never darken your halls again. You hear me? You will see neither of us again!"

While Eddard turned and strode from the room, Robert followed him cursing as he went. Sansa and Bran ran after them, paying no heed to the king's foul tempered ravings. But all their father did was return to his own retinue, Lord Howland Reed among them. They were both soon swallowed by the crowds in the outer galleries and they could go no farther. When she tried to follow anyway, Bran stopped her.

"Sansa, there's no point," he stated. "He's not going to Lyanna yet, he's going to Stannis instead."

Dismayed that they'd witnessed all that and still not found out where their aunt was, she tried to think on what to do next. "Then let us try Dragonstone, after the siege. Someone there must have told him where she was."

Bran nodded. "If you're right about Jon's parents, I thought I'd be angry with our father for lying to us. That was before I saw what happened here."

"You and I, both," she concurred, trying to suppress the memory of what she had just seen. "Now let's go and feed the dragon."

Hand in hand, Jon and Lyanna explored the castle. From inspecting the gargoyles on the battlements, to the towers and stone drum, all the way down to the subterranean vaults. He had laughed as she kissed the statue of a stone manticore before racing for the Chamber of the Painted Table. In there, he helped her climb into the seat that marked Dragonstone on the famous table, so she could see the realm as a whole laid out before her. Meanwhile, he pulled off his boots and trod carefully from Winterfell to the Riverlands, to the Eyrie and onto King's Landing. Marking his journey, trying to estimate how far he had come.

When they grew bored of that, they packed a picnic from the kitchens and headed below ground. The castle didn't have crypts, like those in Winterfell. But it did have a network of underground chambers and secret vaults. Some said the first Targaryen settlers had stashed hordes of treasure down there and sealed it in using magic. Not even Prince Rhaegar knew exactly what was down there. Which only made Lyanna all the more determined to find out for herself.

"He said there might be Valyrian steel swords down here," she said, holding up a lantern to light their way down the turnpike stair. All it showed was damp stone and a twisted stairwell. "And dragon eggs, and all sorts of keepsakes from old Valyria."

"You'd have thought Aenar the Exile would have been so kind as to leave a map behind," Jon grumbled.

They found none of it, but it did get hot. Very hot. Both of them were pushed back by the heat, compelling them to retrace their steps toward the open air.

"There's earth fires down there," he gasped, remerging into the open air. "Why did they flee the Doom only to set up home in a castle located over fires of the earth?"

Lyanna laughed, before swooping down on a shining shard of glass. "But it explains the abundance of dragon glass."

Jon took the blade from her, balancing it carefully in his palm. Months ago, before the disaster at Winterfell, Stannis had mentioned it to him. Nor was the dead king exaggerating. The island was covered in the stuff and he found himself gazing around at it all, wondering how it got from Dragonstone to the lands beyond the wall. Meanwhile, Lyanna approached the curtain walls again and wrapped one arm around a stone wyvern. She faced the brisk wind, looking out over the sea.

"So, what are you going to King's Landing for?" she asked, turning back. The wind changed direction, blowing her hair over her face.

Jon shrugged. "Just some business I need to sort out."

She wasn't buying it. "You're not from here, you don't know anyone and you've never been here before. Look, you don't have to lie to me anymore."

"I'm not lying!" he retorted, defensively.

He dropped the dragon glass and lost interest in it, closing the gap between himself and his aunt. Irritably, she scraped her hair back from her face so he could see her again. But she did not look angry at all.

"Tell me to mind my own business," she said. "But I was thinking it might because you heard something about your mother. Did you discover some information? You did say you were due to be conceived soon."

It was a convenient cover, so Jon ran with it. "Something like that."

"But Ned's at the Eyrie, unless he got your mother with child and then she came back here," she said. "Gods, it wasn't Ashara Dayne was it? They danced at the tourney, after all. And they spent time together. Ned gave her comfort after she had that spat with our Bran."

He couldn't tell whether she was joking or not. But he knew she had a point, even if it was still too soon. Eddard wouldn't be much longer at the Eyrie, he knew. He and Robert ought to have left by now, ready to attend the wedding of Catelyn Tully and Brandon. Brandon, however, should be well on the road to King's Landing before they met. At least as he understood it. His father rarely talked about the war and the exact time line was muddled in his own mind. He could only hope to arrive at the Red Keep before his uncle.

"Whatever truth there is to be found," he stated, at length. "I'll do what I can to bring it back."

Lyanna raised a pained smile. "I still have this unnerving feeling that there's a lot you're keeping from me. All the same, I wish you well."

"Thank you." He emphasised his point by kissing her cheek, a show of gratitude and affection for all she had done for him.

Under the Raven's care, the dragon had grown already. It was up to Sansa's hip and she had Bran had come to give it more food, helping it grow even more. A full boar carcass which she tied up on a stone ledge high above the bowl pit they'd found to house it in. To get at the food, the dragon would have to exercise his wings and fly to it. It was something she enjoyed watching him do, even if it was all speeding by so fast.

Down a passageway, at the opposite side of the bowl pit, was the source of the hot springs. When she glanced over there, she could see the steam billowing out of the entrance and hear the churning waters boiling away inside. That was where Soñar preferred to spend his time, but it was much too hot for her or Bran to go in there. As such, they hadn't even seen inside it.

"So, now we know father didn't learn of Lyanna's whereabouts after the Sack of King's Landing, what will we do if he didn't learn of it at Dragonstone either?" she asked.

Bran was watching Soñar fly, the beating of his wings already causing a draught. "Then we follow him."

"How can we follow him when he's at sea?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

Bran sighed deeply, keeping a watchful eye on the dragon all the while. "That's what I don't know. Unless we get on the boat with him. But … there's something else I keep seeing. Something from that time and that keeps coming up over and again. I see father, with Lord Reed and a few others, arriving at a Tower in the Dornish Mountains. I don't know where, exactly. And I don't know what, or who, is inside it. But, at that stage, can you imagine it being anything else?"

Finally, he turned to her to gage her reaction. Their father rarely left the North, never mind travelling all the way to Dorne. But she knew he had been there.

"I don't know, brother," she replied. "But he killed Arthur Dayne, didn't he. Then took the sword back to Starfall. So your tower visions are probably just that. Lady Ashara might have been hiding in there. Really, who knows?"

Frustrated, Sansa once more wishing her father had been more talkative about those days. She wished she had asked. But how could she have known how important it would one day be. She was torn between wanting to kick herself and wanting to kick her father. If the look on Bran's face was anything to go by, his feelings were much the same. So many secrets and so little time to uncover them all.

"It's not just that, Sansa," Bran added. "Father fought against Ser Arthur and some others outside the tower. Ser Arthur didn't die at the Trident and then father returned the sword. Nor would he be guarding his sister, Ashara wasn't royalty."

That threw a different light on the matter. "Then we'll try there, after Dragonstone. We know Lyanna and Rhaegar are there, so maybe the staff know for sure."

But she could see that something else was troubling her brother, and she urged him to go on.

"What about Petyr Baelish and the things the Raven showed you?"

Sansa hadn't forgotten that, but Jon had suddenly taken priority over him. And she knew Baelish was still in Mole's Town, waiting for her.

"I don't know what to make of them," she said, truthfully. "He was there. He had a grudge against our uncle and I know what Petyr is capable of."

"I know he sold you to the Boltons, but maybe he didn't know-"

"He knew," she cut over him. She also knew it was time to stop protecting him. "And he also killed our aunt Lysa. I saw him throw her through the moon door at the Eyrie and I never said anything because he saved my life. And there's more … it was Lysa, not Cersei, who murdered Lord Jon Arryn. She did because Petyr told her to."

Bran sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widened in shock. "Well then, start from the beginning and tell me everything."

Sansa looked out over their impromptu dragon pit, where Soñar was still flapping about and tearing at the boar carcass. Just to be safe, she threw another down the steps to keep him occupied. Her explanation was going to take time.

"Jon! Wake up!"

The Prince's voice was urgent as he shook the other man from his sleep. He tried again, more forcefully, until he stirred and cursed quietly under his breath.

"We've got to go," said Rhaegar. "Get dressed, the boat's waiting."

Pushing back the bed covers, Jon shivered as a sudden chill engulfed him. Still he rolled out of bed and apologised for cursing. But Rhaegar really didn't look bothered. He himself was dishevelled and looked disorientated as he looked around the chamber, grabbing at Jon's things and placing them in a trunk. The longer he looked, the more concerned Jon became.

"Your Grace, what's happened?" he asked, pulling on his breeches and boots. Although, he already had his suspicions.

Rhaegar's answer was terse. "We can't talk here."

"Is it Brandon Stark?"

The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Now Rhaegar froze suddenly, poised half-way to the door, his expression full of suspicion. It was enough to confirm Jon's fears while not caring whether his foreknowledge would rouse the Prince's suspicions.

"How did you know that?" he asked, flatly.

Jon shrugged. "I just did. Now, where's Lyanna?"

"I've not told her-"

"Don't you think she has a right to know?" Jon retorted. "Her presence might help."

"And what if it doesn't?" the prince snapped back. "Jon, there's no time to argue. Are you coming with me or not?"

Within the hour, he had boarded the prince's private boat with no further arguments. It was the early hours of the morning, still pitch dark but for the crescent moon above. By the time they reached the capital the ravens would be on the wing, carrying news of his uncle's arrest all over the realm. Meanwhile, all he could do was pace the length of the ship deck, looking out over the darkened seas in frustrated boredom. Even Rhaegar was sunk deep in conversation with his Kingsguard; Ser Arthur Dayne chief among them. He couldn't hear what they were saying, nor did he much care since their handling of the situation was set to be so bad it led to an all-out war.

Then, with that thought, Jon found himself on an all too familiar knife edge. The arrest had happened, but it wasn't too late to stop the war. Even as he dared to hope, his brother's voice chimed in his memory once more: the ink is dry…

"Jon."

Rhaegar's voice jolted him out of his reverie. He turned to find the Prince standing at his side, looking out over the gunwale, into the impenetrably waters of Blackwater Bay. His silver blonde hair caught the moonlight, along with the sword at his hip.

"Your grace, you have to get Brandon out of there or it will be war," he blurted out.

The prince looked neither surprised nor particularly moved. "Maybe that's what my father wants."

Jon felt the pieces slotting together, a dead weight settling in his stomach. Aerys knew Rhaegar and the Lords Paramount were plotting against him, he'd known since Harrenhal. Now he was using Brandon to draw the lords out, a deliberate trap even if it was one that could cost them everything. Better still, it was testing the loyalty of the king's own son and setting his new wife's family against him.

"I don't understand, your grace, Lyanna wrote to her brother explaining everything," he stammered, mouth dry now.

Rhaegar merely shrugged. "Seems the explanation was insufficient and Lord Stark is enraged regardless."

He realised then that the Prince was unaware of the allegations made against him. But, before he could say anything, the prince added:

"Besides, ravens go missing all the time. And I'd wager I can guess what happened to this one. A victim of much smaller birds, no doubt."

"Varys?" Jon asked. "You think he intercepted it?"

The prince shrugged. "I don't know anything for sure. But I am determined to find out."

As they lapsed into silence, Jon found his mind racing ahead. He was of military age and known by the prince to be a skilled swordsman. He knew he would be asked to fight, if war broke out. Asked to fight for the royal army, not knowing that he would be taking up arms against his future father. Furthermore, fighting for an army against his own house, knowing full well they would lose.

"Surely your father does not want a war," Jon stated. "If he is not in his right mind, surely you can talk to him even if he does think you're out to get him."

Whatever else the prince was, he wasn't a fool. "He's mad, Jon. Are you still clinging to the notion that you can reason with a madman?"

Jon felt his heart sink and turned his face to the stars above, cursing loudly.

Chapter Text

Jon watched from the prow of the ship as the Red Keep sailed into view, materialising through the morning mists. Although he knew already that it was smaller than Winterfell, he was still somewhat taken aback by how small it was in comparison. As though he had built it up in his head, the real thing was almost a disappointment. Regardless, it was a fortress he had always wanted to see, but now that he'd arrived he could only feel a sickening dread as he remembered how many of his kin had died within those walls. Not just those destined to come soon, but his father and Jory and Vayon Poole. All those who had gone south with father and never come back again.

They sailed further up the Blackwater, passing the castle so that his only view was of the red curtain walls that ringed the city itself. It was still too early for the fishermen to be heading out, or the markets to be swinging into action, but he saw a line of armoured men standing on the dockside. Still too far away to make out their faces, all Jon could see were the breastplate and swords glinting in the morning light. Once he had seen them, he could not take his eyes off them.

"Are they yours?" he asked, turning to the Prince.

Even Rhaegar looked tetchy as he looked out over the water, front teeth troubling his lower lip. "Gods, I hope so."

The latest rumours from the Red Keep were that the whole court had split into two factions: those for Rhaegar and those loyal to Aerys. In Rhaegar's absence, the hostilities had escalated. As such, Jon had hoped Rhaegar would tell him he always had this reception committee. But no reassurances came. Worse, Rhaegar buckled his sword belt as if expecting trouble. Likewise, Jon wrapped his hand around Longclaw's hilt, his mouth running dry with apprehension as the ship docked.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," said Jon, homing in on the only face he recognised. "He's with you, isn't he?"

"I don't know," replied the Prince. "His father certainly isn't with my father, I can tell you that much. But whether that means he is with me for sure, I cannot say," He paused, studying the unmoving faces for a long moment before breathing a sigh of relief. "Ser Barristan … Jon Connington. We're all right, Jon. Stand down."

Jon didn't know who Connington was, but it was enough that Rhaegar obviously saw him as a friend. Still, he remained close to the Prince's side as the other two men boarded the ship and approached them with stony faces.

"Your Grace, thank the gods you have come," the man Jon assumed Connington stated. "All seven hells have broken loose since you've been gone. Several of the Northmen have already been executed. Lord Rickard rides south with a host of two hundred-"

"Brandon Stark," Rhaegar cut over him, urgently. "Is he already dead?"

"No, your grace," Connington assured him. "He's lodged in the black cells."

Rhaegar looked visibly relieved. "Who was executed?"

"Jeffory Mallister of Seeguard; Elbert Arryn of the Vale and Kyle Royce, also of the Vale," Connington answered. "One Ethan Glover still lives, lodged in the Black Cells with his master."

Jon's stomach clenched painfully at the sound of so many familiar names. Meanwhile, Rhaegar simply looked mildly inconvenienced.

"What in seven hells is my father playing at?" he demanded. "Did he not even think to ransom these men?"

It was Ser Barristan who spoke next. "The King's blood is up, your grace. Proceed with caution."

Rhaegar swore under his breath as they disembarked the ship. Mounts were waiting for them on land, including one for Jon himself. Once they were moving toward the Red Keep, he could look up at the walls of the castle and discern the fresh harvest of heads spiked along the battlements. The Prince saw them too, but said little as Jon Connington filled him in on all that had been happening.

"Brandon Stark charged into the throne room while your father and that lackwit Merryweather were hearing petitions and demanded your grace come out and fight," he said. "Ser Barristan saw it, did you not ser? Well, he and I both saw it. His exact challenge was for you to 'come out and die.' Nothing can save Stark now, your grace."

Ser Barristan looked regretful as he turned in the saddle, facing both Jon and the Prince. "I tried to talk Lord Stark down before he went in there, your grace. I told him what would happen and he wished your death anyway."

It was high treason, Jon knew that. To wish or incite death on the king or his heir was punishable by death. Surely, his uncle would have known it too? His father always said Brandon had the wolf blood. But that was more than wolf blood, it was stupidity too. Armed with the facts, Jon was torn between attempting a daring rescue and just leaving him to suffer the consequences of his own rash actions. His own sudden contempt left even himself feeling shocked.

"Are all Northmen being rounded up?" asked Rhaegar.

Jon noted that the prince briefly glanced at him from the tail of his eye. By "Northmen" Rhaegar meant him. Suddenly, he felt self-conscious, like he was stealing into enemy territory. The last time he felt like an unwelcome intruder he'd been undercover with the Wildlings.

"All, so have a care," Ser Barristan stated, bluntly.

The three other men all stopped and looked at Jon, who looked back at them in high uncertainty.

"B-but I wasn't with Lord Stark-"

"I know," Rhaegar cut in. "But my father thinks you're his bloody squire from Harrenhal."

"Oh, shit!" Connington huffed. "Well, who is he then? I thought he was Stark's little brother when I first saw him."

"No, Jon. This Jon is Lyanna's cousin from the North. Stark blood in him though, for sure," Rhaegar answered, then turned to Jon himself. "Look, don't worry. I know a secret way into Maegor's Holdfast. I'll take you in that way and fetch you a livery."

"Hmm... another Jon," said Jon Connington. "Never mind, I'm sure I'll remember which one is me."

It was an attempt to lighten the mood, but it failed miserably. The four of them continued looking as tense as they did before. Before they brought their horses to a gallop, Jon looked over his shoulder to see where all those other armed men had gotten to. A few had followed, others had ridden ahead to clear the roads, but others seemed to have vanished. It was small wonder everyone he knew was so suspicious of this place.

When they reached the Red Keep, Rhaegar's secret entrance involved scaling an outer wall and crawling through a narrow vent barely wide enough for a small child. Mercifully, he and the Prince were lean enough to just about squeeze through, pulling themselves along until they hit a metal grill over an internal wall somewhere in Maegor's itself. The Prince shoved it hard, so it fell to the floor with a sharp clatter, then jumped down into his own private chambers. After a second spent assessing the distance from opening to floor, Jon did the same. Relieved to be out of that air-tight, suffocating vent, he drew a deep breath to steady himself again.

"I'll get you a livery now," said the Prince, dusting himself down. Having gone first, he had become covered in loose mortar and cobwebs. "It won't be enough to fool my father, but it will get you anywhere and everywhere within this city."

"Thank you, your grace," he replied.

While the prince went in search of a livery, Jon couldn't resist having a look around his private rooms. There was a terrace overlooking the bay, framed in twisting green vines. A bell-pull for the servants was above a large, tester bed and the three-headed dragon was everywhere he looked. On the ceiling, in the bricks and even on a brass door knob. There was a wide hearth, currently unlit seeing as his servants were not expecting him.

Rhaegar returned sooner than Jon expected, laden with clothes. "You're the same size as me, so I just grabbed these."

They were better than any clothes he had ever had before. Soft woollen black breeches, a black satin jacket with the Targaryen sigil embossed on the left breast and a white silk under shirt, also with the Targaryen sigil stitched over the breast. Jon held the black jacket for a moment, feeling the fabric and tracing over the sigil.

It was hard for him to not laugh. "I lived all my life as a bastard. But when I put on this livery I'll be as good as a Targaryen."

Rhaegar didn't understand. No Prince could ever understand what it was like to be a bastard; to be a stain on someone else's honour; because of someone else's actions. Nonetheless, Rhaegar smiled as though he were genuinely happy for him. "Congratulations, Jon," He replied. "It seems you've come up in the world."

Rhaegar felt sick as he looked up at his father, entangled on the barbs of the throne. They always did say the throne rejected those unworthy to sit on it, and the prince couldn't help but think it an omen of things to come. However, despite his discomfort, the king soon noticed his son waiting for an audience. And it had now come to this. Rhaegar, like any other subject, had to make an appointment to meet with his own father.

One thing he did notice was that the throne room was almost empty now. None of the courtiers hung around unless they had to. No one wanted to be in the mad one's line of sight, unless they had to be. Only the kingsguard remained. Ser Arthur Dayne was there, with Gerold Hightower at his side. But Ser Barristan and Jaime Lannister stuck with him, Rhaegar.

"You should be thanking me," Aerys said, disentangling himself from a particularly vicious barb. He then pointed to Rhaegar, as though singling him out, with one bloodied finger. "I saved your life, you bastard ingrate. I saved your life so you can carry on plotting against me."

The Hand of the King, Owen Merryweather, shuffled some papers and cleared his throat. Rhaegar pitied him. It was the Hand and Maester Pycelle who were struggling to keep the two court factions apart, while negotiating some kind of common ground between them. But they were out of their depth now.

"Your Grace," he said to the King, then turned to Rhaegar. "My Lord of Dragonstone. I wrote to the lord fathers of the men apprehended and informed them they are now regarded as outlaws-"

"Never mind that," Rhaegar cut over him. "I want to hear how my beloved father saved my life-"

"I saved your life from that cunting frozen aurochs!" Aerys bellowed down at him, straining forward in the throne. A vein popped at his temple, giving him a particularly demented appearance. "He came charging in here threatening to kill you, and now here you are whimpering on about trials and fairness and words spoken in anger. Empty threats. Empty fucking threats, says he!"

Rhaegar bit his tongue so hard he could almost taste blood. He had come in search of compromise. To see if Brandon Stark's treason could be passed off as nothing more than an idle threat spoken in rage and misunderstanding. But his father was beyond reason. Even now, he was raging on and hurling down insults.

"Sometimes," he stormed from atop his lofty perch. "I think the best part of you was left running down your mother's legs the day you were born."

He broke off there and laughed heartily at his own vulgar insults. Laughter that echoed around the chamber. It only stopped when he tried to stand up and tore his cloak on another jutting blade, whereupon the laughter turned to curses. He tried to dismount the steps, but almost fell. Had it not been for ser Arthur Dayne catching him in time, Aerys might have fallen and skewered himself. So close, yet so far.

Initially, Rhaegar stepped backwards to let his father pass. But, at the last minute, his feelings changed and he grabbed the man, pulling him closer. He held Aerys so close they were almost in kissing distance. Aerys was too stunned to say or do anything, the kingsguard powerless to act against their future king. For a long moment, Rhaegar looked into the other man's eyes, searching for any lingering trace of sanity in that frazzled mind.

"If you have even a split iota of love left for our family," Rhaegar hissed at him. "If you have even a shadow of reason left in you, you will bring Lord Rickard to the council chamber and accept his offer of ransom. If not, you will plunge this realm into chaos."

Stunned silence was his answer. A silence broken only by Lord Varys shifting into the light. Rhaegar had not noticed him before, but that was always the Eunuch's way. Meanwhile, the prince refused to break eye contact with his father.

"Chaos," Aerys whispered, trying to pry the prince's fingers from off his face. "I love a little chaos in the morning."

"Father!" Rhaegar insisted, almost pleading now. He had to make Aerys see what he was doing. "Father, please. Think of your grandchildren-"

"Do you?" he snapped back. "You weren't thinking of your children when you broke the Dornish alliance, were you. You weren't thinking of the children when you fucked that wolf whore. Where is now, eh? Where is she? On Dragonstone? Is she happy there? Should I invite her to court? She'll want to see her father again after all this time."

Rhaegar released his grip on Aerys so quick it was as if he'd been burned. Disgust and revulsion swept over him and he knew he could take no more. "Are you threatening the new Princess?"

He already knew Aerys wouldn't answer. It was another game he was playing and the mad one took great delight in looking his son in the eye and laughing quite happily before ambling on his way.

While Aerys left, Varys remained. Rhaegar watched him for a moment, almost choking on that sickly sweet perfume the Eunuch wore. He was starting to fill out, too. His silks were beginning to strain against his belly. The prince felt little but contempt for the man.

"What do you want?" he demanded, acidly.

"To tell you something," Varys replied, quite unfazed. His silks whispered across the tiles as he closed the gap between them. "You don't know everything, my lord. What you don't know is that Lord Rickard Stark, with a host of two hundred men, is now less than a day's ride from the city gates. And that your father has written to Lord Jon Arryn, demanding he bring Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon to court for execution."

Rhaegar was disgusted. "Lord Arryn would never comply. He will call his banners and join his strength with the North and if Brandon Stark dies..."

He trailed off as he tried to imagine the consequences.

"If Brandon Stark dies, the Lady Catelyn would be wed instead to Eddard, bringing the Riverlands into any war that might break out," Varys finished for him. "My Lord, I beg you, ride for Casterly Rock and make terms with Lord Tywin."

Rhaegar felt chilled to the core, bile rising in his throat at the thought of having to go to Tywin on his knees. "We still have the Tyrells and the Dornish. Elia has agreed to keep the alliance intact. We also have ser Jaime Lannister here. Tywin will want to fight on our side for his son's sake alone."

"One can hope," Varys replied. "But one can never be too certain with a man of Tywin's … steeliness."

"And he has another son," Rhaegar murmured.

"Oh, they say he loathes the dwarf," Varys pointed out, as if spotting the silver lining in the gathering storm clouds. "So you have that to bank on. But then, there's the small matter of your new bride. Lady Lyanna. Your father meant what he said, you know. About 'inviting' her to court to see her brother and father."

Rhaegar didn't doubt it. "He knows she's on Dragonstone. And some of those men who were on the docks when I arrived?"

"Will already be on their way to Dragonstone to drag her out by the roots of her hair," Varys answered. "If need be."

"Shit!" Rhaegar cursed, the echo answering him back. "He's bringing this realm and everyone in it to hell, all to punish me for setting Elia aside!"

"Go, get her to safety and salvage what you can with the Lannisters," Varys advised him. "Tarry no more."

He did not need to be told twice. With his heartbeat racing, he ran for Maegor's holdfast, and took the steps up the tower three at a time. Jon almost jumped out of his skin when he kicked the door in. He was still dressed in livery, so no guards would dare stop him as he fled the city.

"We have to get back to Lyanna, right now," he blurted out.

Jon was on his feet, brow furrowed deeply but he did not protest. "Why? What's happening?"

Rhaegar was already throwing clothes into a bag. "My father's sent men to Dragonstone to haul her into court. If they get her, she'll be burned alongside her stupid fucking brother."

If he had any more questions he did not ask them. He shot back to his feet as if he'd sat on a moat spike and headed straight for the door. On the way out, Rhaegar rallied ser Barristan and found Jon Connington in the outer-gallery. It would have to be the four of them, against however many his father had sent. There was no time to raise more without arousing his father's suspicions.

Sansa opened her eyes as soon as she felt the sun on her face. It was not the warm, gentle kind of sun she remembered from King's Landing, either. It was hot and dry, and soon burning her pale skin. Bran quickly led her towards the shadow of a tall sandstone tower, currently guarded by men she knew to be Kingsguard. She didn't recognise any of them by sight, but she knew the sigils and could guess the rest.

"Ser Arthur Dayne!" she gasped.

He was running an old oil cloth down the length of Dawn's milk glass blade, completely oblivious to their presence. Bran had seen this before, so wasn't quite so impressed. After Dayne, she noticed a Hightower. Gerold Hightower. The only connection she made was that he was Queen Margaery's uncle. The third was a Whent, she had seen him at Harrenhal but she could not recall his name.

"Any minute now," said Bran, nodding to the distant horizon.

All Sansa could see was an empty vista of rolling hills and dust so fine it looked like sand. Not even plants grew here, it was so dry. But as she scanned all around her, the sound of hoof beats reached her, approaching fast. She whipped around to the source of the noise, seeing the dust cloud long before she could make out any faces. Then…

"Father," she said.

He led the way, with Howland Reed following close behind. Then came Willem Darry, followed by Ethan Glover, rescued from the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep. She recognised Martyn Cassel only because he so strongly resembled his son, Jory. The others she could not make out. Meanwhile, the few kingsguard had drawn their swords and braced themselves for confrontation. It was seven on three. An easy fight for her father, or so she thought.

But when her father and his small host drew level with the tower, there was no immediate onslaught. Her father merely dismounted and approached the three Kingsguard.

"I looked for you on the Trident," he said.

It was Ser Gerold who answered. "We were not there."

Leaving the shade of the tower, Sansa approached the men while listening to the back and forth between them and Ned. It seemed almost like father was taunting them, for not being at the battles, or the siege of Storm's End, or anywhere else important. But for this lonely tower. She thought her father had a bloody good point. She drew level with the men just as Ser Arthur spoke for the first time.

"Now it begins."

Her father looked sad, rather than frightened, as he answered: "No. Now it ends."

Before she could even blink the two sides met in a storm of steel, swords and dust. Oaths and cries rang out as blows were landed seconds later a man was dead at her feet. Sansa leapt back, just as a woman screamed shrill and high. She almost thought it was her, for a second. But the cry came again, from high above. She whipped around towards the Tower, shielding her eyes from the sun to get the uppermost window in view. There was a woman in there, she realised.

They passed Rickard Stark's retinue as they boarded the ship for Dragonstone. In that moment, Jon knew he had a choice: stay and fight for the northmen, or fight for his aunt. He hesitated as he saw the direwolf banners moving through the crowded streets of King's Landing. Then he thought of his aunt being hauled from Dragonstone by the Mad King's men and, in the end, the decision hadn't been so hard after all. The ink is dry, he reminded himself, and Lyanna must live, even if no one else does.

The journey seemed to pass in a haze of agonising slowness. In his mind, he knew the king's men would already be there, holding Lyanna until she agreed to come with them. Rhaegar had sent a raven, telling her explicitly not to leave the castle with anyone under any circumstances and all they could do was pray to the old gods and new that she got it. By the time they arrived they were tired from the journey and a sleepless night on board the ship. But as soon as Jon's feet hit solid ground, his energy returned and he had drawn his sword before even reaching the sally port. Rhaegar was at his side, armoured and ready for the fight with Barristan Selmy and Jon Connington hot on his heels.

"Ready, sers?" asked Rhaegar.

"Let's end this now," Connington replied on all their behalves.

By way of assurance, Jon turned to Rhaegar and said: "Remember, Lya wouldn't let them get her without a fight."

He was still sick with fear and worry, but that soon melted away as they charged through the main doors of the drum keep. The first person they saw was a terrified maid and flung herself against the wall before they could run right over her.

"They're upstairs, my lords," the woman spluttered. "More than twenty of them, they are, with the lady a prisoner in her room."

"She's in there now?" Rhaegar asked, almost pinning the poor maid to the wall in desperation.

She managed to nod, at which the prince released her and breathed a sigh of relief. All four of them had their swords at the ready as they approached Lyanna's outer gallery, and Jon could hear a battering ram crashing against the door. They all heard it, urging them on as they raced toward the scene of the commotion.

"Stand down and return to the capital in peace," Rhaegar commanded, stepping out in front.

Jon, Barristan and Connington were taking no chances and they all formed up behind their prince. Swords held outright, ready for the fight. Finally, the intruders dropped the battering ram just before the doors caved completely, and took up their swords. They were all dressed in hauberks, with fine castle forged blades on them.

"The King sent us," one of them replied, defiantly. "More than our life's worth to go back without the wolf girl."

"Aerys is going to kill them if they fail," Jon whispered. "No way will they stand down."

"Agreed," said Connington. "We're just wasting time here."

With no further ado, the two sides met in a clangour of steel. Rhaegar lunged in first, as good as decapitating one and flinging him so hard against the wall he knocked a dent in the plaster. Meanwhile, Ser Barristan fought two men single-handed, while Jon himself cut and thrust at another, clinging to the prince's side as they cut through the men. In the heat of the fight, the battered chamber doors were kicked open and Lyanna appeared, dented half-helm on her head and a sword grasped in her hands.

"What took you so long?" she demanded, surveying the carnage before her. "I near died from boredom waiting for the fight to start."

She kicked the legs out from under one of the men and thrust her sword through his heart. Jon cut down another before he had a chance to kill Lya while she was momentarily unarmed, then swung for another before he could hit the prince. As he fell, Rhaegar finished him off with a swift downward thrust of his sword. Connington, Barristan and Jon teamed up to deal with the last handful while Rhaegar rushed to Lyanna's side. And it was over as quick as it began.

Breathless and dazed, Jon looked around the chamber, at all the dead catspaws. They had castle forged steal, but not one of them was castle trained. But it was too late to care about that now.

"Lya," he said, turning to his bloodied aunt. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she assured him, managing a smile. "Don't worry about me."

Not that he needed to. Rhaegar was sat on the floor, holding her gently in his arms and wiping the blood from her face. Clearly, she still had no idea of what was going on in King's Landing.

"It's no longer safe for you to stay here," Rhaegar said to her.

"Who were they?" she asked. "They told me you sent them to bring me to court. They even had your seal, but I got your raven an hour before they arrived."

While Rhaegar filled her in on the details, Jon entered his aunt's chambers to wash his face. The double doors would need replacing, but the battering ram would be good firewood. Not having gained access to the chambers, there was no damage inside. The wardrobe doors were ajar, and he could see where Lyanna had hidden at the back, covered in Rhaegar's cloaks.

Once he had washed, he dried his face on a rough linen cloth. He lowered the cloth and found Rhaegar looking back at him. "Your Grace."

"Whatever my father's done to the Northmen, it won't be safe for either of you here anymore," the Prince explained. "And when he learns we killed his catspaws, he will be furious."

Jon shrugged. "So what do you suggest?"

"I have a private residence in Dorne," he replied, removing a bunch of keys from his belt and handing them to him. "I want you to take her there and I'll join you as soon as I can. It's called the Tower of Joy."

Jon nodded, accepting the keys. "The Tower of Joy?"

Sansa hesitated before entering the tower, looking back at the dead men whose blood now soaked the arid terrain. Only her father and Lord Reed remained, their expressions dulled with pain and grief. The silence that followed the fighting rang in her ears and she stood there transfixed until Bran touched her arm.

"Sansa, come on," he urged her.

Even as he spoke, their father ran past them and took the sandstone steps two at a time. It was enough to give her the jolt she needed, to remember why they had come here. As if she needed another reminder, a scream rent the silence once more. Despite the heat, her flesh crawled with goose bumps as she ran after Eddard.

Once inside the tower, they were met with a wooden stairwell leading to the first floor. At the top of those stairs, a wooden door stood open. Before they entered, they had to duck out of the way as a maid appeared carrying a bowl of bloodied water and mess came staggering out. Her face was flushed and her brow was smeared with someone else's blood. It made her dread what she and Bran were about to find inside.

"It'll be all right," she said, more to herself than Bran.

In response he squeezed her hand and led her inside. To where their father knelt at the bedside of their dying aunt. Even Lyanna's bedsheets were soaked in blood and she was too weak to sit up. There was another maid close by, folding linen sheets, but Sansa soon lost interest in her and focused on Lyanna and father.

"I did not think you were coming, brother," Lyanna's voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Shush, Lya. Rest now and you will be well-"

"No," she cut him off, tremulously. "You know it isn't."

She managed to raise her free hand, showing him the blood that dripped from her fingers. Sansa looked again at the patch of blood oozing through the covers, it looked like they had cut her open. When she studied her father's face, he looked like he was in denial. As if he couldn't see what was right in front of him.

"You're not going to die," he insisted, soothing her brow. "We can get a maester, some clean water, then you can rest. I can't lose you, Lya."

Bran stiffened at her side, then nodded to the third person in the room. The woman who had been folding linen had now wrapped a small bundle in that same linen. Swaddling clothes, she realised. Even though this was what she had suspected all along, the confirmation came as a full body blow.

"We called him Jaehaerys," Lyanna said, drawing Sansa's attention again. "Look after him, Ned. Please. Robert will kill him; you know he will."

Sansa remembered Aegon and she knew her father did, too. He trembled as he took the tiny newborn in his arms, as though afraid of dropping him. A silent tear traced a line through the dust on Eddard's face.

"Promise me, Ned," Lyanna pleaded, fearful and weak. She was getting weaker by the second and her following plea was all but inaudible. "Promise me."

"I promise," he swore, still cradling the infant.

The anguish in her father's face was so clear that Sansa could feel it herself. She moved to stand by his shoulder, where she could see the grey-eyed baby. It was Jon. She knew it was Jon. She looked to Bran, and she could tell he knew it too.

Chapter Text

"Nothing has changed, he's still our brother." It had become almost a mantra that Bran had repeated more for his own benefit than hers, since they found out the truth. But Sansa knew otherwise. It changed everything. It strengthened their hand in the game while simultaneously placing on a political knife edge. Should the wrong person find out, they all would soon feel the bite of the blade at their necks.

"Of course he's still our brother," she would answer, flatly.

It almost made her laugh, at first. For all those years she would stick her nose in the air and haughtily correct her siblings. "He's our half-brother." Now when she wanted nothing more than to embrace Jon as her brother in name, blood and deed he turns out to be a cousin. A prince. A potential future king. The motherless bastard from the south is the piece of the game none of the others had bargained on. The knowledge made her want to shout it from the turrets for Varys, Baelish, Cersei and all those other plotters and schemers to hear. However, Baelish had taught her all she knew and she knew better than that by now. The best weapons were secret weapons.

Before all that, however, was the personal side. Sometimes, it felt like she had lost a brother. At others, she genuinely agreed with Bran and that nothing had changed. Jon was their brother, she they were his siblings. But she knew too much of the world to really believe it, in her heart. It felt like a loss. Like a brother had died.

While she reflected on all that had occurred, Bran hauled the carcass of a whole Buck in Soñar's pit deep beneath Winterfell. She got up to help him, grabbing the beast's hind legs and helping to swing it over the precipice, where it hit the stone walkway with a dull thud. Either side of the walkways, the hot springs boiled and churned. Moments later, the waters surged even more ferociously than before until Soñar himself broke the surface, sending up surges of scalding hot water. She smiled as he rose in the air, his wings beating a strong wind around the cavern. His blue and silver scales glistened, water hissing off the surface of his skin.

Soñar was so big now he had caused structural damage to the chambers surrounding his pit. Chunks of masonry had fallen and there were scratch marks on the walls and stone ledges where he had landed and climbed the walls. Still he had space to fly and stretch his wings. However, his favourite place of all was languishing deep in the hot springs and rolling around in the waters. He always seemed to be there when they came to feed him. Now he was tearing at the buck, searing the flesh and gulping it down. Before they returned to their tree, they would have to find him at least two more to keep him going.

Meanwhile, her mind soon wandered back to the problem at hand.

"We need to tell Jon as soon as possible," she said, decisively. "He needs to know before he comes back to us."

Bran looked reticent. "Would it not be a kindness to wait? If he finds out Lyanna and Rhaegar are his parents … well, you know what might happen."

"What?" she shrugged. "Jon won't do anything stupid, you know that."

"I still think we should discuss it with the Three-Eyed Raven," he insisted.

But Sansa wouldn't countenance it. "No. For now, we keep this between the three of us. Then whoever else is told is entirely up to Jon. Too many people knowing is dangerous. You know it is."

They lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. It was easy to talk about telling Jon, but actually doing it was something altogether different. How would they break the news to him? What would they say? She couldn't even begin to guess at his reaction. Grief. Disbelief, even. Anger as well, she would think. Anger at the lies and deceit. Anger that would make him worryingly unpredictable. She sighed deeply, turning her attention briefly back to the dragon.

"You're right," Bran eventually spoke. "I think you should be the one to tell, though. I mean, you're a girl, aren't you."

Sansa laughed. "Well spotted."

"No, I just mean, girls are better at that sort of thing," he hurriedly explained. "Especially you, because you're all gentle with people."

"You ought to be there to support him too," she said, just in case he was trying to slip the hook.

"Of course I'll be there. He's still our brother, after all."

It was going to be hard. The longer they delayed, the harder it would be. But Sansa was resolved to it by the time they left, searching for more dragon food from Winterfell's kitchens.

Above ground, the well-oiled war machine was swinging seamlessly into action as the North reeled from the deaths of Lord Rickard and Brandon. She remembered when Robb was declared King in the North, and Cersei had told her all the lords of the North had assembled at Winterfell under the pretence of the harvest feast. Well, these lords weren't even pretending anything. They were openly rebelling against the Targaryens.

If she loitered in the courtyards, close to the forge, she could see the banners of Karstark, Manderly, Mormont, Umber and Glover. Cerwyn and Hornwood were just beyond the walls and the Boltons were making their way beneath the portcullis as they left the crypts. Her stomach churned as she watched Roose Bolton marshal his troops inside. Poor Benjen had been left alone to orchestrate this vast assembling host. She could see Roose Bolton murmuring words of condolence in the boy's ear. Empty words, no doubt.

"Sansa," Bran addressed her softly when he noticed her looking for a little too long. "His day will come, soon."

With that assurance, she turned her back on the Boltons and all the others, following her brother to where the carcasses were kept. She remembered Soñar then, how big he was getting and the strength of his beating wings. The Boltons' day would indeed come, soon enough.

Happiness washed over Jon as he took in his first view of Dorne, with Lyanna at his side. Two children of the North getting their first real taste of hot, exotic sunshine. In the far of distance he could discern the peaks of the Red Mountains puncturing the azure skies. Even the air smelled different, felt different. Hot and dry, mixed with the salt of the sea-spray. Never before had he seen sea he wanted to strip off and dive into. It was almost too much for Lyanna, whose knees buckled as she stood at the gunwale of the ship.

"Woah!" he yelled, catching her fall just in time.

Although still woozy, she quickly came too as he sat her on the deck. "Gods, I don't know what came over me."

Jon could hazard a guess. Grief, exhaustion and guilt. She hadn't slept a wink since learning of the murders of her brother and father. He heard her pacing her cabin during the nights, or tossing and turning on the small bunk. Her eyes were lined with deep, dark circles and her face was drawn and pale. She had not touched a morsel of food since leaving Dragonstone. When the Prince first broke the news to her, she had paced back and forth repeating over and over: "I don't understand … I don't understand..." After a good half hour of that, she had buckled and broken down in Jon's arms.

"You need to rest," he told her, once again.

They were about to disembark, so there was slim chance of that. They had a long journey to the Tower of Joy ahead of them. One they began on horseback, several hours later. Lyanna rallied once she was mounted. Some of her old self returning as she got back in the saddle, at one with her new horse. Half-Centaur, his father had always said, her and uncle Brandon. Jon tried to cheer her by racing her across the open plains. But soon their chilly northern bodies became overwhelmed by the heat and had to slow down. Only when darkness fell did they find relief from the remorseless sun.

"Why don't you try to eat some?" he asked, pushing a plate of roasted goat in her direction.

A camp fire blazed in front of them, and the smells of the searing meat made his stomach rumble all the louder. But Lyanna seemed almost repulsed by it.

"I can't," she murmured, pushing his hands away.

Not wanting to be a nag, he gave up and ate her share himself. Meanwhile, their escort was setting up camp nearby, affording him a distraction to keep himself occupied. He finished up and went to help, leaving his aunt to her thoughts by the fireside.

Come morning, they set off again shortly before the sunrise. He could tell, just by looking at her, that Lyanna had had another sleepless night. By the time they reached the foothills of the Dornish mountains, she was listless and waxy-skinned, semi-conscious with exhaustion. He would have called a halt, had it not been so urgent to get her to safety. By now, he knew, the rebellion would be well under way.

"Can someone fetch a Maester?" he asked, looking round at the guards.

They looked back at him, blank-faced. "The nearest town-"

"That will do," Jon cut over the man, not letting him finish.

At first, he thought they would protest. But, after exchanging a glance with his colleague, he turned his horse around and rode off the way they came. His horse's hoofs sent up a large dust cloud as he cantered off, demonstrated the dry heat of the place they had come to. The land was as featureless as the far north, with just a polar opposite climate.

"I'll be all right." Lyanna assured him, drawing level with his horse.

"You won't," he replied, bluntly. "Not unless you eat something, and get some rest."

She answered with a non-committal shrug and urged her mount onwards. By the time they called a halt, several hours later, she was leaning dangerously in the saddle. From that point on, he was no longer prepared to take the risk of travelling farther. They set up camp again, while Lyanna finally nibbled at some roasted mountain hare their guides had hunted earlier. Something Jon took as a positive sign.

"Here," he said, pouring some strong ale into a cup for her. "Drink this."

She accepted gratefully, gulping deeply at the contents. To his further relief, she immediately perked up.

"I still don't understand what happened," she said, gazing into the camp fire. "I wrote to Robert, Brandon and Father together. How could he have just gone running into the Red Keep like that? He knew where I was."

Jon had been curious about that himself. "I cannot answer, but I intend to find out."

She didn't take her eyes from the flames as she replied: "You know what's happening, don't you? You knew this war was coming. It's why you didn't want me with the Prince. But if you had told me..."

Guilt lanced through him, as he realised she thought he could have stopped it by telling her the truth. But he knew he couldn't. The ink was dry, or so Bran kept telling him. History had its own way of sticking to the rules.

"What would you have done, if I had told you?" he asked, no longer able to meet her eyes.

"That's not the point, though," she replied, frowning. "It all comes down to the fact that they knew where I was, that the Prince and I are married now. There was no need for Brandon to go raging into the Red Keep, demanding he come out and die."

That had thrown Jon, too. He had not known about the letters and he suspected his father didn't, either.

"Maybe Robert lied?" he asked, shrugging. "Maybe he told Brandon that Rhaegar abducted you and that sent him into a rage."

Disagreeing, Lyanna shook her head. "No, I don't think he would have done that. Robert would be angry, he would have a drink or two, but then another girl would catch his eye and he would forget all about me. I know men like Robert, he would never keep to one woman. I rather thought he would see the breaking of our arrangement as something of a release. A narrowly dodged spell in the dungeons. Besides, he wouldn't have lied to Brandon knowing he would fly into a rage."

When she fell silent, she began picking at her food again. A little and a little, until only the bones remained. She tossed them into the fire, listening to the hiss of the fat hitting the flames.

Meanwhile, Jon said something he didn't even realise he would say until the words left his lips. "Robert's going to win this war."

Lyanna flinched, her expression tightening. "What?"

"Robert is going to win this war," he repeated, quietly.

"And Rhaegar?" she asked, tremulously.

Jon looked at her through the heat haze of the fire, trying to word his answer sensitively. "Rhaegar does not win this war."

For a second, her expression did not change. Then she laughed drily. "You're not one to give much away, are you?"

Like his new friend, the Ghost of High Heart, his aunt had gorged on grief already. "He fled into exile with his brother and sister-"

"He hasn't got a sister," she cut in.

"He will have," answered Jon. "Rhaella will get pregnant again. I think the birth killed her, though."

Lyanna still looked sceptical. "Aerys isn't capable, is he? I mean, the man's completely mad."

"He still has a functioning..." he retorted, but cut himself off before things turned vulgar. "Well, you know what I mean.

"I think I do!" she smiled wanly as she replied.

Later that night, he lay outside his tent and looked up at the stars stretched out overhead. An endless vista of constellations; a view so clear he had not seen its like since going north of the wall. Lyanna lay at his side, turned over and facing away from him. He could tell she was not sleeping, or just dozing fitfully at best. He could see her from the tail of his eye, but for the most part he stuck to counting the endless stars.

"Rhaegar's going to die, isn't he?"

Her voice sounded muffled, but painfully matter-of-fact. For reasons he could not explain, the question had also taken him completely by surprise. Still, he schooled his response and then stopped. He owed her the truth, now.

"Yes."

Loose grit rustled as Lyanna sat up and looked down at him. The starlight limned her hair in silver, but her face was in darkness.

"I am pregnant with his child."

The confession came like a kick in the gut to him. Shock, followed by disbelief. "Are you sure?"

"I have not bled these last two moons," she explained, quietly. "It's not such a surprise, Jon. We've been trying ever since the wedding."

All Jon knew about pregnancy was watching from afar as Catelyn Tully birthed hers. Sickness, lethargy and dizziness … it all made sense to him now. Slowly, he sat up himself so they would be level with each other. Closer to her, he could see the tears dripping silently down her face. He reached out, brushing the dampness away tenderly.

"Please don't cry," he implored her. "Everything will be all right."

"Will it?" she asked, pushing a lock of hair back from his face. "Robert wins the war; Rhaegar dies… and what happens to this baby?"

There was no baby, he thought to himself. Father never mentioned any baby. No one mentioned a baby. There was no baby. All the possible explanations whirled round his mind. Miscarriage seemed most likely. Or a still birth brought on by the shock of Rhaegar's death. But then, father would have mentioned it, he knew. He would have said that Aunt Lyanna died birthing the baby that Rhaegar had raped into her belly.

"Jon, what will happen to my baby?" she asked again, urgent now. He could hear the pleading in her voice.

"I-I never knew about any baby," he answered. "Are you sure you're pregnant?"

"I am certain," she insisted. He could hear her laboured breaths in the darkness, the occasional sniffle as she struggled to keep her composure. All the while, her face was half in darkness. Only when she looked up to the stars could he see her properly. She tilted her head often, as if counter-balancing the tears that threatened to fall. "I know I don't make it into your time. You as good as told me that, yourself."

"No," he insisted. "You misunderstood-"

"I misunderstood a lot of things, but not that," she cut in. "I don't even care what happens to me, Jon. All I care about is this baby. This realm can burn and me along with it, so long as my baby lives."

But there was no baby. Just a motherless bastard from the south, whose father refused to tell him the truth.

"There was no baby," he repeated, hollowly. "That's all I know."

Although only partially visible, he could feel her gaze boring into him. The gaze so identical to his own. He felt his heart clench, his chest constricting in the process. His brain no longer wanted to take it in. Just when he thought he could not take it any more, she backed down and turned away from him again. He did not have the courage to say anything further.

He too lay back, looking up at the stars and wishing himself years away.

Merryweather was gone by the time Rhaegar returned to the Red. Cast out and exiled, for conspiring with the Northern Lords to allow Lady Lyanna to escape Dragonstone. He thought he would be furious to hear the news, but with the realm in open rebellion against him he no longer cared. At least, not until what happened next.

Jon Connington appeared in his chambers, a familiar looking pin badge stuck to his lapel. Rhaegar looked at it askance, then up to Jon's worried face.

"He's made you Hand of the King?" he asked his old friend.

Jon raised an auburn brow. "I could hardly refuse. Well, not unless you wanted me served medium rare, your grace."

"Certainly not!" Rhaegar retorted. "But, Gods, Jon you need to be careful. One false step and you'll be in the pyre before you can so much as kiss your own arse goodbye."

"I had rather hoped against hope that you would be able to talk to the Queen, who in turn might talk to her husband," said Jon. "I'm needed on the battlefield, not in the small council with bloody Pycelle and that insufferable Eunuch."

The Prince sighed heavily. "I can try, but Aerys isn't listening to anyone any more."

Before long, they left his chambers together and made their way trough the subdued court. Two hundred men had been executed beyond these walls a few months ago, and the people were living in unadulterated fear. He could smell it; he could feel it oozing under the doorways and through the cracks in the windows. It was like the walls were closing in, or the rooms were shrinking. Only the sight of Rhaenys buoyed him up as she came dashing around a corner, her little cat in her hands.

Raising a smile, Rhaegar opened his arms to sweep her up into a hug. Balanced on his hip, he kissed her forehead and bounced her along with him. Giving them some privacy, Jon let himself lag behind.

"Have you been a good girl?" he asked his daughter.

Rhaenys looked up at him through guileless brown eyes, still clutching Balerion the cat. The cat didn't look too happy at being crushed between both humans' chests.

"Yes, Papa, and Aegon too," she answered. "Mama's been sad, though. We all missed you."

"And I missed you too, my own heart," he answered, kissing her cheek. "But listen, you have to be very grown up while I am away, and look after your mother and baby brother."

Blissfully unaware of what he was really asking, she nodded her head eagerly. "I always do."

"I know," he answered, sadly. "But soon, you are to go to Dragonstone, where your Uncle Oberyn will come for you. And I - … I do not know when I will see you again. But I will, I promise. I will ride down to Sunspear on my great warhorse and pick you up myself, and we'll ride back to King's Landing together. Would you like that?"

Rhaenys beamed brightly. "And we will wave to all the people and give them our blessings?"

"Of course!" Rhaegar assured her, forcing himself to keep a brave face. "And we'll show them that you are the most gracious princess a realm could hope for."

Her giggles only made him ache. To hide his distress from her, he tucked her head under his chin and looked across the gallery they were in. To where Elia was standing in a doorway, watching from afar. The sadness in her eyes, when they met his, was clear as day. Still she smiled. A pale and sad smile, directed at the father-daughter scene playing out in front of her. Gently, Rhaegar set his daughter back down.

"Go and play with your brother," he said, urging her along.

Too young to pick up on what was really happening, she ran off and did not look back. Meanwhile, Elia approached slowly. The anger had long gone from her, at least.

"Dragonstone is empty now," he said. "Take the children and go there, as soon as you are able."

Elia nodded. "Thank you, Rhaegar."

"No!" he said, firmly. Her eyes widened in shock, prompting him to clarify his meaning. "No, I thank you. For our beautiful children, for being the best wife-"

"Is this guilt talking?" she asked, wryly.

"Perhaps," he replied, honestly. "But that doesn't make it any less earnest. Elia … just-" he broke off, unsure of exactly what to say. After another second dithering, he placed one hand gently on her chest. "A piece of me will always be yours. Always. So … look after yourself."

He breathed a sigh of relief as she warmed to his peace offering. Her smile sweetened, her eyes softening. "You too, Rhaegar. You too."

With that, she walked away in search of their daughter, leaving only the scent of her perfume lingering in the empty air. Rhaegar watched her leave with a heart full of regret for the past and hope for the future. The raven came from Dorne, confirming Lya's pregnancy, and now the dragon had its third head. But the other two were just as important to him.

"Jon," he called over to his friend. "I must return to Dorne as a matter of urgency. I want you to stay here and make sure Elia and the children make it safely to Dragonstone. Do you understand? I want them well out of the way in case the rebels make it this far."

Jon Con nodded. "As you wish, your grace. Although, I am confident it will not come to that."

"And make sure ships are on stand by to carry them to Essos, should it be needed," he added, for surety's sake. Leaning in close, he whispered in the man's ear. "Sail without my father, if you can."

A muscle twitched in Jon's jaw, but he still nodded. "Your Grace, I am yours to command."

Rhaegar smiled approvingly. "Good. Now, I must leave, but I will return as soon as I can."

The Tower of Joy was as comfortable as an isolated tower in the mountains could be. However, there was a town a good four hour ride away and there was fair hunting in the surrounding plains. But the landscape was featureless and seemingly endless. Lyanna slept heavily as soon as she arrived. Then the Maester came and confirmed the pregnancy and she slept some more. When she awoke, she was ravenous. They ate together, talking small talk. But something had changed between them, Jon could feel it,

"This goat is lovely," she said, stiffly. Demonstrating her point, she jabbed her knife at the flesh on the platter.

Jon nodded, equally stiff. "Very nice. Wylla is a good cook."

Wylla was from the nearest town. A stout young woman, expecting her own baby. As good a wetnurse as any. She was cheerful and sang 'The Dornishman's Wife' as she worked, folding linens and preparing herbs. He could hear her at that moment, singing as she scrubbed out their shared sleeping chamber. The last time he heard that song was thousands of leagues north, when Mance played it on his lute. He always did wonder how Mance knew that song.

On the forth day, Bran arrived with Sansa in tow. There was no weirwood nearby, so he had to wait for them to come to him. This time, the wait had been particularly agonising. He met them on the stone steps that led down the side of the Tower.

"She's pregnant," he told then without preamble. "Did father ever say anything to you about her having a baby?"

He looked from Sansa to Bran and back again. There was a distinct lack of surprise in their expressions. Bran bit his lip and looked at his feet. Sansa's brow creased, a sorrowful look in her sapphire eyes.

"Jon," she said, tremulously. "We must speak with you."

He tried to laugh. "Why else would you be here?"

Neither she nor Bran shared his humour. His own smile died and he sucked in a deep breath, glancing back up the steps to where Lyanna slept. Her sickness came and went, but it was worse than ever now and it worried him. It made him feel inexplicably guilty.

"No," he said, at length. "No, it cannot be. It cannot-"

"Jon," Sansa spoke over him, firmly. "Sit down, please. We need to talk."

All this time, and he never once suspected. All these years, and he never once considered…

Jon began to tremble as he realised the truth had been literally staring him in the face. "Maybe she had a miscarriage? I mean, look at this place … who could have a baby out here?"

He didn't realise his knees were buckling until Sansa caught him, and held him as she eased them both down to the stone steps. She brushed a tear from his cheek, kissing the dampness away. All this time, he thought to himself again… all this time and he never once suspected a thing. What a fool he had been.

"Oh Gods, Sansa," he gasped as the full realisation hit him. He looked at her, pleadingly. "Tell me I'm wrong. Say it's not so. Say it's not true."

While she held him gently, Bran backed away to afford them privacy. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he was grateful for it.

"We saw it, Jon," she said, whispering. "She had no choice. Robert would have killed you. You know he would have killed you."

Even though they'd suspected it for weeks, the confirmation came like a kick in the gut. But while he reeled, Sansa was quick to react and tightened her grip on him as he tried to stand up. Deciding it was best he remained sitting, he leaned into her and didn't care that he was sobbing openly into her shoulder. Somewhere nearby, Wylla's voice sounded sweetly over the open ground: 'the Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun, and her kisses were warmer than spring..."

Thanks again for all the comments and kudos.  It means a lot, so thank you!

Chapter Text

Up on the battlements of the Tower of Joy, cradled between two jutting stone merlons, Jon watched the setting sun. A Lannister like cloak of red and gold, blazing over the western horizon and casting the jagged mountain peaks in silhouette. He watched without seeing, barely noticing the sun dipping below the horizon, while his thoughts continued to swirl. A few hours ago he'd dismissed both Bran and Sansa, resorting to snapping at them when they proved reluctant to give him some space. Now that he had the solitude he'd so craved, he began to regret it. This far from the nearest town or village, the silence was absolute. The darker it became the more he began to feel like the last man alive and there was nothing but his own confusion to fill that void.

Still he didn't move. Ensconced in the crenel, he let his feet dangle down the curtain wall and ignored the sheer drop. One of the reasons Sansa had been reluctant to leave was in case he decided to throw himself off the tower. He had no intention of doing that, but it had been an inspired suggestion for a place to come and think, to clear his head. The rest of Lyanna's guard had not yet arrived, so there would be no one around the bother him. Even Wylla had ceased her singing and retired to bed. And Lyanna… Mother, he reminded himself.

Even thinking the word 'mother' snagged somewhere in his chest. He couldn't begin to estimate the number of nights he had lain awake and wondered who she was, whether she was alive or dead or just plain indifferent to his existence. At the same time, he had lived his life puffed up with pride by the fact that Ned Stark was his father. But that was a part of him he couldn't go back to now. He couldn't think of it. He didn't want to acknowledge it. Now he had the truth and he didn't know what to do with it. So he had hidden away on the battlements and watched listlessly as a featureless landscape faded to black. No answers came to him, no clue appeared to point him in the right direction. He may as well be staring at a brick wall.

One thing he did know was that it felt like the truth had been under his nose all along. When he thought about it all, it made sense. On some cold and logical level, it fit. He knew if he had been in Eddard Stark's position and it was Arya or Sansa in Lyanna's place, he would have done the same. He would have done it without hesitation, without a second's thought, because he loved them so much it hurt. If Robb had gotten a child on Jeyne Westerling, he would do the same regardless of Robb's folly.

Now that he did have the truth, he wondered what he was supposed to do with it. Besides the dragon, he could think of no other reason he had been sent back. The gods had revealed this truth to him, set him on a path to find his own self and he had. Yet there he remained, in the past and living with ghosts. Which could only mean there was more yet to do. Thinking about it was starting to make his head spin and he was exhausted from it. He leaned back in the crenel and carefully lowered himself back on to the battlements. His limbs were stiff from sitting so long.

Making his way down the sally port, he entered the tower's interior through Lyanna's door. He paused on the threshold, eyes adjusting to the darkness inside her chambers. Oblivious to his intrusion, she slept on. Although it was early days, the pregnancy was already going hard on her. If it wasn't the sickness, it was the pains in her belly or the dizziness when she stood up and tried to move. So he let her sleep on, rather than burden her with all he had found out.

Soundlessly as possible, he trod through her chamber and made for the small pallet bed he had commandeered upon arrival. He knew he would not sleep, but he did wonder if staring up at the ceiling would be better than staring out into the black of night. Anything was worth a try.

'Surely the gods have not brought me here only to snatch me away again?' he thought to himself as he undressed. If the gods had an answer, they weren't telling him.

Jon eased himself down on the hard bed and turned to face the stone wall, dressed only in a long shirt left over from his stint in King's Landing. Searching for it had temporarily taken his mind off everything else. An all too brief respite and now he was back to it. Only now, after thinking so deep while on the battlements, the silliest of things popped into his head. He wondered what would have happened if he had inherited Rhaegar's looks and not his mothers'. Those indigo eyes and that silver-blonde hair would be hard to explain in the North. He realised it did not matter, but still he wondered. Would he be out in Essos trailing after his aunt Daenerys and her three dragons? He'd heard it said that her brother was as mad as their father.

"Jon, are you awake?"

He'd been so lost in his own thoughts he'd not noticed Lyanna's breathing falling so silent, and the sound of her voice startled him.

"Yes," he replied, turning over to face her. "Sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't," she assured him. "But you didn't come back after dinner. I wondered where you were."

"Nowhere. I didn't go anywhere," he stated, flatly.

The bed linen rustled as she sat up properly, her feet now resting on the floor. With the shutters blocking the moonlight from without he could not see her properly. Only a vague outline, where her hair slid over her shoulders in a solid patch of darkness.

Seemingly satisfied with even that vague answer, she changed the subject abruptly. "Rhaegar thinks it's a girl. This baby, I mean."

Jon laughed, but it sounded hollow. "This probably isn't the first time Rhaegar's been wrong about something."

"He wanted to name her Visenya," she added. "But that's not going to work now, is it?"

"Surely Rhaegar has at least entertained the idea of it being a boy," he retorted.

"Oh yes. In that case it's Jaehaerys. But something tells me that isn't going to work out either."

She sounded so calm, so accepting of what was unfolding around her. It was like she had known all along, but that wasn't possible. Maybe, like him, she was just too stunned to panic or too numb to feel anything beyond a slight sense of wonder. It was happening, and there was nothing they could do about it so why waste time crying about it?

Jon sat up in his own bed, trying to distinguish her features in the poor light. "If things had been only a little different, we would have known each other better."

She answered with a wet sniff. "I remember when you first came to us, when you said you were searching for your mother. I didn't believe you when you said Ned never told you. I honestly didn't think he would do something so mean and I thought you were the one mistaken. But it's all starting to make sense now. From the little you've said I can fill in the blanks myself." Her voice faltered, but Jon waited for her to continue. She turned her face to the window, where the shutters hid what lay beyond, evidently still lost in her own mind. After another sniff and a hasty swipe at her eyes, she added: "Sometimes such clarity is a curse. It's like we've spent months collecting all the pieces of a puzzle, only we're scared witless of what it'll look like once it's all slotted together. And it's madness, Jon. Because I'm scared of the truth yet I ache for it at the same time."

Jon got to his feet and moved to sit beside her on the tester bed. He found her in the dark and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she dried her tears.

"All I ever wanted was the Stark name," he admitted. "No money, nor lands or titles. Just the Stark name and I would have been happy. Father would have given me it, had it not been for Catelyn. Gods, she was right all along. I am no Stark. Father lied."

Uncle, he reminded himself. But it made no matter. He couldn't ever see Ned Stark as anything other than a father. Now that he had the truth, he could sit back and watch as his two fathers destroyed each other on the banks of the Trident. That was a realisation that made his heart squeeze painfully; so much so he almost physically recoiled. Only the feeling of Lyanna's hand gripping his own, her fingers lacing through his, brought him around again.

"Stay with me," she said. "I'm afraid and I don't want to be alone."

Jon drew a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "There's somewhere I need to be. But once it's done, I will come back for you. I swear, I'll come back for you. Now I have you, I'll never be parted from you again."

"I don't want to die," she replied, hoarsely. "But if that's what it takes … if that's what it costs to have this baby … to have you-" Once more, Lyanna faltered into silence. She seemed to sag under the weight of what she was saying, her head drooping and shoulders hunched before she suddenly looked up again. "If that's what it takes, then you're worth dying for."

Sansa's eyes narrowed as the young boy in the ill-fitting armour waddled into the courtyard of Riverrun. His arrival was met with gales of laughter from onlookers, but the boy's face was set with cold determination. It was something she had often seen in the eyes of the adult Petyr Baelish too, she realised. Only this was different. She could see he was completely out of his depth. Not just the ill-fitting armour, but the way he carried the sword was all wrong. Even though she scarce knew the right way herself, she could tell he was going nowhere. The shield seemed too heavy for him, too.

"Oh, Petyr," she murmured under her breath. "What are you doing?"

Bran glowered. "Is that him?"

"It is," she sighed.

Suspecting all that she did about him, the last thing she thought she'd do was end up pitying him. But there was no denying how pitiful he looked. Skinny and short, barely armoured and too inept to so much as lift his sword properly. By contrast, her Uncle Brandon towered over the courtyard, his sword gripped in his gauntleted hand and a look of wry amusement on his face. Next to him, Catelyn Tully barely hid her smiles. Sansa couldn't help but wonder why she wasn't talking some sense into Petyr, or just calling Brandon off herself. But, that wasn't how duels worked, she knew that really.

"Come on, boy," Brandon intoned, voice amplified by his helm. "That's enough, you've made your stand. Put the sword away and we'll forget all about it."

But with Catelyn looking on, Petyr was having none of that. "I challenge you to a duel for the hand of my lady!"

Brandon still hesitated, clearly uneasy with duelling a boy who'd had no training. After a long pause, he pulled off his helm and breast plate, leaving on the gauntlets covering his hands.

"Now we are more evenly matched," he declared. "And this is your last chance, Baelish. There is no shame in admitted you made a mistake."

Even without the armour they were nothing like an even match. Brandon was huge and strong, with years of experience at his back. Just give up, Petyr, she inwardly implored. But he did not. Instead, he approached Catelyn and begged her favour to wear. The same favour that was already fluttering from Brandon's wrist. She could see it now that he'd removed his armour. Meanwhile, Catelyn regarded Petyr with an expression torn between sadness and mockery as she rejected him again.

Suddenly, Cat shoved forwards as Lysa barged past her brandishing a silk ribbon. "Here, wear my favour, Petyr!"

Ladies never offered their favours, Sansa remembered, it was up to the man to ask them of her. But poor Lysa looked so grateful when he accepted all the same, even though he looked desolate at picking up a consolation prize.

"Why isn't mother saying anything?" asked Bran, at her side. "This is madness!"

Their Uncle Edmure was there too, alongside the Blackfish and countless others. None of them were saying anything either, she noted. Only Brandon had tried to offer Petyr a dignified exit. Or as dignified as circumstances would allow. Curious, she and Bran moved to stand beside their mother before the mummer's farce began. Only then did she pull on Brandon's elbow.

"Please, don't kill him," she whispered in his ear. "He's like a little brother to me."

Brandon looked back at her and winked. "What do you take me for? Of course I won't kill him."

Then it begun. And it also ended at the same time, or so Sansa thought. With one swift, but gentle, sword stroke, Petyr fell to his knees in a heap. It was almost an ant-climax, and Brandon was already on his way back to Catelyn's side. He was about to say something, but then Sansa saw Petyr scramble back to his feet with his sword in the air. He was bleeding already, but clearly not yet done. Brandon saw him coming too, and knocked him off his feet again. And once more, Petyr got back up. Brandon had barely lifted a finger against him, yet Petyr was being pulverised. Again and again, he got up and tried to attack. Every clumsy blow was blocked, every foolish slash was met with greater force from Brandon. Sansa pitied him more and more, while Lysa wailed from the side lines and Catelyn merely froze with a rictus grin on her face. As for Uncle Brandon, he just stood there and casually fended Petyr off without pausing for thought nor effort.

"Stop this now!" the Blackfish's voice boomed across the yard. "Petyr, go to your rooms."

"Petyr, please," Catelyn joined her own voice to Brynden's. "Enough is enough."

But Petyr wasn't listening to either of them and Brandon's patience had snapped. Clearly sick of just swatting at this little fly, he raised his sword high and dealt a blow so hard it made Sansa flinch and recoil. Blood spurted from Petyr as he buckled under the force of the blow, open from naval to collarbone. Now it was all over.

The Blackfish heaved a weary sigh and entered the courtyard to pick Petyr up from the dirt packed ground. Lysa was inconsolably wailing, all on her own. Catelyn merely linked her arm through Brandon's and walked away, without looking back.

"Bran," said Sansa. "It's time to go."

Moments later, they were back in their tree with the Three-Eyed Raven and Meera Reed. Everyone else was out hunting and they hadn't seen Benjen since the truth of Jon's parentage was revealed to them. After a moment to catch her breath, she turned to Bran who was struggling to sit up.

"So," he began. "You think that's the real moment that started the war?"

Sansa drew a deep breath before answering. "I don't know if he did it on purpose. Maybe he just wanted Brandon to die-"

"But Brandon would never have believed him," Bran cut in.

"Of course not, and Petyr's too clever for that," she replied. "He would have told Robert Baratheon first, knowing Robert would go straight to Lyanna's oldest brother. It's exactly the sort of thing Petyr would do, relying on others to build the web for him while he ensnared the innocent victims."

Her Brandon looked doubtful. "He didn't look very clever to me."

"No, he's clever," she assured him. "He's just useless with a sword, and blinded by love for mother. When it comes to manipulating people, he's the master of the art."

"After we've taken care of Sonar, we'll keep tracking him then," replied Bran. "We need to know the truth of what happened back then, now more than ever."

In truth, Sansa could not tell whether Petyr was motivated by revenge for his wounded pride or love for her mother. But Bran was right, they needed to find out. Especially with Petyr still on the loose, still manipulating every noble house in the realm.

"Petyr has the Knights of the Vale in Mole's Town," she said. "I think it's time someone manipulated him in return."

Brandon looked dubious again. "What do you mean?"

Sansa shrugged. "I don't know yet. First we need Jon back. He's the most important. But I can use Petyr to take back Winterfell. It's the least he can do, after all he's done to us."

"But we have the dragon for that," Bran pointed out.

"We will still need men to drive back all five thousand of the Bolton forces," she stated. "And now the Umbers and Karstarks have joined them, that's their armies added to the Boltons. I don't know how many men in total. But it's a lot, and we'll need more than a dragon to beat them. Then, if we get it all back, I'm going to propose marriage to Baelish."

"What?" Bran choked, so loud his voice echoed around the tree.

"Don't worry," she swiftly assured him. "It's only for a little while, to see if I can coax the truth out of him. I'll win his trust and then utterly destroy him."

Knowing Baelish had started the second war was bad enough. But if she detected his hand in the first as well, she knew she would have no choice. For the sake of her family, for the Targaryens who she now knew included Jon, and for the sake of the realm – Petyr had to go. Even admitting it to herself made tears well in her eyes.

Chapter Text

Elia hesitated at the top of the stone turnpike stair, the sleeping baby clutched in her arms. "You told me we weren't running away. So why are we sneaking out of the castle like rats? If the king says we're not prisoners, why can't we just walk out of the door? Anyone would think we're doing something wrong."

"Elia, please, just follow me," Rhaegar implored her. "There's no time to explain."

Her uncle, Lewyn, had already gone ahead of them with Rhaenys. They would be half way through the vaults by now and, if he and the Princess tarried much longer, they would lose them. In an effort to make things easier for her, he held up the torch and shone as much of the light as possible down the narrow stairwell. There had been no time to light the beacons set in the walls, which rendered his job all the more difficult. To his relief, however, Elia drew a deep breath and renewed her grip on Aegon as she began her cautious ascent.

He rewarded her efforts with a little more information. "I just think it's for the best if the King doesn't know you're leaving."

"But, aren't you coming with us?" she asked, halting again and looking at him fearfully.

"No, I'll meet you there when all this is over," he assured her. "I promise."

Realising that this was no time to quibble the point, Elia followed him deep below the castle. It was cold and their footsteps echoed through the empty vaults. There was nothing down there to absorb even the smallest sounds, but Rhaegar was relieved when he could hear his daughter's voice being carried down the darkness. It sounded like she and Lewyn were still far off, almost at the opening beyond the walls. Meanwhile, he and Elia were still in the vaults.

"Rhaegar, I don't like it; I can barely see," she said. "Where are we?"

"No one's down here, it's the safest route out of the castle," he replied, wrapping his free arm around her shoulders.

Maegor the Cruel had built these tunnels, vaults and secret passageways. Then he promptly killed the masons who worked on them so they could never divulge the castle's secrets. Centuries later, the boy Rhaegar had made it his childhood's ambition to discover as many of them as possible. A secret knowledge that was coming in useful now.

"I came down here all the time, when I was child," he explained, trying with all his heart to make it sound like wistful reminiscing. But he couldn't altogether keep the urgency from his voice. "Not once did anyone catch me, or follow me. One time, when I was ten, I went missing for days and Aerys had the whole kingsguard searching for me. Eventually, I surfaced close to Flea Bottom where I whiled away a few hours playing in the water with the street urchins before returning to the castle to face my father. Gods, he was furious with me."

However much he tried to make it sound otherwise, it was nervous talk. Something to take Elia's mind off the ominous silence that hung like a shroud over the ancient vaults. Something to take his mind off the fact that they were losing this war. Only that day, word had reached them of Robert winning three resounding victories in one day, close to the ruins of Summerhall. His own sacred space sullied by that over-blown rebel leader. While his father raged and burned people alive, Rhaegar could feel it all slipping away from them. Fortune's ebbing tide washing up the relics of their once great dynasty.

Finally, they rounded a corner and sunlight reflected from the dark stone walls. Up another flight of stairs, through another narrow tunnel where they emerged beyond the walls of the castle. Elia almost wept as the fresh air fell upon her face. Meanwhile, Rhaegar kept his free arm around her.

"See those steps leading down the cliff face," he said, nodding toward the spot. "That's where we're headed."

Immediately, he located Rhaenys and Lewyn making their way down the stone steps towards a small jetty. A row boat was bobbing on the Blackwater, waiting to carry them to a merchant ship docked farther out at sea.

"Won't Aerys find us on Dragonstone?" asked Elia as they made their way down. "He found the Stark girl there."

"Only because he wanted all Northerners dead," he clarified. Besides, not even Aerys was mad enough to kill Elia and the children, knowing it would push the Dornish over to the rebel cause. "Still, only stay at Dragonstone a night or two. Head to Dorne, where your brothers will take you in."

Out in the open again, Elia's strength and courage seemed to return to her. "We need to get a move on."

With that, she gripped Aegon and ran as fast as she could without tripping on the hems of her skirts. Down a flight of stairs, through a narrow street and down a steep hill that led onto a stone path carved into the rock face that led to the stairs – and their escape. Rhaegar had dropped the torch, but kept one hand closed around Elia's upper arm as he steered her through the streets. Never the most physically robust of people, Elia's breathing soon became laboured and difficult. Too soon she began slowing down, forcing him to slow down too.

"Not far now," he tried to encourage her. "Just to those steps. You know you can make it."

But even as she picked up her pace, Rhaegar could see the king's men filing out into the street. Their gold cloaks glittered under the afternoon sun, their swords already drawn.

"Just ignore them," he whispered in Elia's ear. "I'll pay the Lord Commander off if need be."

They slowed to a fast walk, trying to look normal. But now their path was blocked, a human barrier forming between them and Rhaenys and Lewyn. For the first time since leaving those vaults, Rhaegar's nerves prickled back to life as he found himself looking into the stony faces of the goldcloaks. Some he had managed to buy, but not all of them and their loyalties remained split. More and more of them were crossing over to the rebels.

"Gentlemen," he said, "Where is your Lord Commander?"

None of them answered, but they parted slowly. Shuffling aside to reveal a wheel house clattering to a halt and blocking the beaten earth street. Rhaegar watched the door open with a sickening feeling of dream solidifying in the pit of his stomach.

Aerys looked faintly amused, when he finally appeared. "And where do you think you're going?"

Elia shrank back, clutching Aegon closer to her breast. The babe had had a drop of milk of the poppy dripped onto his tongue before they left and, mercifully, he slept on. But, Lewyn had seen the commotion and was now making his way back up the stone steps with Rhaenys in tow – not wanting to leave the little Princess alone on a dangerous path. Rhaegar willed him to turn and run, but knew that would never happen.

"Father," he said, looking directly at the king. "Elia and the children are going to Dragonstone. You already said-"

"I said no such thing," Aerys cut over him. He climbed out of the wheel house and stood directly in front of the prince. Measuring him up with a scowl, he added: "They stay here, with me, until I get the Dornish troops back on these streets. All ten thousand of them."

Before Rhaegar could reply, Lewyn had caught them up and pushed his way through the goldcloaks. "I will be your hostage, your grace. Allow my niece and her children to go in peace; Doran would not risk my life any more than hers."

"Father, it makes sense," Rhaegar said. "You have Jaime Lannister as a hostage for Tywin-"

"And I want Elia; the damn Prince's sister – not his wretched nephew," the king retorted. "Take the Princess and the children back to the castle now."

The goldcloaks had them circled, cutting off every escape point. Rhaegar watched them from the tail of his eye while simultaneously keeping his father in view. "Father, this will only serve to anger the Martells-"

"Good!" the King thundered. "Now get her back to the castle with my grandchildren now!"

Aerys looked at Elia like a cat that had cornered a fat little mouse. "Lewyn will return to Dorne to raise the men at arms himself. Rhaegar, you're going with him. Maybe you can visit your whore at the same time."

The goldcloaks closed ranks around them, slowly decreasing the circle. It was like the spiked jaws of a trap, inching slowly closed.

Sansa let go of the tree root and let herself fall back into her own body, still physically inside the weirwood. It was still an odd sensation, but one she was rapidly getting used to and her real world quickly reformed before her eyes. Meera was close by, speaking with Benjen who had returned from a late night ranging. She could also hear Brienne close by. Ever faithful Brienne who guarded the doors, seemingly night and day. The Raven remained in his perch of roots, with the Children of the Forest gathered at his feet, speaking their ancient tongue.

She glanced sideways at Bran, who was still deeply buried in the past. He was focusing on feeding the dragon, now. Deep beneath the crypts, the beast grew stronger by the hour. In the meantime, she was left to sort out the tangle of her own thoughts. There was still one person nearby who could help, and she had been doing a lot of thinking since learning the truth about Jon. Not least talking with Melisandre, who had proved a fount of knowledge without her ever finding out who Jon's parents really were.

"Excuse me, Lady Reed," she said, quietly interrupting their conversation. "I must speak with my uncle."

Rather than inconvenience Meera, Benjen agreed to join her outside where they could talk privately. Safely wrapped up in a heavy fur cloak, she let Benjen lead the way outside to where the snowfalls drifted in great squalls. Several foot of snow had fallen just that morning. But it was beautiful, like an enchantment had fallen over the harsh terrain. It had been too long since she breathed the fresh air.

"Did you know about Jon?" she asked, once they were clear of the others.

She looked to Benjen, realising how pale and gaunt he appeared now. There was a cut on his left cheek that had turned a greyish colour and his grey eyes were bloodshot. Bloodshot and blank, at her question.

"I know a great many things of our Jon," he replied, trying to smile. "Maybe you could narrow it down."

"That he is Lyanna's son," she clarified, without softening the shock.

Benjen stopped dead in his tracks, his brow creasing. "What did you say?"

Sansa repeated herself, matter of factly. "That he is the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen. You know she was not abducted and that she loved Rhaegar, so it's a wonder father did not tell you about her son."

From the look on his face, she surmised that he knew nothing. He appeared genuinely shocked. But, after the initial impact had worn off, he let out a long sigh and his shoulders slumped again.

"Maybe I suspected something amiss …" he began. "Actually, I don't know. I mean, I thought it was odd that Ned refused to tell anyone the mother's identity – that was a strange thing. But I promise you, niece, I never knew. And I hope Jon understands that I never knew-" he broke himself off, gaze sharpening. "Does Jon even know or have you just found out through the tree?"

"Jon knows," she confirmed. "I'd been meaning to talk to you, but when we came around you'd gone on a ranging."

Benjen didn't seem to have heard her. "Are you certain of what you saw?"

"Certain," she affirmed. "We saw the birth; we saw Lyanna make father swear a promise to her, to raise Jon at Winterfell. Otherwise, Robert would kill him."

Her explanation was met with a long pause from her uncle. Clearly still shocked, he was no longer looking at her. Rather, he gazed into the middle distance as he tried to make sense of it all. She was about to console him when he suddenly spoke up again.

"He's a brother of the Night's Watch now," he said. "It doesn't matter to us who sits on that ugly iron chair. Jon knows where the real war is and might be he'll need a reminder, if he ever wakes up again."

"He will!" she replied, adamantly. "But there's something I need to know. Fire will kill the ice monsters, won't it?"

The horizon was clear now. All the way north and to the Fist of the First Men. But those monsters, which she had seen with her own two eyes, attacked like wildfire. You barely saw them coming.

"Aye," replied Benjen. "But sweetling, you know the dragons are all dead."

"No, they are not," she corrected him. "Daenerys Targaryen hatched three of them. We heard about it in King's Landing. Three living, fire breathing dragons. Soon they will be grown enough to come to Westeros. Three. And the dragon has three heads, which is what Rhaegar says all the time."

She thought she should tell him about the Winterfell dragon, but it would only complicate her theory and divert the conversation she needed to have. Never declare your full hand…

"So, it's true," he said, almost to himself. Then, he hardened again. "They're miles away. No good to us, wherever that Targaryen girl is."

"We could contact her; there must be a way," she persisted. "If she knows her nephew is in danger, or that he might be one of the heads of the dragon, she will fly to Westeros and land in the north. No Lannister will reach her here, she'll be safe from her enemies. They're the last Targaryens, Benjen."

"Then who is the third head?" he asked, shrugging his shoulders.

"I don't know," she replied, despondently. "But why would the fire god, or whoever it is, send Jon all the way back in time just to find out something Meera's father could have told him?"

Benjen laughed, but not unkindly. "You're asking me about the ways of a foreign god? You're asking the wrong man, child."

Sansa backed down, going over two simple numbers in her head. Three dragons. Two Targaryens. Four dragons, if they counted Sonar. But that felt like a complication at this early stage. They only needed three. Whatever truth she thought she was grasping at, she felt it slipping away from her.

The larger Lyanna grew, the most uncomfortable Jon felt. Like there was another him in the room. And another him out cold, back at Castle Black. He had barely been at ease with only one him. Still, Wylla let out Lya's gowns and adjusted her other clothes accordingly. A little something to help ease her increasingly uncomfortable condition.

Meanwhile, Jon guarded the door to the tower and patrolled the battlements. At nights, he lay in his room and talked to Lyanna in the darkness. Now that he had found out who she really was to him, he didn't know how to address her. He could hardly start calling her 'mother' and 'Lyanna' suddenly felt all wrong, too. It was a small thing that had taken him entirely by surprise.

Four months into her pregnancy the sickness abated. Holding down more food, she was soon recovering her old strength. At almost five months in, she even had a little sparring match with him using a wooden sword. She was quickly disarmed, blaming it on the babe growing inside her. Then, he lost on purpose just to see her smile. Word then came that Rhaegar had helped secure the Dornish alliance – something Jon thought the Prince already had. But it meant that the Prince was in Dorne.

Jon sat between two merlons on the battlements as Rhaegar and his retinue arrived. There weren't many of them. Not even Ser Barristan or Jon Connington were with him. Both, presumably, were off fighting their losing war. Ser Arthur Dayne was with him, however. Along with Oswell When and Ser Gerold Hightower. There was another, whom Jon did not know. Lyanna's knew guard, he knew, come to take over from him. His heart clenched painfully at the thought of having to leave Lyanna, so soon after finding out who she really was.

On the evening of the Prince's arrival, they dined around a camp fire. Roasted goat and vegetables the Prince had brought from Sunspear.

"Jon," said Rhaegar, gesturing to the man unknown to him. "This is Prince Lewyn of Dorne. He'll be returning with us to King's Landing."

Jon managed to greet the man cordially. "What news of the war, your grace?"

"We defeated the rebels at Ashford," replied Rhaegar. "Or rather, Randyll Tarly did. The Lord of Hornhill beat the rebels back before even Mace Tyrell had showed up with reinforcements. A small ray of hope, for now. But now the armies are moving toward the Stoney Sept, where they'll meet again. Everything depends on the outcome of that battle."

Jon knew it as the Battle of the Bells, but he kept his foreknowledge to himself. Instead, he found himself remembering Samwell Tarly and wondering if he knew what had happened to him yet. Would Sam be on his way back to Castle Black? Or would he stay on course for the Citadel and give Jon up for dead? He had never needed Sam's wise counsel more than he did now. More than that, he ached to see his best friend just one more time.

"And then we're going to King's Landing?" he asked, returning his gaze to Rhaegar. His blood father. His real father, Lord Stark, would be fighting against him and it was more than he could bear to think about.

"Not for long," he confirmed. "It's time I led the army myself. How can I expect men to fight for me if I don't fight for me?"

Suddenly, Jon had no appetite. He excused himself and kissed Lyanna's cheek, pleading tiredness after so many late nights on guard duty. The tower was close by, still in sight, so it didn't take long for him to return. But all thoughts of a real early night were shoved aside as Bran called down to him from the battlements. As always, Sansa was at his side. He cast a quick glance back over his shoulder, where the others were still gathered around the fire and lost in their own conversation, before running up the sally port.

Once back on the battlements, he noticed they had also brought the Three-Eyed Raven with them. Brynden Rivers stood apart from the other two, looking out over the darkened mountains that surrounded them. So lost in his own thoughts that he did not turn to look at Jon.

"Bran," he said, greeting his brother with a hug. Sansa, he kissed. "We're leaving for King's Landing in the morning, then the Trident and you know what'll happen then as well as I. I absolutely refuse to take up arms against either of my fathers. So what can I do?"

"Hide?" Sansa suggested.

Jon almost choked. "Hide? I beheaded a man for hiding during a battle, once-"

"This is a bit different, Jon," Bran pointed out. "If you don't wish to blatantly hide, then play dead and let the battle rage around you."

Sansa blushed, her expression apologetic as she tried to rephrase her suggestion. "Maybe, just sort of run around the battlefield a little bit and make it look like you're joining in?"

"What? The commander's coming so better look busy?" he retorted, but then laughed. After the strain of all the tension, the conflicting emotions, something in him finally broke at Sansa's almost comical suggestion. However, he quickly composed himself as he looked out over the battlements of the tower. "Sorry, Sansa. I'm not laughing at you, it's just a funny picture in my head. That's all."

The camp fire looked small from his vantage point. The people sat around it looked like tiny silhouette specks. Even so, he could pick out Rhaegar and Lyanna. After this evening, he knew they would not see each other again. A thought that filled him with sadness. While he looked over the scene, he became aware of the Three-Eyed Raven approaching.

"Lord Commander. I think it's time we talked."

Jon turned and met his gaze. "Yes, I think it is."

"We'll wait for you below," said Bran, taking Sansa's arm. "Come to us, when you're done."

Jon nodded. "See you soon."

As they walked off, he stood in silence with the Raven. Even after Bran and Sansa had disappeared down the steps, they held that silence and simply looked over the ramparts. In the distance, Lyanna and company were still enjoying their last meal before sailing off to war. A war Jon knew they would not win.

"So, what are you to me?" asked Jon, looking to the Raven.

"You mean, by blood?" he clarified. "I think you are my great grand-nephew, or something along those lines. You were Aemon's, too."

Jon felt inexplicably sad at the realisation that neither he nor Maester Aemon ever knew what they were to each other, while the old man had been alive. Tears stung at his eyes, but he did not let them fall.

"When all this was happening the first time around," said Jon. "When the war happened, what did you do? Surely you didn't just sit in your tree and watch through the faces as all your kin were slaughtered."

"What could I have done?" the Raven asked back. "I was thousands of leagues away and as old as the hills – I believe Aemon talked to you about that. Nevertheless, I make my own records. When the time comes, I help others as I'm helping you and your brother now. And, although I can't intervene directly in current events, I make sure the truth always comes to light in the end."

Jon smiled wryly to himself. "And now I have the truth, yet I am still here. I told the Ghost of High Heart that I needed to change something. That I needed to unite the three heads of the dragon. But that was before I knew the truth. Now, I think I might be one of the heads of the dragon."

The Raven looked almost approving. "You're learning, Jon Targaryen."

"The second has got to be Daenerys," Jon continued. "I mean, she has to be. She's hatched them."

"Your aunt Daenerys is the mother of dragons," the Raven confirmed. "And, in a circular way, yours only lives because she hatched hers in your world. It's an odd thing. But yes, she is one of the heads of the three most important dragons in the world. You are another. Now, who do you think is the third?"

"Rhaegar," he replied, picking out the prince beside the fire. "It's Rhaegar, isn't it?"

As always, the Raven gave no explicit answer. Instead, Jon felt himself being led down a path in which he was forced to work it all out alone. "What led you to that conclusion?"

Jon did not reply immediately. Instead, he remembered talking to the Ghost of High Heart. Back then, he was merely thinking aloud and clutching at straws to explain his presence in the past. He had said to her then, that he needed to alter the outcome of the war in some way that did not change the winner. But, back then, he had not fully understood his circumstances.

"He's a Targaryen, obviously," Jon laughed at the silliness of his own answer. "But there's more, isn't there? He's the one who discovered the prophecy to begin with. But it was the Ghost of High Heart who, much earlier, had predicted that the Prince that was Promised would be born in the line of Aerys and Rhaella. All three of us are from that line." Jon paused again, catching his breath. "And it explains why I'm here. I mean, the gods are not known for organising late family reunions, are they? So there's more to me being here than learning about my parentage or getting to know my mother. If we need all three heads of the dragon to take on the Great Other and the war that's coming, then we can't do it without Rhaegar. Which doesn't solve the problem of Rhaegar being dead. And then there's the small matter of getting out of this world and back into my own."

"You do realise this world and 'your world' are one and the same," the Raven stated, raising an eyebrow. "Alas, I know what you mean, Lord Commander. You mean you want to return to your own time. Well, let me tell you, you get out the same way you got in."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Melisandre needs to revive me again? Back at Castle Black?"

The Raven smiled, an effort to look reassuring. "Something like that, Jon. Don't worry, I'll help you when the time comes."

A wave of gratitude washed over him, then. And relief. "Thank you. But what about the rest? What about Rhaegar being the third head of the dragon? It must be me, Daenerys and Rhaegar united. Together we're Azor Ahai, or the Prince that was Promised, or whoever it is we're meant to be to kill the Great Other. Is that why R'llhor sent me here?"

"As for R'llhor, I cannot speak for the fire god's intentions," the Raven replied, already walking away from him. "But do as you must, Jon. You have good instincts. In the mean, I will await you on the banks of the Trident."

With that, the Three-Eyed Raven was gone. Swallowed by the night and disgorged into the ether in which he lived. Jon blinked after him, more conflicted and torn than ever.

The following morning came all too quickly for him. He couldn't face breaking his fast and instead harnessed his horse for the ride back to port. While he was there, in the stables, Lyanna came to say goodbye. She looked lovely in a flowing white gown that had been let out, to accommodate her swelling stomach. Her hair was loose about her shoulders and her dark grey eyes shining.

"I'm never going to see you again, am I?" she asked.

Jon felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. "We cannot say for sure."

She held him close, stifling a sniff as she ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes, I think this is some drawn out fever dream and it's all been in my imagination. That I'll wake up in Winterfell and I'll just be a maid again. But the longer this goes on, the more convinced I am you're real."

"Me too," he tried to laugh, but his voice broke. It sounded like the choking sob he was trying to disguise. "If I'm wrong about many things, and I'm actually still around once all this is over, the first thing I'll do is come back for you."

Lyanna raised a pained smile. "Then, my son, I hope you're wrong about everything."

"Mother," he replied. After that, he found he could say no more.

Chapter Text

"Mother." The sound of the Lord Commander's voice jolted Ser Davos out of his fitful doze. Sat bolt upright, he found Dolorous Edd standing at Jon Snow's side and looking equally startled. Neither of them dared speak and leaned in closer to the other man's unconscious body, breath held as they waited for further signs of life. Not in all these months had Davos heard Jon form a word so complete, so unambiguous. Even if the feat went unrepeated, he couldn't help but look upon it as a positive sign. The most optimistic they had had since the fatal stabbing had occurred. After several long minutes, both men released their held breaths and slowly sank back into the previous stances. Then, it came again. "Mother…"

"He never knew his mother," said Edd. "Not even her name."

"Maybe he's dreaming of her," Davos speculated. Not knowing her was no reason not to conjure her in his sleep, for even the blind believed in colour. "Excuse me, but I need to get some air. Send for me immediately if anything changes."

Edd nodded his assent and Davos pushed back the chair he'd been sat in for almost a day and a night. Even his meals were brought to him in the Lord Commander's chambers, along with some blankets to keep him warm during the long hours of darkness. After so long shut away with a man half-dead, breathing the open air again felt like being reborn.

Despite the chaotic scenes that followed the attack on Jon and his subsequent coma, life at Castle Black had settled into a natural rhythm of near normality. Rangings still happened, reports of Others and White Walkers still filtered back and news from the realm at large still found its way to their gates. Not so long ago, Ramsay Bolton had written to demand the return of his bride and he could only be grateful that Lady Sansa was safely out of the way when Edd read out that letter. For Davos' part, it was only his own sense of honour that stopped him from sending back the messenger's head. Honour, and a healthy fear of being attacked by Bolton forces while Jon slept on.

Once out of the Lord Commander's chambers, he looked up at the vast and glittering edifice of the wall. Sometimes, he could hear the ice cracking and could see it sweat under the distant sun. Sometimes, despite its size and age, it felt a flimsy protection from what he had heard dwelled beyond it. Ice monsters and armies of corpses raised from the dead – all the scary stories the nursemaids told their charges to give them a thrill before bedtime. He never once imagined it could ever be real. As he always did when passing the wall, he stopped to look up at it again. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he sometimes couldn't see the top of it as it vanished into the mists above. Just as it did on that morning.

He thought to resume his search for Jon's sword, Longclaw. Until a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Ser Davos! More news from the South."

Davos turned and greeted the young Steward. "Not Winterfell, I hope. No news is good news on that front."

"No, ser," the man assured him. "It's King's Landing. Cersei Lannister has been proclaimed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her son, King Tommen, dead by his own hand. The Tyrells all herded into the Sept of Baelor and blown up with wildfire."

For a long moment, Davos was speechless. "Cersei has no claim…" he began, then remembered just how many people had fought over that absurd iron chair. Every time it changed hands, its significance was chipped away and Davos no longer cared. "Oh, what does it matter anyway? The war is in the North and Jon Snow was right all along. It won't matter who sits the iron throne once winter comes. What else have you got for me?"

"Something altogether more pleasant, ser. Lady Sansa and the Lady Melisandre are making their way back to Castle Black," he replied, raising a smile. "All their company is joining them and they should be here by morning. A raven arrived with the message not a half hour ago."

Davos breathed a sigh of relief. "Excellent. Have chambers prepared for them, if you will. They'll be exhausted by the time they get here."

All news imparted, the two men went their separate ways. However, Davos changed course and headed for the tunnel that led through the base of the wall. They'd been gone so long and he had had no word of their progress, that he'd half a mind to ride out into the wilderness himself and meet them. He paused at the iron barred gate and looked out over the featureless landscape and decided against it.

The vast host was moving north, hoping to cut the rebels off before reaching the Trident. Despite their numbers, they moved fast seemingly fuelled by their own sense of urgency. Jon hadn't given it much thought, but their journey took them past Harrenhal – the place where it all seemed to begin. If anyone shared his sudden nostalgia, no one stopped to indulge it with him. As such, he urged his new destrier onwards and farther north. The Trident was less than a day's march away and, already, their outriders had already brought back word of rebel forces in the area.

They had given Stoney Sept a wide berth since learning of the royalist defeat there. Something that had cast Prince Rhaegar in a dark mood. Then, Jon realised, the Prince had been in a dark mood ever since they left King's Landing. He paced with his arms crossed defensively across his middle, scowl fixed permanently in place and uncommunicative towards even those among them he counted as close friends. Sometimes, he seemed to notice Jon looking, which caused him to swiftly drop his gaze and pretend to be busy doing something else.

All the while, Jon wrenched himself in half over whether or not to say anything to the Prince. He agonised over it while sat alone in front of his own campfire, waiting for a capon to cook. So lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't noticed the fatty skin blistering in the heat and turning to black charcoal. He swiftly knocked the spit off its stand, burning his fingers in the process and swearing audibly.

He was about to skulk away and barter for a rabbit carcass when a disembodied hand held a bowl of broth in front of him. "Looks like you burned your supper. Here, have this."

Relieved and touched by the generosity, Jon looked up to thank the man – not realising it was the Prince. "Thank you, your grace. I appreciate it."

Rhaegar dismissed his thanks with a wave of his hand, settling himself down beside Jon at the fire. "You've been giving me the strangest of looks over these last few weeks."

"I don't think so-"

"No, really," insisted the Prince. "Is there anything you want to say to me?"

There was much and more he wanted – needed – to say. But very little he actually felt inclined to say. He had a father already. Ned Stark had been his father and always would be. But most of the men around them would be dead within a day, and compared to that little seemed to matter anymore.

"Have you ever fought in a battle before, your grace?" he asked, then made a start on his supper.

Meanwhile, Rhaegar looked into the cook fire. "I've fought in tourneys-"

"So, you haven't fought in a battle before," Jon cut in, impertinently. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, you're right," Rhaegar assured him. He wet his dry lips, and Jon noted they were cracked from where he had been biting them. "You're all too right, Jon. I've played at battle, but never been in a real one. I suppose all that will change by tomorrow, for better or worse."

There was a raft of advice he could give the prince, but none of it seemed to formulate in his mind. Besides, Rhaegar was being advised by the likes of Ser Barristan Selmy. There was little Jon could add to the experiences of a man of Selmy's stature. It would all be about posture, poise and battlefield tactics. It was then that Jon remembered what it all really boiled down to.

"Stick 'em with the pointy end," he advised, smiling wanly.

Rhaegar's brow creased as their eyes met, grey on indigo. He seemed confused, before slowly giving into the laughter. "Sage advice, oh wise one."

The two men fell silent, each looking into the flames as darkness fell all around them. It was a companionable silence, during which Jon finished his supper and absent-mindedly poked at the burning logs with the stick he'd used as a spit. It sent up a shower of bright orange sparks, glowing against the indigo sky. Jon watched them soar upwards before the cooling air snuffed them out.

"Don't be afraid, your grace," he said, at length. He wasn't going to lie to the man and assure him all would be well. It wouldn't. He was going to die and nothing either of them could do would stop it. "Once the battle starts, you lose all your fear-"

"I'm not scared about the battle," Rhaegar cut over him, irritably. Realising he was being ill-tempered, he drew a deep breath to compose himself. "Before we left King's Landing, Jaime Lannister told me something: that my father has been raping my mother. If that wasn't bad enough, she's now pregnant again. At a time like this, he's a raped a baby into her."

Afraid of saying the wrong thing, Jon held his silence while making it clear he was listening.

"And father has wildfire rigged up all over the city," Rhaegar continued. "Even if I win this battle, how do I get rid of my father without having him blast us all to pieces with the wildfire? He would murder every man, woman and child in the city just to stop me from dethroning him. And, dare I say it, Robert Baratheon will find himself with much the same problem, if he proves victorious."

There was one particular detail that Jon was curious about. "Does Jaime Lannister know about the wild fire?"

"Yes," Rhaegar confirmed. "Everyone at Court knows, they're just too terrified to speak up against Aerys." The prince paused, then patted Jon firmly on the back. "Thank you for humouring me in my peculiar mood, Jon. But I really must go to bed, and I think you'd benefit from doing the same. I bid you good night."

"Good night, your grace," replied Jon, who had no intention of turning in.

No sooner did Rhaegar leave, then someone else sat down in his vacant spot. Startled, Jon was about to politely shoulder the newcomer, until he realised it was the Three-Eyed Raven. In his hands was an earthenware bowl with a thick, red and pasty substance in it.

"You may want to give your father this for his breakfast," the old man said, handing him the bowl.

Jon took it and sniffed at it. It smelled 'woody'. "What is it?"

"Something that will make tomorrow a little easier on him," he replied. "Tell him it's something that help keep his strength up for the battle."

He remembered Sansa and Bran mentioning the paste before. It helped ease them through the time barriers, or something like that. The Raven must live on the putrid looking stuff.

"I never had it," he said, giving the mixture another sniff. "Anyway, I thought to take the Prince's place. You know, I get done up in his armour and he runs off to hide-"

"The ink is dry, Rhaegar is dead," the Raven cut in. "Besides all that, just imagine you walk up to Prince Rhaegar now and tell him to run from the battle. How do you imagine he would react?"

Jon's heart sank a little. "I can quite imagine. But won't this stuff knock him out? Or, I could put something in it-"

"The ink is dry, Jon," the Raven cut in. "Which means Rhaegar is dead. Even your sister saw him dead on the banks of that river. Just stay close to him, once the battle is done. Now, you really should get some sleep."

"But I-"

"Sleep," the old man cut in again. "You'll need a clear head in the morning."

The old man was gone before Jon could reply. Like Bran, he seemed to just vaporise at will. After sheathing Longclaw, he returned to his tent. It pitched close to the Princes, inside which he could still see the Prince poring over maps and plans with the other commanders. He still had a faint urge to just tell them they were wasting their time.

Even though she had had no weapons training at all, Sansa still felt like a different person with a sword belt on. Pod had buckled it over her kirtle, the sword itself sheathed in its scabbard embossed with the sigil of House Stark. As she and her company rode south to the wall, she reached for its pommel and wrapped her hand around it for reassurance. Even if her garron hit a bump in the road, and the sword bashed against her leg she didn't mind. At nights, she drew the blade and tilted it to catch the light of their camp fire. For such an old thing, it was still perfectly useable. And her Bran, undoubtedly, had sharpened it since it was liberated from the crypts.

"Whose is it?" asked Brienne, one evening.

"My Uncle Brandon's," she replied, eyes still on the blade. "My Bran took it from uncle's tomb before he fled Winterfell, now he wants me to return it."

"Ah," she replied, understandingly. "Is that an important custom for House Stark?"

Sansa nodded. "When the effigies are put over the tombs of our dead, we seal in their souls by placing their swords on their laps. It stops the ghosts from escaping; even my father believed in it. But never Ice. Ice was handed from the Lord of Winterfell to his heir for generations."

Brienne dropped her gaze, her face colouring as she discreetly nudged Oathkeeper beneath her mail skirt.

"It wasn't your fault," Sansa was quick to assure her. "And I'd rather you have it than any Lannister. You're far more worthy than the Kingslayer."

"That's very kind of you to say so, my lady."

With that, Brienne's expression closed off again. She always did when she felt she had exposed too much of her own personality. Sansa wondered at it, whether there was something dark and painful in her past that kept her running and concealing herself under that blank eyed gaze. But she never overstepped the boundary so far as to ask.

The following morning, they set off again come dawn. Sansa picked up Brandon's old sword, sheathed it and buckled it herself. Once mounted, they were on the move again. Benjen and Tormund rode ahead of them, scouting the paths ahead for hostile free folk or wights. Or worse, Others. But their journey remained mercifully free of enemy hosts. Sansa could almost enjoy it now, seeing a place she never thought she would.

On the fourth day, it was Melisandre who fell in line with her. Mounted on a donkey and wrapped only in a scarlet tunic, Sansa could only marvel at the priestess's ability to make her own heat. A useful trick, this far north.

"Will you try to bring Jon back again?" asked Sansa.

"He's breathing," replied Melisandre. "Which means he already is back. He's alive, but … somewhere else."

It was unhelpful, to say the least. Sensing her dissatisfaction, Melisandre added: "Jon has a purpose and once that purpose is fulfilled, he will return to us completely."

"And what did the Three-Eyed Raven say to you before we left? Did he tell you why we need to be back at Castle Black before Jon reaches the Trident?"

Sansa knew she was asking too many questions and, confirming those suspicions, Melisandre hesitated before answering. "Your brother will need me, once he wakes up. My understanding is he will not be alone."

Curiosity piqued, Sansa couldn't resist asking: "Who is he bringing back?"

But Melisandre smiled the smile of someone who knew, but wasn't telling. "I look in the flames and see a woman birth three monstrous dragons from stone. Later, I see the same woman with two men, one of them is Jon Snow but I do not know the other. Separately they are powerful already. But joined together, winter itself flees before them."

Sansa's mind whirled as she pieced the three people together. It was obvious: Daenerys, Jon and another Targaryen. Rhaegar, she thought to herself.

"What is Jon's link to the Targaryens?" she asked. "It's clear the two strangers I see have the blood of Old Valyria in them. It's the most magical blood there is."

"I don't think he has any connection," she lied. "Our aunt Lyanna knew one-"

"Lady Sansa, I have told you the truth," Melisandre pointed out.

Despite herself, she felt the colour rise in her face. "He's the son of our Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar. I would have told you sooner, but the secret wasn't mine to tell."

"I understand, my lady," she replied. "I am not surprised. So many things make sense in light of the truth."

"King Stannis had Targaryen blood," Sansa recalled. "Is that why you thought he was the Prince that was Promised?"

If she didn't like being reminded of past mistakes, she didn't show it. "That, and other signs. But I was wrong, even I misinterpret the flames from time to time."

The following day, Benjen left them before they reached the wall. Sansa implored him to come home with them, thinking of the Watchmen who would have remembered him and wondered what had become of him. But he took his leave anyway, promising to return to Bran and Meera at the tree. An assurance that soothed her worries for Bran. Once he was gone, however, she turned her attention to the tunnel beneath the wall. A sense of purpose growing in her once more. "Right," she said. "It's time."

Seconds later, the voices of some men keeping watch called out a command. Brienne answered, followed swiftly by the sound of the ancient steel gates being winched open, granting their way in. Their journey had reached its end.

Early in the morning the two sides met, each army visible through a thin mist. Both hosts were huge, facing each other from barely a mile apart. Already Jon had lost Rhaegar among the royalist forces, but he knew he was at the front. Meanwhile, he himself held true to his promise and hung back, watching from a distance as the cavalry charge began. Suddenly, the thundering of horse's hooves shattered the silence and, sooner than he had imagined, the two sides met in a clash of steel and swords.

Jon tried to walk forwards, before a hand landed on his shoulder. He whirled around, to where the Three-Eyed Raven stood beside him. The old man stood in silence, watching the battle unfold before him.

"You gave him the paste?"

Jon nodded. "I told him it was an old northern recipe and he was oddly grateful for it, even though he thought it was disgusting."

The Prince had tried not to grimace, though. Which Jon thought was really rather gracious of him.

"Good, now let's walk."

They set off toward the battle together, getting closer to the main action. Both armies were still fully engaged, still fighting on land. But, standing away from it like this made Jon feel bizarrely detached from it all. It was like he was looking at it through a window, like it was happening somewhere else. He could see Robert Baratheon's left flank smashing through royal lines, forcing them to retreat. Only, they couldn't retreat because the Trident was getting in the way. They were caught between the Red Fork and the rebel forces.

"From what my father always told me, Robert smashed through royal lines with a few swings of his hammer," Jon remembered. "But Rhaegar's not making it easy for them at all."

The Raven chuckled. "A classic example of History being written by the victors there, I think."

Jon could heart the shouting, the cries of pain and death grunts coming from the dying men. He could see swords piercing armour and men drowning in the ravenous tides of the river. But the longer it went on the more distant he felt. It was like moving through a vivid dream.

"I wish it would stop," he said, at length. "We know what's going to happen and that only makes it worse."

By the time they reached the edge of the fighting, it was clear which way this fight would go. Oddly, he wasn't alone in not participating. Various squires and boys too young to fight were crowding around, watching history form all around them. Jon hid easily among them, watching his blood father piss his life away in a cold and dreary river. He looked on, still strangely distant from it all, as Robert and Rhaegar squared up to each other directly.

The Prince had been pushed back into the water now, just as he had been told. Unhorsed and with nothing to lose, he took Robert on with all his remaining strength. Just the two of them, Jon realised, no one else to be killed. Even so, the corpses were already banking up not far away. Jon averted his gaze from the numerous dead, focusing on the final show down between Rhaegar and Robert.

The Prince attacked first, lunging at Robert with an impressive thrust of the sword. Jon winced against the sound of the steel piercing breastplate. It might even have been enough to finish off any other man, but Robert Baratheon was a different matter. Although he recoiled, he gripped that hammer – the hammer Ned Stark couldn't even lift at all – and it arced gracefully through the air. The impact of it hitting the Prince's body made even Jon recoil, teeth gritted. Then, Rhaegar seemed to fall in slow motion, his blood father dead before he hit the water. Job done, the rebel forces regrouped within minutes, their march south now completely unimpeded.

Now it felt real. Now it was really happening. Jon whipped around to where the Three-Eyed Raven was stood, only to find he had vanished. Suddenly, time seemed to move at thrice its normal speed and he found himself running to the river edge and plunging into the freezing waters. He had to jump dead horses and clamber over a mound of corpses. He spat red water out of his mouth, wincing in disgust at the carnage all around him. He reached his father and pulled the helm off his head, exposing his face only for the bank of bodies to collapse and wash downriver. Panicked, Jon tried to pull Rhaegar away. But the ground gave way beneath his feet as he fell off a ledge in the riverbed.

Holding his father under the arms, he tried to stay afloat as the tide carried them downwards. Unable to use his own arms, he kicked his feet as fast as he could, trying to keep both their heads above water. He was aiming for the riverbank, but the tide – suddenly loose after having been banked up with corpses – was pulling him downwards. Water closed over him. Already breathless before he went under, his lungs began to burn and the deadweight of his father only dragged him down deeper and faster.

With no other choice, he released one of his arms and grasped at the water around him as if groping for a stronghold. He felt his fist curl around two of the rubies that had fallen from the prince's breastplate and the world turned dark as his lungs gave out. Motionless in the depths of the water, it was far deeper than he ever imagined, he felt suspended in mid-air. There was only darkness. Wet, cold and dark. He had run out of time.

Swim, a small voice urged. Just swim.

Blind and getting weaker by the second, he pushed with all his might for the surface. Harder and harder, with Rhaegar's helpless body still gripped in one arm. He aimed for a dull speck of light that seemed miles above him. Daylight. It was something to aim for, so he did. Up and up, he kicked his legs and flailed his one free arm. But the dull speck of light never seemed to get any closer. He tried to cry out, but the water rushed into his mouth and filled his chest. All the while he swam, the darkness dispelling as he finally felt his fingertips break the surface of the water. With one final great effort, he heaved himself upwards and broke the surface, sucking in a great lungful of clean, pure air.

He opened his eyes and jumped up, finding himself sudden naked on dry ground. Instinctively, he opened his clenched fist and he dimly heard the rubies he had been clutching hitting a wooden floor. Without seeing, he fell forwards as his knees buckled and his head swam with the sudden influx of air. Strong arms caught his fall, steadying him.

"Lord Commander! Lord Commander!" a man's voice bellowed. "Someone help, it's the Lord Commander!"

Jon opened his eyes, to where a door was suddenly kicked open. It was Dolorous Edd. He looked between Jon and the man struggling to hold him upright, Ser Davos, stunned into an uncharacteristic silence. After a second, he pulled himself together.

"This gets better and better, this does," he said. "There's some bloke in black armour lying dead in the snow out there, no knows who he is or where he's come from."

Chapter Text

Breathless and dazed, Jon clung to Ser Davos for dear life. His head was spinning like a child's top as he tried to get his bearings back. One minute he'd been drowning in the Trident and then, in the blink of an eye, he was home again. It happened so fast his brain was struggling to keep up. Everything in his chambers looked the same. His bed, the fire and the hangings on the wall. But it all felt so foreign to him now. Like he'd dropped back into someone else's life. Worse, it was happening at once as word of his revival spread through Castle Black like wildfire.

Edd acted fast. He opened the wrenched the door open and barked a command for the others to get back to what they were doing, then threw down the bar to secure them inside. Davos found a clean tunic and threw it over Jon's head, covering his nakedness. The feel of the soft wool against his cold skin snapped him out of his daze and he managed to fall back onto the edge of the bed.

"The man outside," he rasped through a parched throat. "You need to get him in here. It's urgent."

Davos tried to reassure him. "It's all right, the boys will take care of him-"

He was cut off by the sound of banging on the door so hard it shook the dust from the rafters. Startled, Edd snapped at them to 'fuck off'. All the same, Jon could still hear their voices and the sound of their urgent footsteps pacing the wooden balcony beyond his door.

While Davos was distracted, Jon pressed his advantage. "Take him to the Maester's chambers and get Melisandre. I'll explain later, I swear. Just do this for me now."

Heedless of Edd's earlier warning the banging resumed. Jon cast a nervous glance toward it. Could Alliser Thorne have found out already? Probably. Or was he rotting in an ice cell? Jon hoped that was the case. Meanwhile, Edd opened the window and poked his head outside, flushed with anger.

"I said, go fuck your-" he broke off abruptly. "Oh! My lady-"

"Where's Jon?"

Sansa's voice was the smack in the face he needed to jolt him out of his panicked confusion. "Let her in, now!"

Davos had already taken the initiative and lifted the bar from the door, whereupon Sansa barrelled through and descended upon Jon in a flurry of cloaks and a blur of her red hair. His strength returned to him at the sight of her, and he met her half way in a tight embrace. Affording them privacy, the other two retreated to an antechamber.

"How do you feel?" she asked, drawing away from him.

That was a valid question, considering he'd been technically dead and living in the past for what felt like years. The truth was, he didn't know. He couldn't say how he was meant to be feeling. Confused. He wasn't meant to be here. He should have been dead and burned a long time ago. He felt like a freak of nature.

"Good," he lied. "I feel good. Better than Rhaegar, at any rate."

A smile teased at the corners of her lips, before she chuckled. It felt good to hear her laugh again.

"What have you told them?" she asked.

Jon felt his heart sink again. "I've not had time to tell them anything, yet." He paused, taking in the familiar sights of his chambers. "It's going to take some explaining. What's it like out there?"

"I can feel how happy everyone is to have you back," she answered. "Honestly. Those other men … the ones who did this to you … they've all been hanged."

Jon felt his brow tighten. "All of them?"

Sansa nodded. "All of them. Melisandre burned Alliser Thorne. She thought offering him as a sacrifice to her god would pay for your life. That was before she knew where you were."

"What of Olly?" he asked. "He was a boy, younger than Bran."

"And he murdered you," Sansa reminded him, pointedly. "He was hanged with the rest and he deserved it, Jon. He knew what he was doing when I thrust that knife into your heart."

Jon knew he would have had to have done the same, so he wasn't about the fault whoever had passed the sentence. But it was the betrayal that still cut deep. It didn't matter that he had, ultimately, survived. Nor even that he'd lived through an experience so extraordinary he didn't think anyone would believe him. It always came down to the betrayal of his own brothers. They turned on him, just as they'd turned on the Old Bear Mormont.

"Mormont knew the Watch had forgotten its purpose too," he said, bitterly.

With that, he slid off the side of the bed and began dressing himself properly behind a screen, so Sansa would not be uncomfortable. Soft woollen breeches, a clean undershirt and fresh tunic had already been procured for him. His old boots had been cleaned and were warming by the fire. Sinking his feet into the hot, soft leather felt like heaven on his cold and callused feet. That was a price he paid for endless rangings beyond the wall. Meanwhile, Sansa was fussing with something in the large oak wardrobe in the room.

"I made this for you before I left to find Bran," she said, holding up a fur lined over-cloak. "It's as close as I could make it to the one father wore."

The likeness was so close it made his heart pound. He could almost see his father wearing it. Taking it from her, Jon ran his hands along the pelts lining the collar, feeling the softness and warmth there. His fingertip probed the direwolf embossed on the buckled straps that held it together, filled with a sudden sadness.

"Thank you, Sansa," he said, trying to give it back. "Do really think I'm deserving? Now you know I am no true Stark-"

"You are to me!" she insisted. "I made this for you, and no one else. If it were in my power, you'd be a Stark in name too."

Jon couldn't begin to estimate how many times he had dreamed of being the Stark name, as a child. He remembered the time King Stannis offered him the name and the castle, but honour and loyalty to the Night's Watch had compelled him to turn it down. The vows ran through his head once more: "I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns…" All the words were etched in his brain and he remembered the first …"It shall not end until my death…" And he had died. They had killed him.

"And now my watch is ended," he murmured, taking the cloak in his hands. Silently, Sansa helped put it on, fastening the buckles in place so it fit perfectly. When they were children, they mocked Sansa for her devotion to needlework. The realisation that she wasn't the only one capable of brattishness came as something of a surprise. "It's perfect," he added, kissing her forehead. "Thank you."

Sansa took a backward step, to take in the full effect. Despite his own misgivings he felt his chest swell with pride. He almost felt like how he imagined Ned Stark felt when riding out of the gates of Winterfell.

"We're not abandoning them," she said. Jon knew she meant the Watch. "When we take back Winterfell and unite the heads of the dragon, we will march north and north again. We will win the war against Winter and what better way to fulfil your vows?"

He had been feeling strangely guiltless about leaving the Night's Watch behind. His mind had been made up as soon as he realised what had happened. Still, he'd suspected that he would feel some regret, even shame, at leaving once he came around. But he had fulfilled his vows. He had served until his death and he knew he could serve no more. And Sansa was right: they would be back with men and dragons. He knew he had little and less to be feeling guilty about.

"Did you pass him on your way in?" he asked, looking back to Sansa.

"Rhaegar? Some of the brothers have already carried him to the Maester's Chambers," she assured him. "Shall we go and see?"

Dreading showing his face in public for the first time since his revival, Jon nodded and braced himself as she opened the door. Soon, a swarm of black rushed up to meet him as he descended the wooden stairs. His former brothers, all come to wish him well and shake his hand. A few looked deep into his eyes, making sure they hadn't turned icy blue. But soon enough all were reassured and the apprehension melted into easy laughs and warm embraces. Tormund almost crushed his ribs, but the big blond man he had not seen before gave him a hard look from where he guarded the Maester's chambers. A new recruit, he clearly had not yet taken his vows. But he looked strong and brawny, with a fierce countenance. Sansa beamed at the sight of him.

"Jon," she said, gesturing to the man. "You've not yet met Lady Brienne of Tarth. She's my sworn sword."

Embarrassment burst onto Jon's face in a blossoming red, so acute he feared Brienne might take one look at him and guess what he was thinking. Blame it on the cold, he told himself and pulled himself together.

"An honour to meet you, my lady," he said, offering a hand. "And I thank you most sincerely for guarding my sister. Your sacrifice will not go unrewarded."

Brienne looked affronted. "My sword is Lady Sansa's. I ask for no reward, my lord."

He'd forgotten how prickly southron knights could be about their service and honour. Her tone was a little spiky too, so Jon let it go. Instead, he nodded his thanks and stepped past her to enter the Maester's chambers. As he passed, he noted the patch of snow turned red with blood and the glittering trail of red that led up to Aemon's old door. The blood of the dragon froze and shone like the rubies fallen from the breastplate.

Inside, they found Rhaegar laid out on a trestle table and stripped to his small clothes. For the first time, he could see the damage done to the prince's chest. Several ribs were broken, the jagged bones had burst through the skin and jutted outwards as if they were trying to escape the flesh that enclosed them. At his head and feet, braziers burned brightly and Melisandre moved through the shadows that shifted against the back wall. Jon spotted her first, and drew a deep breath.

"Is there anything you can do?" he directed the question at the red woman.

"Not I, Lord Commander," she replied, her voice heavy with the accents of the east. "The Lord of Light will heal him."

"But you're his instrument," he pointed out. He was sick of people mincing their words around him. "What I mean to ask is, he's not beyond repair."

"Nothing is beyond repair for the Lord of Light," she answered. Her words were followed by the splashing of water as she wrung out a linen cloth. "Something needs to be done about his chest before he's brought back."

Jon looked again at the gaping wound. Beneath the jagged bones, he could see Rhaegar's cold, motionless heart. Small wonder the blow had killed him almost outright. Then he remembered, it had been Donal Noye who forged Robert Baratheon's famous war hammer. Like the king who wielded the weapon, Noye was dead and gone. He had seen it himself, the night the Wildlings attacked Castle Black. Had he not, Jon imagined that Rhaegar's awakening would have been even more awkward than it was already.

Once again, Jon turned to Melisandre. "May I?"

She placed the wet cloth in his hands, whereupon Jon took it and began washing his father's wounds. He tried to be delicate, at first. Dabbing the cloth around the edges of the ruined flesh until he remembered Rhaegar was feeling nothing where he was. Feeling emboldened, Jon pressed harder and wrung the linen out before forcefully wiping away the caked blood. Most was still soft from the waters of the Trident and the snows he had lain in, but close to the open wound the gore had hardened.

As he worked, he looked down into Rhaegar's face. His indigo eyes were closed, his mouth too. His small nose looked upturned and his brow was smooth. He looked half a boy who'd simply fallen into a deep sleep. But the last remnants of warmth had fled him already and his flesh was icy cold to the touch, and the colour of milk glass. Just then, Sansa joined him and smoothed back the prince's silver-gold curls. He was the sort of knight she would have gone weak at the knees for, not so long ago. Now she regarded the prince with a look reminiscent of a concerned septa.

"When he wakes, what will you tell him?" Sansa asked.

Jon honestly hadn't thought of that. "I wish I knew some way to say it gently. But no words can couch the news that your entire family is dead, but for a sister and son you never knew."

Jon sluiced the water and resumed washing in small circles, carefully caressing the prince's shattered chest. As he worked methodically, he found himself aching for Maester Ameon again. He was a Targaryen. Ancient, wizened and blind as he was, he was still the blood of the dragon. One of their dynasty's final embers, forgotten at the wall with just his quiet dignity and quieter memories to keep him warm during the endless northern nights. Jon wished he had known the truth while the old Maester still lived. Now all those memories and all that knowledge was lost to him forever. Before he could stop it, a tear rolled down his nose and dripped off the end, splashing into Rhaegar's open wound.

"How do you know he won't end up in the past, like I did?" he asked, turning to Melisandre and composing himself.

"Because now I know the truth," she replied, reaching into her left sleeve and withdrawing some powder. She tossed it into the brazier's flames, causing a small explosion among the fire. "Yours is the blood of Old Valyria, Jon Snow. The blood of the dragon. Although R'llhor undoubtedly had a purpose for you, the fires I used to perform the magic weren't nearly powerful enough. It worked; just not enough to bring you back fully. For your father, whose blood is much purer, the fires will be greater still."

It still made little sense to Jon. But he could see the reasoning. His dragon blood was interspersed with the blood of the Starks, whereas Rhaegar was a product of pure Valyrian inbreeding. Frowned upon by most, but positively encouraged by his near ancestors. Even when starting to understand more about why the Targaryens kept the line 'pure', he still couldn't quite bring himself to stomach it.

"They used blood magic at Summerhall," he told the red woman. "The night after I hatched the dragon there, I noticed that my wounds had finally healed. Will the same happen to him?"

Melisandre smiled. "It is to be hoped, Jon Snow."

Not long after that, Sansa touched his hand to get his attention. "You're forgetting someone who's missed you very much."

She smiled knowingly as a certain direwolf began scratching at the door.

"Ghost!" he called out, rushing to be reunited with his most faithful of companions.

It began at nightfall, when the moon peeked shyly from a gap in the black clouds and turned the wall to silver. Castle Black's forecourt was near empty, the smithy and armoury locked up secure and most of the Watchmen confined to barracks for the duration. Jon could see them watching from the windows, but did not mind. A handful of others, ones he still trusted, were on watch atop the wall. Dolorous Edd, Satin of Oldtown and a few others. They were augmented by the scarecrows dressed in black they'd once used to kid the wildlings into thinking they had more men than they did. Davos Seaworth, Brienne of Tarth and Sansa were the only 'official' spectators, while Melisandre herself patrolled the perimeter of her towering fire.

Jon followed her, a flaming torch flickered in his hands as he attempted to read the look on the priestess's face. Her red eyes were distant, as though she had internally retreated far away. But, as always, the ruby fixed at her throat glowed red, making its own light and heat. Up this close, Jon could almost feel it.

"If I'd known the fire would be a big one, I'd have brought some taters along," Edd had drily commented as he passed on his way to the wall. "I bet that Lord of Light can crisp 'em up good and proper."

Jon had laughed, but Melisandre had turned to them and narrowed her eyes in disdain. Both men fell silent and serious like scolded boys as she rebuked: "The Lord of Light has no need of taters, Ser Dolorous."

"I've been called many things in my life, but never 'ser,'" Edd mumbled as he went on his way.

After bidding him farewell, Jon turned his attention back to the skeletal structure of the fire. There were two separate columns, several feet apart, with Rhaegar laid out between them on a trestle table. His body was wrapped in pelts to ward off the frost. But, if the size of the two wood columns was anything to go by, frost wasn't going to be a problem for long. Jon could only look at the size of them and wonder how the conflagration wouldn't take up Rhaegar's body with it.

"Are you going to tell us who he is and how he came to be here?"

It was Davos who'd asked the question. Jon turned to his left, to find the old smuggler at his shoulder.

"Before King Stannis raised me up and made me a knight and then a Lord, I used to do a brisk trade around the Blackwater. I knew Dragonstone like the back of my hand." As if proving a point, he studied said hand and splayed his shortened fingers. "I knew every rock, every post along those curtain walls and … everyone who lived within those same walls. Although, naturally, they never saw me."

Jon knew where he was going. "Forgive me, Ser Davos. Since I woke up, there's been no time-"

"I understand," Davos assured him. "Truly, I do. If I was seeing what I'm seeing now, when I look at that man, I'd think I was losing my wits. That was before I came to know the Red Woman, however."

Jon laughed drily. "You and I both, Ser Davos."

Davos kept his eyes trained on the prince's body. "It's him, isn't it? Rhaegar Targaryen."

"It is," Jon confirmed, turning to look into the grizzled knight's eyes. "Once he's safely back, I'll tell you everything. I promise, Ser Davos."

Davos placed his mutilated hand on Jon's shoulder, giving it a brief and tight squeeze. "In your own good time, Lord Commander."

He had already informed everyone that he was no longer Lord Commander, but this time Jon it go. Thanking the man, he stepped back to Melisandre's side and watched as she reached into her dagged sleeve and scattered some powder over both pyres. With that, she glanced up into the sky.

"It is time, Jon Snow," she said.

In response, his nerves prickled and he felt the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. Drawing a deep, steadying breath he touched the flame of his torch to the kindling of the first column and then the second. The kindling crackled faintly, at first. It seemed there was more smoke than fire. Then, after a moment's pause, the fire took hold with a great whoosh. A wall of heat folded around them, pushing Jon back within a minute. He retreated to the side lines, where Sansa and Brienne stood and watched the ritual in silence. By the time they shuffled aside to make room for him, there were twin towers of fire and flames of orange and red licking the night sky.

Where he had been pushed back by the heat, Melisandre remained in place. The ruby at her throat caught Jon's eye as it flashed and glowed, while its wearer sang out at the top of her voice. He knew no High Valyrian and could understand little of what was being said. But he could guess the general gist of it as R'llhor was evoked from the heart of the conflagrations. He himself looked into the flames as they reached for the stars above. It was so bright that even the wall itself reflected the oranges, reds and scarlets of the fire; it looked half alive as it began to weep. Jon's nerves twisted at the sight of the melt but with winter upon them he knew it would have frozen again by morning.

Next to him, Sansa was awe of the sights before her. Her gaze danced between the twin columns of fire and the light show the wall was playing out. While poor Brienne must have been cooking inside her armour. Every inch of Castle Black was alive with the light of the fires that now met and formed an interwoven arc of fine, gossamer threads of flames over the Prince Rhaegar's body. The pelts that covered his body appeared to have been burned away, leaving him naked to the intense inferno that now shrouded him. Jon watched him intently for signs of life, but could only see how small he looked when shrouded in fire.

Melisandre, still completely unaffected by the heat surrounding her, moved to the space between the columns, just at the foot of Rhaegar's body. Her chanted prayers heard clearly above the roar of the fire, repeated over and over as she cast the powder from her sleeves into the heart of each column.

"The fire in consuming him," Sansa whispered in his ear.

Jon shifted to get a better look. Now, the flames had completely obscured him from view. A cocoon of interwoven, criss-crossing flames that danced and weaved all about him.

"The fires she lit for you were nothing like this," said Ser Davos as he reappeared at Jon's side.

"Blood of Old Valyria, isn't he?" Jon answered. Still, he felt a little short changed. "I would have got the same, had she known the truth,"

"What truth?" Davos asked.

Jon almost cursed himself. "I'll tell you once this is all over."

And it seemed it was almost over, as Melisandre raised her hands and cried out an invocation to R'llhor. In response, the flames parted again to form two distinct towers of fire on either side of the Prince's body. Jon breathed a sigh of relief as Rhaegar appeared whole again, unharmed by the conflagration that had briefly engulfed him. Meanwhile, Melisandre approached the Prince and leaned down close to his face and kissed him. A long, lingering kiss as she breathed the life back into his motionless body.

Jon's breath hitched in his throat as he moved closer, not daring to breathe as the ritual reached its zenith.

A boy's voice he did not recognise sounded from the ether. "Rhaegar, open your eyes."

A raven squawked its echo: "eyes, eyes, eyes." It had three of them.

From the tips of his fingers the warmth spread slowly out to the rest of his body. Strangely, it seemed to him, the last he remembered he had hit the water. He breathed Lyanna's name, thinking it lost to the gushing current of the Trident. Now all he felt was the warmth, the flames lapping at his naked skin like a lover's tongue. He wanted to open his eyes, to see what he was feeling. But he hadn't the strength and he was lost to his dreams.

Robert's Warhammer smashed his into breastplate. He thought the strange tinkling was his teeth falling out, but it was only the decorative rubies from his armour dropping into the water. I thought that I had killed him with a single sword thrust, father, he said in his head and hoped Aerys could hear it. But then a voice answered his silent plea: "Promise me you'll look after him," said Lyanna. Rhaegar's heart suddenly pounded at the sound of her voice. "Robert will kill him, you know he will. Promise me, Ned … promise me." Her pleas faded and Ned didn't answer.

Rhaegar tried to move again, but the warmth held him fast. Behind the lids of his closed eyelids he could make out yellows, oranges and bright reds, all merging and intermingling. It was so beautiful, he wanted to see it and touch it. He tried to move a hand, but couldn't. So strength, weak as a damn kitten.

The cracking noise was deafening, like the roof of Summerhall collapsing on the diners all over again. But still he didn't move. When he tried to open his eyes again he saw a huge black dragon – Balerion the Black Dread – rise above King's Landing and spread his wings like a monstrous black shadow. Is that Aegon the Conqueror riding him? But the dragon rider he saw was a silver haired girl. Not even a woman grown. Just a girl, mounted on that enormous dragon. Two riderless dragons appeared and his own voice reminded him: "the dragon has three heads."

The scene shifted and his father's voice echoed down the decades: "Burn them all! Burn them all!" Ice plains opened up before him and he looked to the north, where eyes as blue as burning ice looked back at him, scaring him out of his wits. "Burn them all!" his father's voice bellowed in his head, resounding over and over like his brain was an empty echo chamber. A boy he met a long time ago – his name was Jon – stood at the head of a vast army, leading them through the snow with a flaming sword. A beautiful girl with auburn hair and blue eyes turned loose a dragon which burst from beneath the ground in a hail of stone and fire. A grey eyed girl – Lyanna? – ran a blade across an old man's throat, blood spilling hot and bright over her fingers.

Rhaegar's head spun again, making him dizzy even if he was lying down in his bed of fire. When he came too there was a wedding, but he was not seated with the guests. He looked over his shoulder, to where the shadows shifted and woman stepped into the pale light. Hooded and cloaked, what flesh he could see was the colour of curdled milk and deep red gouges ran the length of her cheeks. It was as if she wept blood. In her hands, she toyed with an iron crown of miniature swords. The look in her dead eyes made his blood run cold as something unseen covered his mouth and blew into his lungs. For a moment, he felt like he was being physically inflated.

Jolted, he leapt to his feet to try and right his balance. Finally, he opened his eyes and met the gaze of a woman whose own eyes were red. Deep red, like her hair and clothes. A ruby glowed at her throat and he looked up to see two giant columns of fire burning either side of him. Gasping for air, his legs would not hold him and the woman had to help get him away from the fires. As he moved, he became dimly aware of others watching from a distance. Unable to stagger any further, he collapsed on the ground and hit the snow as a cloak was thrown over him.

"Your Grace!" a man's voice called. "Your Grace, you're back."

He knew this man. "Jon," he gasped, finding his throat parched. "Jon, you were at the Trident with me."

Shaking, confused and scared Rhaegar looked all about him. From the fire, to the great wall of ice that towered over them all. What the … he thought to himself. All he could see was the fire and ice, and the ice and fire.

Chapter Text

Rhaegar shivered as he pushed back the furs that had been covering him. His back ached in protest as he rolled off the hard bed he'd woken up in and he had to grab the wooden post to stop his knees from giving out. Once his balance was righted and his head stopped spinning, he stood trembling in the cold and tried to get his bearings. It was dark still, and the fire in the hearth had burned down to little more than glowing embers. Beyond the window, the pale moonlight showed him a heavy snowfall, silent and soft in what seemed the dead of night. Suddenly aware of another man sleeping deeply nearby, he pulled a fur cover from the bed and wrapped himself up in it.

He found his own clothes still heaped in the corner of the room, but they were caked with dried blood and dirt from the battle field. Wondering if the whole fight had been some vivid fever dream, he picked up his tunic and ran his hand over the dried black blood once more. He found it to be very real. There was no mistaking the wall, either. He could see it from the window, glinting silver in the moonlight. All seven hundred foot of it towered above the chamber he found himself in, bewilderment closing in as his wits returned to him.

Frowning out at the snowfalls, he recalled waking up in a fire. Twin columns of fire towering over him, so close he really should have been burned to a crisp within minutes of the kindling going up. Before that, he had been on the Trident. He thought he had delivered a mortal blow to Robert Baratheon, only to see the Stormlord rise again with his fist wrapped around the shaft of that deadly hammer. It played out in his mind again, a slow motion arc as the head of the hammer smashed into his chest, recalling again the sensation of being knocked into the middle of next week.

Did I hear the ribs break, or did I only feel it? The memory confused the sensation, but it still made his stomach turn.

Elia ... She was still in King's Landing, the last he knew. He asked the Red Woman and Jon Snow if they had heard anything about Elia and the children. In response, all he got was water laced with dreamwine, sending him into a deep, uncontrollable sleep from which he had only just awoken. Lyanna would be safe in Dorne, he knew. Robert would have little and less interest in storming a castle well beyond the red mountains. But Elia, Aegon and Rhaenys... Aerys could shift for himself.

To distract himself from his darkening thoughts, he found some chopped wood by the hearth and fed it to the dying fire. The coals collapsed in on themselves, sending a shower of sparks up the stone chimney, and causing the sleeper nearby to roll over and snort as he awoke. Rhaegar whipped around to where Jon Snow now sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Your Grace," he said in a voice thick with sleep. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"I didn't want to disturb you," he lied. In reality, he wanted just a moment alone to process what was happening and where he seemed to be. Not that it had achieved anything, but it was worth a try. "Jon, how did I get here? What's going on?"

Still fully dressed, the other man was able to get up and move to the fireside to warm his hands.

"How long was I unconscious for?" asked the Prince. "Long enough for you to bring me from the Riverlands to the Wall, it would seem. Is this the way of it, now? Robert's won his little war, so now my only hope is to take the black?" His mind was racing through the likeliest explanations. But it wasn't long before he lapsed into thinking aloud. "And what of my children? I think the Martells would take them in and protect them, no matter what. Robert wouldn't be able to reach them in Dorne. But none of this was mother's doing-"

"Your Grace!"

After Jon abruptly cut over him, Rhaegar trailed off into silence. Perched on the edge of the bed he'd not long woken up in, he looked up at the other man and tried to read his expression. Jon's face was turned toward the reviving flames, his fingers splayed out to catch the warmth in his hands. Meanwhile, his brow was knotted as he seemed to wrestle some difficult dilemma. The longer the silence went on, the more Rhaegar worried.

"I know how hard this is," Jon finally spoke. "It was hard for me, too. When I woke up in the Mountains of the Moon, I had no idea where I was. One minute I was here at Castle Black, a knife in my heart, then I was leagues away on a mountainside in a place I'd never been before in my life."

Rhaegar studied his profile intently as he spoke, trying to comprehend what he was saying. "Your knife wounds. You were stabbed here and just woke up in the Vale, just as I was-"

"Killed," Jon butted in again, turning from the fire to face him. "You and I were both killed. The Red Woman, Melisandre, brought us both back."

Stunned, Rhaegar was lost for words. "That was nice of her. But why the Mountains of the Moon for you and Castle Black for me?"

He knew full well that he ought to have been dead, but not that he actually was dead. Remembering the fires again, he recalled now the moment he woke up, when he felt the air being blown back into his lungs. It explained a few things, but the questions still buzzed in his head. An angry and confused swarm of questions. Only one shouted louder than the others.

"Where are my children? I have two and a third on the way. You know Lyanna's condition."

Jon flinched. Something Rhaegar took for a less than promising sign. Finally, he answered: "You need to let me explain."

"I'm all ears," Rhaegar retorted. Beneath the fur he was wrapped in, one hand found the patch of scarring on his chest, the remnants from the hammer blow that had killed him. It was a rough, twisting scar from his breast to his hip. It felt old.

"You knew I should have been dead," Jon continued. "You saw the knife wound right over my heart and you even told Lyanna about it. But instead of dying, I woke up close to the Eyrie, in the path of the Starks as they made their way to Harrenhal. Instead of dying, I was sent there to find her and you-"

"It would have been easier to ask Lord Commander Quorgyle for leave to come south and meet us," Rhaegar jested in vain. It was nervous talk which he regretted instantly. "Sorry, continue please."

Jon's expression softened. "I could have done that, had you not been dead for eighteen years. I woke up in the past and now, you have woken up in the future."

Rhaegar felt himself turning rigid as he ran that sentence through his head once more, then twice more. He tried to make sense of it, before deciding he hadn't heard Jon's words right.

"C-come again," he stammered.

Jon turned fully from the fire before repeating himself, word for word. Then, he added: "That's what I meant by being sent to find you. I had to find you and save you without changing history. The ink is dry, but I was able to just smudge it a little."

A number of reactions all came crashing in at once: anger, disbelief and confusion were prominent among them. But it all converged to form a numbness that spread from head to toe. In his shock, he had let the fur fall from his shoulders, only for Jon to reach over and fix it back in place again. Meanwhile, Rhaegar latched onto the first piece of information that made sense to him.

"So, this moment in time where I am sitting here and talking to you, is eighteen years after the Battle of the Trident?"

For what it was worth to him, Jon looked utterly befuddled too. "Yes. It's eighteen years later, your grace."

"No!" Rhaegar retorted. "No, it cannot be. It's impossible. I mean, how could you find yourself eighteen years in the past ..."

He wanted to go on, but the words wouldn't come. It was as if his mind had taken in so much, and had now spent its capacity. With too much on board already, what was there began to get all mixed up in his brain.

"Mayhaps Your Grace has been told enough for one day?" ventured Jon, cautiously.

Rhaegar did not answer. Instead, he got back to his feet and crossed the room to where the window looked out over the forecourt. Stopping at the mullion, he glared intently at the breaking dawn as if he might see the time and exact date noted somewhere, as proof to what Jon was telling him. But all he saw was snow, ice and men in black making their way down from nightwatch along the wall. They looked a bedraggled lot, with their shoulders hunched and heads bent against the skirling winds. Nowhere, however, could Rhaegar find proof of the date. This could be any dawn, anywhere.

"Your Grace," Jon's voice was soft, his hand gentle as it touched his shoulder. "Come and sit down."

Tentative now, Rhaegar turned from the window. "There's more, isn't there?"

Eighteen years worth of 'more', a voice in his head pointed out. A lump formed in his throat as he thought of Rhaenys, Aegon and the little infant he had not yet met. And may never meet, that same voice pointed out. Just a litle bean growing in Lyanna's belly, growing up without a father. They would all be adults now, with no living memory of him, their father. Unless...

"Where are my children?" he asked again, voice barely a whisper. A question asked so quietly because he found himself shit scared of the answer.

Jon swallowed, his eyes clouding as he briefly averted his gaze. Rhaegar realised, then, that the other man was afraid of telling him, or trying to find some way of couching the truth. In the end, he selected just one word.

"Dead."

Just one word that told so much more, snuffed out so much hope and ended even the vainest of hopes. Dead.

"How?"

"You don't need to know-"

"HOW?"

"Put to the sword by Gregor Clegane-"

"A Lannister man," Rhaegar cut in again. "I knighted him myself, I-"

Once again, his own anger and grief stole the words from him.

"...and Elia and Lyanna?" he asked, at length.

Jon hesitated again. "Lyanna died giving birth. But Gregor Clegane raped and murdered Elia after the Sack of King's Landing."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed as his stomach roiled at what happened to Elia. Jon was still talking, imploring him to sit and rest, but he was no longer listening. The horror overwhelmed him and soon his empty stomach was heaving its bile over the wood paneled floor. There was a chamber pot beneath the bed but he didn't make it in time. While he heaved and retched again, Jon knelt beside him. The sickness abated before long, but he continued shaking violently, kneeling in the cold bile.

"I did this," he said as the awful truth dawned on him. "I did this, so the gods have hauled me back into this life as penance. I must live again while they are all dead. Is that the way of it, Jon Snow?"

Jon hesitated. "Lyanna's son lives-"

"Where?" he demanded, latching on to that one small ray of hope.

He heard Jon swallowing again, lapsing into that terrible silence that normally presaged something twice as terrible. Whatever it was, Rhaegar wished he would spit it out.

"After the war, Robert wanted all Targaryens dead," Jon finally explained. "But Lyanna's brother, Lord Eddard, found her at the Tower of Joy as she lay dying. The baby - a boy - was healthy, but she knew Robert would kill him. So she made Lord Stark promise to take him back to Winterfell and raise him as his own, never telling a soul the truth. Not even Lady Stark ever knew, less still the boy himself. He grew up thinking he was a bastard, gotten on some tavern whore during the war."

"He is a prince of the realm," Rhaegar insisted, vehemently. "Not some bastard-"

"He knows that now," Jon assured him, quickly. "But he believed Ned Stark was his father and Lyanna's name was simply never mentioned."

Rhaegar buried his face in his hands, stopping the tears that threatened to spill. He resolved himself to not weep, to show no self-pity for the chaos he had left behind. But he still shook and his breaths were still shallow and ragged as his heartbeat palpitated.

"Where is he now? I must find him," he said, eventually.

Jon's gaze dropped and Rhaegar realised, in that moment, the truth that had been staring him in the face since he woke up.

"Jon," he said, voice quavering. "Why were you, in particular, sent back to find me? Is it what I am thinking?"

Jon's gaze met his own. He was so much like Lyanna that it took his breath away. Even now, among all this pain, shame and guilt. When Jon spoke again, it sounded as if he too were finally becoming overwhelmed with it all.

"I didn't know," he said. "I had no idea until I went back and it all began making sense. I had to learn the truth and bring you back. I'd have brought every one of you back, if it was in my power. Lya, mine own mother who I ached to know every day of my life. You. The Princess, Elia. The brother and sister I never knew I had. If the power was mine, we would all be here and now, living and restored."

Rhaegar's breath hitched at the thought of it, a tear finally breaking through the barriers he put up. It was a beautiful picture. Oh, to have the power to step back in time and just rescue them all, bringing them forwards to a place of safety and refuge. All but Aerys, who he hoped was being hounded through all seven hells for all eternity.

"But why me?" he asked, looking to Jon. "To hell with me. I would die a hundred deaths if it meant my Rhaenys and my Aegon lived. You could have your brother and sister and be free of the parents who condemned you to live this life."

Jon looked saddened by his question. "But it's not that simple. You are the Prince that was Promised and the realm needs you now more than it ever did before. It's not one person, but three. The dragon has three heads."

None of that seemed to matter anymore. Not to Rhaegar. All his family were gone, save for a man grown who claimed to be his last living son. It had been his fixation with the prophecy that had, in part, led him to this moment, he knew. He could see that now as clear as day, despite his fondness for blaming Aerys for everything.

"There are two of us-"

"Three," Jon corrected. "Your sister, Daenerys Targaryen-"

"I don't have a-" Rhaegar cut himself off as he remembered his mother's pregnancy. His father had raped the baby into her shortly before they fled Dragonstone. "I do have a sister."

A smile pulled at the corner of Jon's mouth. "She grew up on the run in Essos. These days, they call her the mother of dragons."

Rhaegar frowned. "What?"

"She hatched three of them," Jon explained, further. "Three live dragons, but with no other Targaryens to ride them but us. Together, we are the heads of the dragon. You knew all along, although you could not identify us immediately."

"You brought a dragon egg to Winterfell," Rhaegar recalled.

Jon shrugged. "Three heads, and a spare." He paused before adding: "All of this, everything that's happening to you, is a lot to take in. Too much all at once. You need to rest, to clear your head and let it all sink in."

He was right. All Rhaegar knew for sure was that his emotions were fighting their own war, now. One minute anger, then guilt, then sorrow and shame. All of it. It left him drained and numb and he could no more form an opinion right now than fly without wings. His mouth tasted like something had died in it and his head was aching. The sun had barely risen, and already the day felt like it had gone on too long.

However, before Jon reached the door Rhaegar called him back. "You're my son."

Half-way out the door, letting in a cold, white wind, Jon looked back. "You're my real father, but you'll never be Eddard Stark."

"He was good to you?" asked Rhaegar.

"The best," answered Jon.

"Then that's all that matters," he said.

But it hurt. It hurt more than any hammer blow that the gods had brought him back with no family and a son who would never see him as a father. Rhaegar could almost hear their laughter.

Jon found Sansa in the common hall, breaking her fast on oatmeal and honey. Brienne of Tarth was beside her, a wall of shining steel with big blue eyes. Seemingly on guard duty already, she wasn't eating and stuck to staring at the wall. Not far away, Jon noted Tormund Giantsbane making eyes at the big woman. More than that, he was openly gaping at her and totally ignoring Ser Davos, who was attempting to make conversation. Lady Brienne had an admirer.

"Were you with the Prince?" asked Sansa, quietly.

Jon nodded. The conversation had left him drained.

"How is he?"

"As well as any man who's just found out almost all his family are dead," he replied, rather more brusquely than he intended. "Sorry, Sansa. I did not mean it like that."

Sansa coloured. "It was a stupid question."

She returned to her food while Jon fetched some for himself. They ate in silence, while Jon went through the conversation again. There was still so much left to tell the Prince, but too much at once and he feared he would be pushed over the edge. Just the fates of his children and the women he had loved was enough. There was still so much that even he didn't know.

"Sansa, did you ever find out more about Petyr Baelish's involvement in the first war?" he asked, glancing over the table at her.

She thought on it for a moment, watching the honey drip off the comb in her fingers. "Not since leaving Bran, and I know he's concentrating on the dragon. But I know how to use the trees now, so I can start again today, if you like?"

Jon nodded. "Please do. If he was involved, then I want solid answers to give to Rhaegar. He's already blaming himself, I think."

Sansa nodded her assent, then set her bowl aside to make room for Lady Melisandre. The Red Woman never ate. Not that Jon had ever noticed. But she joined them all the same and, soon after her, Ghost hopped up onto Jon's bench and curled up beside him. Still early days after his return, he still felt a rush of happiness whenver the direwolf was in his sight. He stopped eating to ruffle his fur and nuzzle the soft space between his glowing red eyes.

"Now that we're all back, but missing one head of the dragon," he declared, turning back to his companions. "We need to secure the North in preparation for the real war."

Sansa was toying with the honey again. Ladling it onto her wooden spoon, then letting it slowly drip back into her uneaten oatmeal. Only now, she was smiling faintly to herself.

"I propose we send ravens to each of the great houses who might still support us," he began, laying out his early plans. Focusing on something he was familiar with helped drive away the pain that morning's talk with Rhaegar had caused him. "I think Mormont, Umber, Manderly, Glover, Hornwood and Cerwyn would be worth a start. Maybe even Alys Karstark can forgive us for Robb beheading her lord. Perhaps if they know about the dragon it can help win them over-"

"No," Sansa cut in. "Sonar must be our secret. If anyone else finds out word would get back to Ramsay and he would send his men down there to kill him."

Jon shrugged. "But they'd never kill a dragon. If Ramsay sends his men down there he'd be doing our job for us."

"Enough men can kill a dragon, Jon Snow," Melisandre pointed out. "Sonar is not indestructible. Lady Sansa has the right of it."

Jon saw the sense in that. "Very well. But we still need Rhaegar to go down there and turn the dragon loose."

"Rhaegar won't find it in half a hundred years, Jon," Sansa pointed out. "He's deep below the crypts and Rhaegar's never even seen Winterfell before."

He suppressed a sigh. "Well, I can't do it. I need to lead the army on the field and, somehow, I don't think Ramsay Bolton is going to let me nip into the crypts awhile."

"Bran can skinchange," Sansa suggested.

Even that Jon was uneasy with. "Whenever Ghost is on the opposite side of the wall to me, I lose all connection with him. Bran is on the wrong side of the wall for our dragon. We can't take the risk so someone needs to get down there and free him."

No one volunteered immediately, but Jon could tell by the look on her face that Sansa was about it. She opened her mouth to reply, so he cut her off before she could so much as form the first word.

"No!" he said, brusquely. "No and no again. Father would come back and haunt me if I let anything happen to you."

"Jon, listen!" she snapped. "All I need do is slip through the gates and into the crypt. I know exactly where the dragon is and how to free him. The dragon knows me, he trusts me."

Jon could scarcely believe what he was hearing. "Ramsay will have you locked up the moment you set foot in there."

"Ramsay will be on the battle field," Sansa pointed out, hotly. "Let me do this Jon, I know I can."

Before Jon could reply, Melisandre broke in. "Ramsay Bolton will never recognise her."

She reached into one of her dagged sleeves, where she had kept the powder the night before, and withdrew a small ruby. Placing it on the trestle table where all could see it, Jon eyed it curiously. It was much like any other ruby, but not the one at her throat which seemed to glow and pulse in time to the beat of her heart. This was just a regular ruby.

"Is that Rhaegar's?" he asked, quietly.

Even Brienne of Tarth stopped staring straight ahead and turned to glance at the mystery gemstone.

"There is power in king's blood, Jon Snow," said Melisandre.

Rhaegar wore it at the Trident, and he'd certainly spilled his blood on those stones that day. But Jon was still perplexed. Still, he ventured a guess.

"She wears that and Ramsay will be so dazzled by the light he won't be able to see her face?"

To his surprise, Melisandre smiled. "Something like that."

Jon was mystified, but remained adamant. "I don't care what you tricks you and R'llhor have up those dagged sleeves of yours, my lady. No matter what, I will not allow Ramsay Bolton within a league of my sister ever again. Not for Winterfell, not for anything."

Having suddenly lost his appetite, he pushed back the bench he was sat on and strode out of the common hall. Ghost loped at his heels and he ignored Sansa's pleas for him to return. Sister. Cousin. Whatever she was to him now, she was all he had left in the world except a father who didn't know him and a brother on the wrong side of the wall.

From the common hall, he went straight to his chambers and fetched Longclaw from its hook on the wall. Now that he was back, it was time he got back into his training. More so, now he had a castle to take back. The sword was where he left it and he grabbed it without looking, marching straight back to the training yard with it in his hands, still sheathed.

"I was looking for that sword everywhere," Davos said, as he left the hall.

Jon had to laugh. "It was roughly eighteen years ago, with me."

The grizzled knight shook his head in bewilderment. "I don't think I'll ever get my head around all that business, my lord. You'd think I'd be used to all this mad stuff happening with Melisandre around, but she's never ceased to shock me."

"Shock you," Jon repeated. "I would imagine you're not a man who is easily shocked, ser."

Ser Davos laughed. "You'd be right about that." He paused, drawing his own sword. "I'm not as young as I was and I never was a great swordsman. Humour me and give us a round. I'm thinking I could use the practise."

Jon agreed readily. "All right, then. But consider yourself warned, old man."

Laughing, he reached for Longclaw's hilt and found it surprising hot to the touch. Curious, he glanced down at the scabard and saw that it was blackened and scorched. The wood was black at the edge, the leather almost melted into the grain. But when he drew the blade, it was as perfect as ever. It was hot, but not so hot that he couldn't touch it.

"What's the matter?" asked Ser Davos, when he tarried too long. "Lost heart already?"

Jon showed him the burned scabbard. "Strange. It must have been too close to the hearth fire."

Yes, he thought, that must be it.

Rhaegar had no notion of where he was going. He simply let his feet guide him through the tunnel beneath the wall and out the other end. Then he walked on, following the setting sun without seeing the burning golden horizon. He was dimly aware of the snow packing around his new boots and settling on the shoulders of his new black cloak. He dressed like a brother of the Night's Watch because they had far more boots, cloaks and clothes than they had men to fill them.

So, on he walked. He intended to only for so long as the wall was within his sight. Or the braziers that burned along the top, now that darkness had begun to settle. While he walked, he lost track of time and never had much sense of purpose even before he set out. It was the sight of the heart tree in the godswood that stopped him, though. If it had a pool, it was long frozen over and snowed on on top of that. But the leaves of the weirwood were ruby red heads, banging from the silver white branches.

In his mind's eye, he could see Lyanna sitting quietly beneath its boughs. Just as he had half a hundred times at Harrenhal. But Harrenhal was a southron tree, whereas the one before him now as of the North. He approached it cautiously, lowering himself against the trunk so that the carved face was next to his own. If he looked from the tail of his eye, he could just about get the wooden face in sight.

His own gods had been conspicious by their absence, since Robert won the war. Perhaps the Old Gods were listening? He remembered then, something Lyanna once told him: that the dead Northerners' souls go into the trees.

"Are you in there now, Lyanna? Can you hear me now?" he asked, turning so he was within kissing distance of the tree's face. "Can you see me now, mine own heart."

He searched the sap weeping eyes of the tree, his own eyes weeping regular tears that froze on his cheeks. But nothing changed. No glimmer of hope nore trace of recognition.

"What about you, Rhaenys?" he asked, his voice cracking as he remembered her again. He lowered his head, eyes closed. As he did so, a pair of guileless brown eyes met his own. He tried to look closer, but they faded away and only the red sapped eyes of the tree remained. Still, he reached out and pressed his hand softly to the face of the tree, as if she could feel him and continued: "Maybe you would not come to a place like this, but they say there's power in the trees. Maybe you can hear me, wherever you are. And your mother and brother, too."

"If not for the blood in your veins you would have been a woman grown now," he told her, but he suspected she alread knew. "Your brother a man, with princes of his own. Who is to say? I can't imagine you with children of your own. I can't imagine you as a wife, with your own household. Because I could never have imagined you gone from my life. But you are gone, and I know it was my fault."

He fell silent, leaning back on his heels as memories swept over him. Meanwhile, a soft breeze sighed through the branches of the tree, making the ruby red leaves shiver beneath a silent snowfall. Rhaegar lifted his face, watching as the pure white flakes whispered through the space above him.

There were so many things his children could have been by now. Rhaenys, especially. Her path in life was not as set as Aegon's was. The possibilities had been endless. Rhaegar sniffed and composed himself.

"Elia..." he said her name, but little more felt needed. "You told me once you were in love with Baelor Hightower, that you were set on him. But then that fateful fart happened and you could no longer look at him without laughing. If it wasn't for that fart, you would be in Oldtown now. Happy and loved."

He didn't know whether to find that funny or tragic. Tragic, now that he knew Oberyn had died for her too. The Mountain had done for them all. All except Aerys, killed by his own kingsguard. Jaime Lannister. He would never have guessed and he wasn't about to condemn him for it.

"We did our duty, and we all died for it," he said, kneeling in the snow. "Now I'm here, with a man who says he's my son, but he calls another man father and I know I'll never have all of him. But I am his father, and I know he'll never have all of me because the most important part of me is still with you, Rhaenys, Aegon and Lyanna. No fire gods can bring that back to me."

The tree remained silent and impassive, and he realised the futility of what he was doing. Heaving a sigh, he sat back in the snow and shivered against the fresh falls blowing down around. He wanted to break down and scream for the pain gnawing at his soul now. But he could not. Not even here beyond the wall, where no one would ever know.

All the same, the tears came. Hot, but quickly freezing in the frigid air. He had a son. A son he never knew he had. But that flicker of life in Lyanna's belly was a man grown and a stranger to him. But then that stranger's hand landing gently on his shoulder, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"I saw you leave the tunnel," said Jon. "I couldn't let you wander off on your own. It's not safe out here."

The son scolded the father and Rhaegar almost laughed. He broke down, choking on his own tears and almost laughed at the same time.

Chapter Text

One by one, the ravens flew from Maester Clydas' window across the yard. A flurry of feathers and a blur of black beating wings, vanishing rapidly into the breaking day. To Bear Island and Deepwood Motte; to White Harbour and the Last Hearth. Everywhere in the North except Winterfell itself. Sansa had even despatched Brienne of Tarth and her hapless squire to Riverrun, in hopes that her great uncle would fight for her as he fought for Robb. But Riverrun would soon be under siege from Freys and Lannisters, if Rhaegar had the right of it. Jon had had to throw in a sweetener to help matters along: help take back the North for the Starks and the North would help take back the Riverlands for the Tullys, driving the Lannisters back to the Rock in the process.

Even as he wrote the terms for the Blackfish, Jon remembered the childhood fantasies he had had of being the one to save Winterfell from some mortal peril of his own imagining. Now, his adult self smiled wryly at the thought that he may be about to liberate not just Winterfell, but the childhood home of Catelyn Stark as well. Some dark part of his being wished she was still alive just so they could savour the irony together.

When the last bird vanished on the horizon, Jon turned from the window and continued dressing himself. His watch had ended, so he no longer wore the customary black garb of the Watch and, instead, donned a grey lamb's wool tunic over black breeches and a brown boiled leather jerkin. The sort of thing he would have worn had he still been at Winterfell. Before leaving his chambers, he unhooked Longclaw and held it to the soft morning light now streaming through the windows. The scabbard had almost entirely disintegrated overnight and the blade had been nowhere near his fire. Gingerly, he brushed the flat side blade with the tip of his finger and found it hot.

While he was pondering that conundrum, the sounds of Rhaegar stirring in the room connected to his own drew his attention. They met in the hallway beyond and Jon could tell he had not slept at all. The deposed prince grunted a terse greeting as they fell into step and Jon showed him the sword. A feeble attempt to give Rhaegar something to think about other than his dead family.

"What say you of this?" he asked, handing the blade over hilt first. "It's so hot it burned its own scabbard to ash."

Rhaegar held it until they were outside; whereupon he let the Valyrian steel reflect the morning sun. Just as it always had, it drank the sunlight and the many folds and tempering rippled down its length. The heat had done nothing to tarnish its beauty.

"I noticed this when we were at Harrenhal together," the Prince observed. "Beautiful blade. Valyrian steel, unless I'm very much mistaken. It's not Ice, though. Where did you get it?"

Jon explained about saving his predecessor from a wight and being gifted Longclaw as a mark of gratitude. All the while, the other man continued studying it, running his palm against the flat as Jon had recently done.

"I don't know," the prince answered, returning to the point at hand. "Too close to the fire, perhaps? There is another explanation, but I don't want to go jumping to conclusions just yet."

Jon frowned. "What sort of conclusions?"

Rhaegar looked like a man who knew a lot more than he was letting on and his shrug was a half-hearted gesture. Without saying further, he handed the sword back and asked: "Is there a library I can avail of?"

There wasn't much of a library to speak of, but a place where books and scrolls were kept, some of which were as old as the hills. Jon remembered, with small dismay, that Sam had raided the archive before leaving for Oldtown. But not even Sam could have carried off every book in there, he reassured himself. As such, he directed Rhaegar accordingly. He was about to go there immediately before Jon stopped him.

"At least join us to break your fast," he said, not keen for him to go wandering off on his own. It would do him no good to be shut away on his own for long hours.

To his relief, Rhaegar agreed and rejoined him as they made their way to the common hall.

Inside, they found Sansa being regaled with courtship advice courtesy of Tormund Giantsbane, with Edd and a few of the others looking on apologetically. Jon inserted himself between them before Tormund could launch into his 'skewered pig' impression and ladled himself a bowl of porridge and honey.

"Just when we were getting to the most interesting part," Edd observed, droll as ever.

Sansa managed a polite but awkward laugh before greeting her cousin with a kiss on the cheek.

"What news?" he asked the high table at large.

Although still seated at the high table, it was Edd who occupied the Lord Commander's place now. No formal choosing had yet taken place, but Jon suspected Edd would be returned with a strong majority. Much to Mallister of Eastwatch's dismay.

Jon noticed Sansa glancing sidelong at Rhaegar, as if sudden afraid of him. Colouring slightly, she said: "We, er, have a new Queen."

"Really?" Rhaegar replied, oblivious to Sansa's discomfiture. "The crown seems to change hands so freely these days. Do you swap it among yourselves on rotation?" Upon noticing the sharp look Jon was giving him, he quickly simmered down and added: "Forgive me, Lady Stark, that was unnecessary and none of this is your fault. Tell us, who is the new Queen."

Sansa quickly recovered herself. "Cersei Lannister."

Jon and Rhaegar both choked on their oats. "What?" they chorused.

"Maester Clydas told me all about it," she explained, just as Davos and Melisandre joined their company. "Cersei was arrested by the Faith Militant and made to walk naked through the streets of King's Landing. But they put her and Queen Margaery on trial anyway. So she got out of it by blowing up the Sept of Baelor with all the Faith Militant and all of House Tyrell crammed inside it. Her son, King Tommen, then jumped from a window in Maegor's Holdfast and into the dry moat. He impaled himself on the spikes below. Whereas Princess Myrcella was dead already, poisoned by the Martells. So Cersei herself now rules as Queen in her own right."

Rhaegar had only been given the briefest of outlines of all that had happened since the fall of his house. So, Jon watched his reaction carefully. Clearly baffled and shocked in equal measure, his breakfast was soon forgotten as he began firing off questions.

"What in seven hells was a Lannister doing in Dorne? Surely Doran wasn't so quick to forgive the murder of his sister and the children," he asked, frowning into the middle distance. That, he answered himself. "Obviously not, if the Princess was poisoned. And what are the damn Faith Militant doing back in the city? They were defeated and driven away centuries ago and I cannot believe Cersei Lannister is so pious as to willingly arm a private militia of religious fanatics. Well, not unless she's changed enormously since I knew her and why not? Everyone and everything else has."

"And there is another problem," said Sansa.

Jon drew a deep breath and braced himself for whatever was next.

"Cersei still believes I murdered her son," she continued. "She wants my head on a spike outside the Red Keep and she'll stop at nothing to get it. Tyrion's, too."

"Cersei can go and whistle for your head, my lady," Rhaegar retorted.

Jon, also, was unduly concerned. "No Lannister army could march this far North and surely even Cersei isn't fool enough to attempt it. You will be safe, I promise you."

He kept forgetting that she, of all people, stood accused of murder.

"What of the Tyrells?" asked Rhaegar. "You say all of them were killed at the Great Sept."

"That's what Clydas told me," Sansa confirmed. "We could still win support among their bannermen. Especially now."

Jon knew what she meant. The Targaryens made the Tyrells, granting them Highgarden despite the superior claim of House Florent. Ever since, they had remained steadfast supporters of the Dragons until Mace Tyrell bent the knee to King Robert. There was only one problem.

"The Tyrell army will be even farther away than the Lannister army. It's no good to us."

Sansa looked surprised. "I mean for when you take the south again. Surely you mean to, now that..."

"Now that I'm magically back from the dead," Rhaegar finished the sentence for her. "The war is in the North and we must focus all our resources and abilities on that, first. As for what comes next, I cannot say. What I can say is that I have little and less interest in that wretched iron chair and the duplicitous snakes that live their lives coiled around its stupid blades."

Clearly, Rhaegar had had enough of the conversation and rose abruptly. He took his leave and strode from the Common Hall, probably in search of the library. Jon watched him go, quietly annoyed at his lashing out at Sansa for the second time in as many hours.

"He's right, you know," said Melisandre. "You must focus on the war to come. No one else is."

Over the next days and nights, the truth of Melisandre's words became increasingly clear to him. No one else was coming. Brienne would still be sailing to the Riverlands, but the ravens from the Northern houses should have started returning by then. Should have. But they hadn't. The North responded to their rallying cry with the deafening sound of silence. Every day, Jon checked with Clydas and watched the skies for approaching ravens. On the third day, Mormont answered. Sixty-two men they pledged and Lady Lyanna Mormont was already en route for Castle Black to join them. It was better than nothing, but it was nowhere near enough. Soon after that, Glover replied with a lengthy screed about how Robb had wronged them and left them to languish under Ironborn misrule.

On the fifth day, the Hornwoods pledged five hundred mounted men. Lady Hornwood had been locked in a dungeon and starved to death after being forced to marry Ramsay Bolton so the Dreadfort could annex her lands. Jon had heard all about it from Maester Luwin. Jon appreciated the show of defiance, but it still wasn't enough. A few thousand free folk, sixty-two Mormonts and five hundred Hornwoods. That was it. Everything, it seemed, rested on a dragon hidden in the crypts of Winterfell that had grown up in darkness. It affected them; made them smaller and weaker than they should be. Besides that, he didn't even know how they were going to set it free to do its damage in the first place.

To stop himself falling into despair, he sought out Rhaegar who was still searching through the old texts of the library. He'd heard it said before that the Prince was bookish to a fault, but never realised how true it was. As soon as Jon entered, he looked up from the text he was studying and pushed the books away.

"Follow me outside and bring Longclaw with you," he said, pushing right past him.

Minutes later, they were standing in the snowy courtyard with Jon holding the blade aloft. It smoked in the air around them, the heat seeping from within the blade itself. As unusual as the phenomena was, Jon saw no changes.

"Touch the edge of the blade," Rhaegar instructed. "Just enough to break the skin and bleed."

Although reticent, Jon did so. Valyrian steel never lost its edge, so it didn't take much effort. The metal punctured his skin where he pressed his forefinger into the tip. Bright, fresh blood soon blossomed there. Almost immediately, the metal ignited. Jon cursed in shock, almost dropping the sword but Rhaegar caught it and smiled.

"There," he said, holding Longclaw steady with him. Together they watched the blade ignite as his blood sacrifice ran the length of the blade. Awestruck, Rhaegar whispered the name: "Lightbringer."

With Brienne gone, it was Ser Davos Seaworth and Lady Melisandre who accompanied Sansa to Mole's Town. Even with Uncle Brandon's sword on her hip again, she still had no idea of how to use it so she appreciated the protection. What they found there was a semi-derelict shell of a once bustling little place. But Wildling raids had left the homes gutted and the notorious brothel in ruins. Whoever had survived the raids had long since fled and sought sanctuary farther south. Sansa thought she would sooner take her chances with the free folk than rely on any Bolton for sanctuary.

Unsurprisingly, she found the man she sought in the gutted ruins of the brothel. But she knew that where she saw only ruins, Petyr Baelish saw a business opportunity. Especially now that his establishment in the capital had been ransacked and shut down by the Faith Militant – another tid bit of information that had come in Clydas' ravens from the south. To Petyr's credit, the relief on his face when he saw her looked real enough. But when he went to embrace her, she flinched and backed off. Quick as a snake, Davos' hand gripped the hilt of his sword ready to strike. Only Sansa herself called him off, one hand raised to pacify him.

"It's all right, Ser," she assured him. "We are quite safe."

Nevertheless, she did not want to be alone with Petyr. Not only for safety's sake, but also because she enjoyed the sight of him squirming in front of a man at arms and the highly disconcerting red priestess. Melisandre had a way of looking at people as though she could see what was in their minds, as though their hearts were open books open for her own perusal. And Petyr Baelish was a man with a lot of hidden secrets buried in his own breast. If only I could cut them out, she thought as she touched Uncle Brandon's sword.

"My Lady," he finally spoke, gaze darting between the three of them. "I cannot tell you how relieved I am to find you safe and unharmed."

"Unharmed?" she repeated, thinking back over all the things Ramsay did to her. Before she could stop it, the horrors that happened in Winterfell were tumbling out of her. Petyr kept cringing, as though attempting to make himself as small as possible, while ser Davos fully drew his sword and she made no move to stop him this time.

"Just say the word, my lady, and I'll strike this creature down where he stands," Davos snapped, once she fell silent.

"My Lady, please, for the love I bore your mother and-"

"Don't you ever mention her name again," Sansa cut in, anger flaring hot in her chest.

Uncle Brandon's sword felt so snug in her gloved hand. All the while, she couldn't tear her eyes from the soft flesh of Petyr's throat. She knew she could do it. Whip out the sword and a fast slash to the exposed apple. How hard could it be? No one needs training to be able to stick a sword in someone's neck. Even she could do it. It would only take a second and it would be over in less. But then Sweet Robin would turn the Knights of the Vale around and march them home again. The North would be lost to the Starks forever.

Not for the first time in her life, Sansa had to swallow her own desires and her real feelings. She choked them down and almost gagged, all the while her face was a mask of docile passivity. She had so much practise in King's Landing it was almost second nature.

"I-it wasn't your fault, Petyr," she stammered, tearfully. "How could you have known what a monster Ramsay is? I didn't mean to shout at you, but this is hard for me."

Petyr's relief was palpable, he sagged as the tension left his body and he stumbled fowards to embrace her tenderly. "I will do anything, and I mean anything, to make up for what happened to you, my sweetling. I told you in my letter, the Knights of the Vale are at your disposal."

Now that she had that confirmed, she pulled away from Petyr sharply.

"Good," she answered, suddenly very brisk and business like. "Jon and I, with a host of two-thousand wildlings and a little over five hundred others will be marching south to Winterfell on the morrow. The march will take months, so I trust to our host will meet yours on the road?"

Petyr smiled the old smile. The one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course, my lady. At least I have more to offer than a host of savages."

"Thank you, Lord Petyr. I knew I could trust you," she lied, ignoring the barbs. "We had best be going back now, so I'll see you later-"

"Already?" Petyr looked stung, as though he hoped she would stick around for a candlelit supper.

"We leave for Winterfell on the morrow," she reminded him. "And it's a long ride back to Castle Black."

With that, she turned to walk towards the shattered door of the brothel. Davos lingered behind with the sword still drawn, not taking any chances. But Melisandre had already left and mounted her mule.

"My Lady," Petyr called after her, before she could leave.

Sansa suppressed a sigh and looked back at him. "Yes?"

Petyr took a cautious step toward her, his hands folded in front of him. "My lady, I have been hearing some very curious stories about Jon Snow-"

"That's nice," she cut in, abruptly. "Once the battle is done and you have made amends for selling me to my enemies, perhaps I'll let you tell me all the stories you've heard about my brother."

In a rare show of humility, Petyr blushed a deep red. A sign that even he knew he was taking too many liberties much too soon.

It was late by the time they made it back to Castle Black. Jon was locked away with his commanders and ser Davos immediately went to join them. Only Melisandre remained with her, as she returned to her chambers. Sansa was curious when the priestess followed her inside.

"I have something for you, Lady Stark," she said. "You must tell no one. Not even Jon Snow."

Melisandre pressed something into Sansa's hands. A choker with a large ruby set in the middle. For a moment, Sansa thought it was the exact same one. But when she looked she could still her's glowing at her throat. Holding it up to the light, she could see that the stone was dark and not glowing like the one the other woman wore. But it was warm to the touch.

"I should wear it, the same as you wear yours?" she asked.

"Yes, when no one is watching," Melisandre advised. "Remember, tell no one."

The ruby fell from Rhaegar's breastplate and that small fact seemed to be important. Suddenly nervous, she thanked the priestess and slipped it into her pocket. The last time someone had given her a piece of jewelry it turned out to contain poisoned amethysts and she had had no idea until Joff lay choking, his face turning black as the strangler worked its magic. But when she tried the choker on, much later that night as she slipped into her night gown, nothing bad happened.

At first, she didn't think anything had happened at all. She put it on and fixed the clasp at the back of her neck, fumbling blindly as she did so. It felt much too tight, like it literally was choking her. Then it settled, as though it had stretched to just the right size for Sansa's throat. Then ...

Nothing.

She sat on the edge of her bed and waited. What for, she did not know. But after a while, she noticed the liver spots on the back of her hands. Alarmed, she got up and felt her joints aching. Then she noticed that her coppery, auburn hair had turned pure white and brittle. With her heart pounding, she stood before the mirror and beheld her ancient face. Sansa Stark was nowhere in sight. She had been replaced by the Crone Above.

Rhaegar almost collided with Sansa as he was exiting the stables and her entering. They dodged each other, laughing breathlessly until she caught him by the arm.

"Your Grace," she said, dipping an elegant curtsey. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Strangely abashed by the formalities, Rhaegar felt he colour rising in his face. "My Lady, I am no longer a 'your grace.' An ex-prince has no titles. Just call me Rhaegar." Then he thought about it a little more. "Actually, I'm your uncle by marriage."

But the girl didn't seem to be listening any more.

"Do you remember the rubies on your breastplate?" she asked. "Can you remember why you chose them specifically?"

Whatever he had expected, it wasn't that. Frowning, he framed them in his memory. "I picked them because red is the colour of my house and they're shiny and pretty."

"So, you did no magic on them?" she pressed on.

Rhaegar laughed, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Heavens no, child. They're just ornamental rubies is all. Why would you ask that?"

"Oh, no reason," she replied, a little over-brightly. "Fare you well, uncle."

Something was clearly troubling her, he thought. But he was in position to pry. "You too, my lady."

With that passing strange encounter concluded, Rhaegar finished saddling the courser he had been gifted and mounted up. Already, they were prepared to ride south and take back Winterfell but they had to move while the weather was still good. Before they got snowed in and went the same way as poor King Stannis Baratheon. Just in case it wasn't bad enough that King Robert usurped the crown, he then had to sow such dissention among his own brothers that his own succession would be hotly disputed. Still, at least Stannis had saved the Watch when it had been at its most vulnerable.

"Any word from Riverrun?" he asked Jon as they walked their mounts to the head of the procession.

"Nothing," replied Jon, dejectedly. "Given the terms, I suppose I ought to be relieved."

They had the Knights of the Vale, so even if the dragon fell through they still stood a chance. The dragon was his role.

"You know, Jon, riding dragons isn't as simple as me walking up to him and jumping in the saddle, so to speak," he pointed out. "I don't automatically know how it's done just because I'm a Targaryen. Otherwise, you could do it yourself."

"I need to lead the ground troops," he replied, defensively. "I'd be no good on a dragon."

Rhaegar still couldn't believe that the dragon was down there. He would need to see it with his own two eyes. The egg had been blue and silver, he recalled. No doubt it would make a fine sight roasting a few Boltons to death.

"Have you told your own men that th dragon is down there?" he asked.

"I will do," Jon answered. "But not until the last minute. There's too much risk of Ramsay finding out. And Roose, if he's still alive."

They had recieved a letter from Ramsay, who styled himself Warden of the North. Beside that, he threatened to flay all the men marching on Winterfell and to rape Lady Sansa while Jon himself was forced to watch. In case that hadn't been enough, Bolton claimed to have Rickon Stark as captive. He had only ever known Roose Bolton, but it sounded like the son was cut from much the same cloth.

Before he could ask about Rickon, the horn sounded. A signal for them to form up and leave Castle Black. For the time being, at least. But Rhaegar knew if they could secure Rickon themselves, he would be the new Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. The largest region of Westeros in the hands of a child under ten and surrounded by enemies. Whichever way this battle went, Rhaegar couldn't help but think Rickon's future seemed bleak.

Soon, they passed through the gates of Castle Black three abreast. Jon was in the middle, with Sansa to his left and Rhaegar to his right. They each shared a glance and nodded to each other. For better or worse, it was time to take back Winterfell.

Chapter Text

The hardest part of any battle was waiting for the slaughter to begin. Only, this time, Jon felt like he had been waiting for that moment since he rode out the gates of Castle Black. Weeks turned into months as they made their slow and arduous journey south, avoiding the main road and sending scouts and outriders on ahead to watch for Bolton men. All the while, Jon stuck with the main body of the host, his nerves ratcheting up with every mile they trod. Footsore and weary, what numbers they had were ready to drop and not get up again by the end of every arduous day. Food was scarce and with winter closing in, there wasn't much by way of foraging either.

Every evening, they set up camp in some sheltered spot and Jon would climb to the top of whatever ridge or hillock they chose for cover, and look out over his army. It was a rag-tag band of free folk, the remains of a few minor houses not entirely wiped out by the Boltons and … that was it. One thousand infantry, mostly free folk with little to no formal training. Six hundred cavalry, himself included. They were up against Bolton's two thousand cavalry and one thousand infantry. The North remembers, he thought to himself, sourly.

As they entered the final leg of the journey, his thoughts began to stray from the battle itself to the reasons behind it. After setting up camp barely five miles from Winterfell, sheltered down a steep verge, he found himself wandering off again. Away from the tents and the men sheltering beneath hedges, up to the top of the verge. It was a clear night, bitterly cold. Wisps of cloud veiled the crescent moon, but he could see the stars and pick out a few of the constellations. The ones old Maester Luwin had taught him so long ago.

He made it to the top and sat on a felled tree beside the road. Five miles down that road, Winterfell stood in all its granite glory. He had not seen it since leaving to join the Night's Watch. Robb had come to see him off and Jon remembered, with an acute clarity, the sight of the snowflakes melting in his brother's auburn hair. It seemed an age ago; a lifetime ago. Yet still Robb's face, his presence and essence, was such an integral part of that castle's being, Jon still half expected to see him there upon his return, with the snowflakes still melting in his auburn hair.

Robb is dead, he reminded himself, Roose Bolton put a sword through his heart. Just like Lord Stark, Lady Stark, Arya (for all he knew) and probably Rickon too. Luwin was dead, along with Old Nan and Rodrik Cassel. All the people who had made his home were dead and he saw no sign of R'hllor offering them any miraculous second chances. Not even his mother, that sweet and wilful girl he remembered dancing at the tourney. It would have been easy to list the dead and cut his losses, abandoning Winterfell as nothing more than a ghost of his half-buried past. But they were not the reason to give up, they were very reason he knew he had to fight this war and keep on fighting after that.

Then there was Sansa. While he looked out over the road to Winterfell, her hand touched his shoulder. Jolted out of his memories and thoughts, he came too all at once.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you," she said, sitting down beside him. "Are you worried about tomorrow?"

Jon shrugged. "Of course. Have you heard from Baelish?"

Ravens were much too dangerous to send just now, so Jon already knew the answer. But he found himself asking anyway.

"No," she admitted. "But I think your father and Ser Davos are right. Ramsay's so full of himself that he thinks he can never be tricked."

Jon knew the logic behind the plan. Let Ramsay believe his vastly superior host is only up against a tiny rag-tag army, thinking to crush them like insects. Only to bring in the Knight's of the Vale at the very last minute as an unpleasant surprise for the new Warden of the North. Otherwise, if Ramsay knows the true size of Jon's forces, he will hide inside Winterfell and wait for winter to come and finish them off during a siege. Jon now had men, but he had no siege equipment at all. Likewise, he had no assurances from either Baelish or the Vale that they really were planning to intervene. And he didn't like it. Not one bit.

"Sansa, you've been on at me for weeks about what an untrustworthy snake in the grass this Petyr Baelish is," he reminded her. "Now, you're telling me to place all my trust – and the lives of my men – in his hands. How can you be certain he is true to his word?"

"He is, I promise you," she assured him.

When she offered nothing more than that, Jon turned to face her to see if she was going as mad as he thought. "What makes you say that?"

"Because he thinks he's getting Winterfell for himself," she smiled. "Rather, he thinks to rule the North through me and that's good enough for him. He thinks I'm like Robert Arryn. Pliable, easily fooled. Once, I heard Olenna Tyrell tell Petyr Baelish I was nothing more than a frightened little girl. That's what they all think of me."

Jon listened, still uneasy about where all this was going. "Are you a frightened little girl?"

Sansa shrugged. "I was. On the morrow, I think I'll find out what I am now."

Jon raised a half-smile. "I think I already know."

She met his gaze and smiled back at him. Her skin was pale as milk glass under the light of stars and moon. Like a ghost. She was lacing a choker through her fingers, the pad of her index finger rubbing a large glowing ruby. He had no noticed it before, and the more she rubbed it the more it glowed. Soon, it was casting a soft red light against her hands.

"Is that Melisandre's?" he asked, curious.

She shook her head. "She made it for me. Feel it."

Jon closed his hand around the stone, feeling the heat coming off it. Then he remembered the time he was in the cage with Melisandre, being winched up to the top of the wall for an audience with King Stannis. He asked her how come she never seemed cold and she replied by telling him to touch her face. She was as warm as this ruby, the same type she wore at her throat.

"How come you're not wearing it?" he asked, handing it back. "It would suit you."

"Oh, I can't," she replied, quickly. "It's too tight around my throat."

"Well then, once this battle is fought we'll see if we can't get a jeweller to widen it for you," he replied, thinking she would like that. "A fitting jewel for the Lady of Winterfell."

"Let's not tempt fate," she replied abruptly, slipping the gem into the pocket of her cloak. "The hour is late, cousin. I must rise early on the morrow to meet with Petyr Baelish."

Inwardly, Jon cringed. "I don't like you being near him."

"Melisandre will be with me," she assured him. "And Ramsay and his men will be parleying with you. She and I will slip through the lines unnoticed."

Jon still did not like it. "Are you really going to Baelish, if he's even there, or are you going to do something stupid?"

Ever since they left Castle Black, he had seen Sansa and the red priestess with their heads together more times than he could count. Plans they kept from him, which set his nerves to twinging. He found himself wondering if, perhaps, she was still angry with him for forbidding her to sneak into the crypts to unleash Soñar. He would do it himself, once they breached the walls and needed to flush out the rest of Bolton's men, forcing them into a rout. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best they could hope for.

"Of course not," she said, stiffly. "All will be well."

"Good night to you, then," he said, kissing her cheek. Her skin was hot.

"You too."

He watched her leaving, until she was swallowed by the darkness and then the camp sprawled out below. Drawing a deep, steadying breath he realised he would not see her again until after the battle was done. For good or ill. As she slipped away, Rhaegar slipped into view. As with the son, he liked to escape the camp and hold his own counsel of one, it seemed to Jon. Sometimes, he found himself wondering whether he had done the right thing at all by bringing him back only to fight more wars.

To Sansa's disappointment, the Boltons were still not blind. They knew the Starks were coming and had prepared accordingly. As she stole through the morning mists, she came upon the field that would soon became the killing ground of Winterfell and spied the archer's range markers already dotting the rough terrain. They were just large wooden crosses, but she could see men bearing stretchers over to them with what looked suspiciously like flayed man to be nailed to them. Doing her best to ignore them, she circled the battlefield and gave them all as wide a berth as possible.

The smallfolk were gone. To her relief, none of them had sought sanctuary inside Winterfell's walls. Instead, they must have gone to Winter Town, close by. It would not do to roast one's own smallfolk, whether by accident or not. The noise coming from within the castle chilled her to the bones. Men were drilling, preparing for the fight ahead. She could hear barked commands from the generals, men's voices raised above the din of Ramsay's hounds barking relentlessly at all the tumult. The nearer she got, the louder and sharper the noises became.

From within the pocket of her cloak, she pulled the choker and fixed it to her throat. The sensation of being strangled momentarily stole the breath from her. But she soon adjusted and it found its fit in a half a heartbeat. All she had to do then was arrange her shawls to hide the gem. A task complicated by the throbbing glow that timed with the beat of her heart. Glamouring, Melisandre called it. But rather than making her glamorous, it turned her into a stooped old crone with liver spots and varicose veins.

However, despite that and the aching joints of age, she could still move with a young woman's stamina and spoke with a young woman's voice. She had to play act the stoop and make sure she shuffled and stumbled, clutching at her tattered old shawls as though every breath of wind was cutting right through her. Getting close enough to Winterfell to see it properly took hours. By the time she made it, the sun was fully up behind a bank of dark grey clouds and the enemy soldiers were already forming up. She kept an eye out for Ramsay, but she could not see him anywhere. To her relief.

The fighting men coming and going from the castle looked right through her, as if she wasn't there at all. One man walked right into her, knocking her over. His companion, a longbow man, hoisted her back up again, apologising hastily. When he saw into her face, he peered at her so intently that, for one heart-stopping second, she thought her choker had failed and was recognising her.

"There's a battle coming, old lady," he said, after a long pause. "This is no place for the old and infirm. I'd head back the way you came, if I were you. And fast as you can too, it's starting any minute now."

Despite the glamour, Sansa trembled in his grip. A frightened little girl, Olenna Tyrell's voice reminded her. True to the sentiments, her mouth ran dry with fear and her voice shook helplessly as she tried to form the words. "I have information for Lord Bolton, about Lady Bolton."

The two men, clearly troubled now, exchanged a dark look. She could tell they were torn over what to do: Ramsay would be too busy now, but they dare not risk letting her slip away either.

"What sort of information?" the longbow man who'd knocked her over asked.

"I knew her father, so she trusts me," Sansa explained. "I gave her sanctuary, and I would lead Lord Bolton to her myself. I am old and poor, and winter is upon us. I need the gold from her bounty if I am to survive. Bring me inside to wait out the battle, and I will see you get your share."

Still the men were hesitant. "If you're lying, I'll peel your wrinkled hide off your scrawny frame myself."

The threat made her stomach roil, but she just about held her composure as the two men at arms led her through the gates. Once through the thick walls, the noise became almost overwhelming. Marching men, their boots crunching through ice and loose gravel, the hounds barking up a frenzy and commands being shouted from the battlements. They were taking her straight to Ramsay, she knew, so she ducked into a throng of marching men who were headed for the outer gates as quick as she dared.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she noted she wasn't the only non-combatant in the yard. Others were skulking around, drawing water from the well and carrying out last minute checks. They were all cowed and silent, fear and tension written in their weather-beaten faces. Sansa tried to stick with them as the vast army of Boltons, Umbers and Karstarks made their way outside in formation. Passing what was once the glass gardens, she kept hugging the walls until she reached the crypts close to the entrance f the godswood. The same godswood where she had married Ramsay.

The memory of their wedding night reared up in her mind's eye, once more. Images and sensations flashing through her head. She could feel Ramsay's hands on her body, his nails raking her flesh, the tearing of her maidenhead and the screams torn from her raw throat. All of that and more as his face swam before her, vivid and alive. And real. It was really him. She could see him standing at the top of the stone steps leading to the great hall, his hounds barking madly all around him. Smalljon Umber was with him, alongside Lord Karstark. For a moment, their gaze met, but all he saw was an old woman. A crone drafted in to help with the clean up operation after the battle, no doubt. She should have been afraid, she should have been trembling and pissing herself with fear. But she had no more fear left in her. When her father died, she had wept until she had no more tears left. Now it was the same and she was fresh out of fear.

Winter is coming, she thought to herself, in more ways than one.

After months of waiting, the moment for the carnage to begin had arrived. The battle lines had formed up and the two sides eyed each other from a wide divide. It was the smell of burning flesh, however, that stuck out for Rhaegar. He could see the flayed bodies burning on the x-shaped range markers. A uniquely Bolton touch to proceedings, or so he thought wryly to himself. To his right, Jon was as taught as a bowstring. Rhaegar turned to him, wondering if now was the right time to tell him Sansa had defied his orders and snuck into Winterfell disguised as an old crone? Probably not, he reasoned.

"The feint has worked, Jon," he said instead. "That's the entire Bolton army arrayed before us."

On Jon's other side, Ser Davos seethed. "Now let us bloody well hope the Knights of the Vale get here on time."

"They better, or I'll hunt Petyr Baelish through all seven of his hells myself," Jon brusquely interjected. His destrier stamped its feet, restive and keen to get moving. After a moment spent glaring at his opponent, Jon turned to Ser Davos: "You need to know, ser. There's a dragon under the castle. I'm going to set it free."

"What?" Davos choked.

"It was our secret weapon and it had to stay secret," Rhaegar added. "Worry not. That's why I'm here. I'll keep it under control and make sure it targets only the enemy."

To be sure, he had taught Sansa the High Valyrian commands to get it to fly and breathe fire herself.

"If Jon doesn't set it free, someone else will," Rhaegar added.

"An actual dragon?" Davos looked dumbstruck, with eyes as wide as saucers. "You mean to tell me-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sound of a war horn blasting in the distance. Closely followed by a volley of arrows fired from the Bolton lines. In response, Rhaegar's heartbeat raced as the battle opened. They were well out of range, but he knew there would be swarms of squires already despatched the fetch the fallen arrows back.

"Hold fire!" Jon bellowed down the lines. "Let them do all the hard work for now."

Besides, they had no arrows to waste. Half a heartbeat later, the cavalry charge began. The eerily still air was suddenly torn apart by the thundering of horse's hooves as thousands of mounted men at arms charged across the field. Before he knew what he was doing, his own spurs had dug into his horse's flanks and he was charging forwards, faster and faster. As the charge continued, the spearmen lowered their weapons, ready to skewer the enemy on the front lines. Their coming heralded in volleys of arrows sailing across the heavily leaden skies. But all Rhaegar could see was Winterfell itself. Winterfell rising across the prow of the hill. Lyanna must have ridden these hills hundreds of times and more besides.

The Bolton cavalry charge grew larger and larger, until Rhaegar could almost see the whites of the horse's rolling eyes and the foam lashing from their flanks. He drew his longsword moments before the two sides met in a sickening clash of steel and soft, yielding flesh.

Sansa flinched as the impact of the cavalry charge made the ground beneath her feet shake. She paused, half way down the top floor of the crypt and strained to hear the distant sounds of battle, just to make sure the time had come. Satisfied that it, had she tore off the choker and hitched up her skirts to make a run for it.

Past her Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna, past her father and grandfather and all those Kings of Winter whose names she could barely recall. She flung open the doors and leapt down the stone steps. Falling more than once, she could only pick herself up again and keep running, deeper and deeper into the cavernous crypts. Breathless and sweating, she reached the fallen masonry and vaulted it, shoving aside a stone boulder as she went. The blood coursing through her veins gave her more strength than she realised she had.

Farther and farther into the crypts, it wasn't long before the sounds of battle being fought overhead were lost to her. All the same, she kept on running. She reached the part of the crypts were ancient iron doors had completely rusted away, the hinges nothing more than long burnt read streaks staining the granite walls. She paused again, catching her breath now that she knew she was getting closer. Still, her heartbeat raced so fast she thought her heart might just jump clean out of her chest. After allowing herself the luxury of half a minute's rest, she continued.

Her lungs were burning in her chest as she fought for air, her legs aching as she ran faster than she ever had before. Down the broad steps, and along an ancient gallery, the edge of the dragon's pit loomed up out of nowhere and she had to grab the edge of the doorway to prevent herself plunging down the steep incline.

"Soñar!" she called out. "Soñar!"

As Sansa teetered on the edge of the steep include, gasping for breath, a low and rumbling growl filled the air around her. Relief washed over her then, as two molten blue eyes raised from the ground and met her own. Soñar reared up, revealing his full size as he seemed to fill the chamber and he spread his leathery wings. His neck swung downwards, so his head was level with her own. After a moment contemplating her, Soñar opened his massive jaws and screamed the fiercest greeting Sansa had ever heard. She caught the blast of dragon breath in the face, it blew her hair back from her face and she could see every sharp tooth he had. And two wide holes at the side where jets of fire would soon be raining down around them.

Cautiously, she reached up and touched the dragon's face. "It is time," she said, hoping Bran was in there. "Let's go."

Jon swiped Longclaw over the cloak of a dead man, wiping off the blood and dirt so that the steel shone again. Holding it up, he ran his own finger down the hot blade, feeding it the blood sacrifice it needed to spark into life. All in the space of a second, the blade set to fire and lit the way through the gloom of the battlefield.

"Men!" he cried out, over the racket. "Form up, with me!"

He swung around as the second line of Bolton infantry charged into the fight, hacking and slashing each man down who dared enter his path. Some shied from the burning sword at the last minute, others barely even noticed it. Jon killed them all the same. He thrust at one man's belly, then wrenched the blade out to decapitate another in one smooth movement. It didn't seem to matter how many times he sunk the blade into another's flesh, the flames held and kept on dancing as the battle ground relentlessly on. All the while, the arrows from the archers rained down on them from afar. It was a storm of steel, shit and blood.

The second charge from the Bolton lines was met with Jon's, but he knew he had no more men left after this. This, he thought, is a bloody good time for the Knights of the Vale to show up.

But there was no sign of them and Winterfell remained as distant as ever. No matter how they cut through Bolton men, they couldn't gain any ground while the archers held fast. Now, when they tried to retreat, their path was blocked by a bank of corpses and dying men, desperately trying to fight for their lives. All he could do was press on, aiming for the castle gates and cutting through the people attempting to stop him as best he could. Up to his knees in blood, mud and the dead, he get going and going.

Every so often, he caught sight of Ramsay Bolton. The human press would recede, suddenly falling away and Jon would catch sight of him. Well away from the fighting, there was no chance of reaching him and bringing this carnage to a quick end.

"Craven!" he grunted as he caught sight of the man again.

"Jon, we're fucked."

It was Rhaegar's voice. But instead of hanging around to elaborate, the deposed Prince lunged into a thicket of enemies, blade drawn and dancing its dance. But, before, long, Jon saw what he meant. They were surrounded on all sides, completely hemmed in by a ring of steel. Angered and frustrated, Jon hacked down a nearby Bolton and thrust Longclaw, still burning, right through his chest and out the other side. He yanked the sword back out, ready to take down another when he felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. Almost unbalanced, he righted himself swiftly and carried on fighting his hopeless fight. The first earth tremor was rapidly followed by a second and third, but no one else seemed to notice it. Jon plunged on, hacking down the enemy and up to his elbows in blood and gore. He could even feel it in his hair and seeping through his clothes. If he was to die for real this day, he wanted to take his sister's rapist with him and it was Ramsay he cut a path to.

"Who owns the North?!" a man's voice bellowed across the field. "I said, who owns the North!?"

The replies of thousands of voices was cut off the earth seemed to tremble and roar beneath their very feet. Still the Bolton shield wall formed up around them, the pikes jutting between the shields and trained on Jon's own forces.

"Soñar," Jon murmured beneath his breath.

The dragon crashed through the crypts in a hail of falling masonry and dust, each downfall making him roar in fury. If the doorways weren't wide enough, he would run at them and smash them through with his terrifying strength. Sansa screamed, ducking her head beneath Soñar's wing as the debris came crashing down around them.

By the time they made it into the newer, more spacious parts of the crypt Soñar was running so fast she could no longer keep up. Her strength was flagging, her legs about to give up from under her and she was faint from lack of air. Simply unable to go on, Sansa sank to her knees as Soñar smashed his way through the crypts. Only the sight of the dragon smashing down her Aunt Lyanna's tomb got Sansa back on her feet again. Summoning every ounce of her strength, she lunged after him and managed to grab Soñar's leg just as he approached the stairwell leading up to the ground level.

"I'm sorry," she called out as she secured her hold on the dragon.

She wasn't meant to be doing this. She didn't know the first thing about riding dragons. But she grabbed a horned scale that protruded from his back and managed to swing herself upwards. All the while she held on for dear life, sending up silent prayers that he would not simply throw her off. In the event, if Soñar even noticed her clinging desperately to his scales, he gave no sign of it as he bulled through the door of the crypts.

Sansa cried out as her world turned black and masonry fell all about her. The crashing and splintering had been deafening, but suddenly the light was dazzling bright all around her. Dazed, it took a second and longer for her to realise she was looking at the open sky. Soñar crashed to a halt in the grounds of Winterfell, where he roared so loud it drowned out the shouts and curses of the men left behind to defend the castle walls.

Clinging to Soñar's back, she saw the men at arms reel in shock. But it wasn't long before one recovered his wits and nocked an arrow to his bow. She remembered the words Prince Rhaegar had taught her the night before.

"Sōvēs!" She shouted as firmly as she could. "Soñar, Sōvēs!"

Soñar spread his wings as a volley of arrows flew all around them, one narrowly missing Sansa as she ducked her head against the dragon's spines. Before she knew any better, they were soaring upwards as fast as a falcon. The little bird had finally taken wing and all were fleeing before her in mortal terror. Only a foolish few remained to fire at Soñar, the arrows falling short but one glanced off his flanks, causing him to roar in anger.

With no idea what to do next, less still of how to control or direct the dragon, she resorted to crying out the second word the prince had taught her. Dragon fire...

"Dracarys! Dracarys!"

A jet of fire billowed through the sky as Soñar swooped down on the men attacking him with arrows. Some were still aflame as they plummeted down the battlements, others merely burned alive where they stood with their longbows still in their charring hands. When the flames cleared, she could see the whole battlefield spread out far below her; Stark forces surrounded by their Bolton enemies. She looked to the horizon, where a tide of glittering steel pounded into the fray on the backs of destriers. The Vale, she realsied with a rush of euphoria.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat before she gave the command again. "Dracarys!" Just for a moment, as the dragon soared over the battlefield with her clinging to his back, she felt like she could conquer the world. If only she could control the wretched thing…

It was then, as Soñar brought her downwards, that she saw Ramsay fleeing back towards the castle. Soñar hit the ground in front of him, blocking his escape route. She heard him curse heavily and the scrape of his sword being drawn. Grinning from ear to ear, she peeked around Soñar's neck.

"Sweet husband!" she called, still atop the dragon. "How fare you?"

Ramsay's stupid, bulbous eyes seemed to swell at the sight of her. His mouth flapped, dumbly and unable to form any real word. He still held his sword, but already Sansa was bored of this silly game,

"Dracarys," she commanded.

Within a heartbeat, Ramsay was engulfed in fire. A black and misshapen lump at the heart of an orange conflagration. She thought she even saw the sword melting in his seared hands.

I will make a merry widow, she thought as she fell from the dragon's back and into the mud at his feet.

"Soñar," she said, lying exhausted on the ground she turned her face to look up at him. He had to rejoin the battle. "Sōvēs!"

Warmed by Ramsay's flames, she watched Soñar take wing and soar high into the sky. She would never be a dragonrider, she knew. But she enjoyed the ride, all the same.

Jon reeled back as the dragon, vast and fearsome, rose sharply into the sky. Just for a second, the sword stilled in his hands as he listened to the roar and saw the jet of flame searing down on the Boltons. Everyone, Starks and Bolton alike, flinched against the rain of fire and the earth splitting shrieks the beast made as it swooped down on them, before climbing back into the sky.

Quickly, he gathered his wits. "Rhaegar, do something!" he bellowed at his father. "We need to get him under control. Do something now!"

The enemy lines were recoiling in shock, but already some were trying to fight back by turning their arrows on the swooping and wheeling dragon. One or two hit, but only succeeding in drawing the vast creature's attention to them, luring him sharply downwards to breathe fire at his attackers. Meanwhile, Rhaegar lunged through the press of people, shouting at the top of his voice in High Valyrian. The dragon didn't seem to hear him, but still Rhaegar continued. And Jon couldn't make out a word of it. Before too long, however, a surge of Bolton men swept over the hillside as Soñar suddenly swooped downwards and hit the ground with an almighty crash.

Already the dragon had broken Bolton's lines. Men threw down their weapons and fled on foot, whereupon Jon ordered his own to give chase. Thousands were fleeing from just a few hundred, the fields around them turning black with men fleeing. Jon gave chase too, his sword now extinguished. Even before the escapees crested the hill, the Knights of the Vale swept around the bend in the road cutting off their escape. Thousands of armoured and mounted knights descended the hill, swarming into the heart of the fight and smashing what was left of Bolton's forces.

There on the hill, Jon sank to his knees and thanked the old gods, new gods, many faced god and the fire god all at once. Exhausted, unable to move, he could only sink there and watch as Knights of the Vale swept over the hills and across the fields in a great steel tidal wave, sweeping them all to victory.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.

Next Time: Rhaegar bonds with his new dragon (because no, poor old Sansa is definitely not a dragon rider) and plans are made for the future.

Note of dragon commands: I've gone with the High Valyrian word "Sōvēs" which means "fly". In the show, they used the Dothraki command "valahd" which means "horizon", or something like that. Anyway, I hated it so stuck with the High Valyrian instead.

Chapter Text

The room Jon awoke in slowly drifted into focus, bringing with it memories from another lifetime. Every day of his childhood he had woken in this very same room, beneath the same canopy, beside the same mullion window. Even the smell of cinders from the dead fire stirred his memories. Still drugged from sleep, he thought he might be dreaming. Or that he had woken up in the past again and, any second now, Robb would come barrelling through the door to drag him from his bed and out into the practise yard. He thought he might even hear his Uncle's voice or the ringing of Mikken's forge, far below his bedroom window. Expectantly, he held his breath and waited. But Winterfell remained silent. The bedchamber door stayed closed and the forge lay dormant and silent. No voices sounded from the galleries beyond and, in that deathly silence, he remembered the battle. He remembered that they really had taken back Winterfell, if not their absent friends and family. The knowledge that the dead were still dead made their victory seem borderline pyrrhic.

When he tried to move, his aches and pains served up a timely reminder of what had happened the day before. It seemed as if a thousand cuts and bruises all cried out at once and he fell, breathless, back to into his feather bed. Momentarily giving up, Jon contented himself with lying there covered in his thick furs and staring out at the same patch of sky he watched as a boy. Only now it was white and heavy with the threat of oncoming snow. Winter had truly arrived.

Despite the quiet, it wasn't overly long before a knock sounded at the chamber door after all. Curious, he sat up and bid the visitor enter. Half a heartbeat later, it was Sansa peering around the edge of the door. She came to him sporting a flourishing black eye, a split lip and a gash on her head where she'd been hit by falling masonry. It reminded him that, thanks to Sonar's enthusiastic participation in the battle, their crypts were now in near ruins.

"Am I disturbing you?" she asked, still only peeking around the aperture.

He shook his head. "Not at all, come in."

Raising a smile, she sat on the edge of his bed while he shuffled aside to make room for her.

"I didn't know if you would be sleeping in your old room or not," she said.

"Force of habit," he explained, glancing around at the familiar space again. He still knew it like the back of his hand. "I'd wager you did, too."

"I feared the Boltons would have tainted this place," she admitted. "That I would feel their presence in the halls and the chambers, even in the godswood."

Jon hesitated before saying anything, waiting to see if she would elaborate. When she did not, he said: "And have they?"

"In a way," she replied. "But last night's fire changed things."

After the battle, at evenfall, Melisandre had built a night fire from the Bolton banners, sigils and furniture and made of it an offering to R'hllor. Fire consumed, she had told him, it destroyed and it cleansed. For him as well, Winterfell had been cleansed of the Boltons as their rags and devices went up in smoke. All traces of them had been devoured by the flames.

"Good," he said, at length. "You said yourself, this is our home. The Starks have been in Winterfell for thousands of years and a few months of Bolton misrule will change none of that."

Sansa's gaze dropped as she shifted uncomfortably in her place. "Will the other Lords see it like that? It's not as if they came rallying to our cause."

As much as he wanted to allay her fears, he felt a cold weight settling in his own stomach at that. Only the Mormonts and Hornwoods had responded to their call. The Knights of the Vale, too. But they were not Northern Lords and would play no part in helping them keep Winterfell. Capping it all, Rickon was missing and presumed dead. The strongest claimant to Winterfell was Sansa, still a girl no matter her role in kicking out the Boltons. Jon couldn't decide what would be more anathema to the northern lords: a six year old boy or a woman grown.

"Even if Rickon lives, you must rule in his place until he comes of age," Jon stated. "He will need you. I think if you're able to hold your own against Robb's own bannermen, they will come to respect you."

To his dismay, she looked stricken. "What about you?"

Jon shrugged. "What about me? A Stark must hold Winterfell, especially now that the line has been broken."

"You're a Stark to me-"

"But I'm not," he cut in, but not unkindly. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell and that's not just an empty boast. It means something and it's already been broken once. Whoever is Lord or Lady of Winterfell now must be a trueborn Stark, with the blood of the First Men in their veins. Make sure the Lords all continue to think of me as a bastard, then there's no chance of them looking to me instead of you or Rickon."

Sansa was still subdued. "With Ramsay and Smalljon Umber dead, the only person who may know where Rickon is is Maester Tybald."

"And I don't trust him," Jon replied, curtly. "He's sworn to the Dreadfort, not Winterfell. He just imposed himself on the place when the Boltons took over."

But he knew he wouldn't have any choice but to trust the maester. He was another kept in line through fear, Jon suspected. And no maester owed anything to dead lords.

"Speaking of which, cousin," said Jon. "Unless I'm much mistaken, you now own the Dreadfort and all its lands and incomes."

She blushed like a maid. "The first thing I'm going to do is give back the lands Ramsay stole from House Hornwood, with more besides as a mark of gratitude for their support during the battle for Winterfell."

When Lady Hornwood's husband and sons died in Robb's war, Jon knew Wyman Manderly had bargained for her hand in marriage so he could annex her lands with his own. Then Ramsay happened and Lady Hornwood had been forcibly married to him and left to die in a locked cell. It made Jon's stomach roil to think that Rickon, too, might have been bricked up in a cellar and left to starve, just like Lady Hornwood. He said nothing of that to Sansa, however.

"I'll give some of that land to Lord Manderly, too," she added, thoughtfully.

"What?" Jon was askance. "What for? He didn't lift a finger to help us-"

"Exactly," she cut in, laughing. "We have something he wants, which means we have leverage over him. In return for his supporting us, he gets to farm and collect rents from land which is rightfully mine. If Baelish taught me one thing of value, it was how to play the game."

Jon smiled wryly to himself. "See, you already sound like a ruler."

Sometimes, he was taken aback by how much she had changed. There was little of the starry-eyed girl left in her, but nor had she allowed the horrors she'd lived through to blacken her heart. While he pondered this, she was looking back at him most intently.

"You are a trueborn prince of the realm," she said, quietly. "Tommen is a bastard-" she cut herself off before quickly correcting what she'd said: "Actually, Tommen is a dead bastard. In his place sits a woman with even less of a claim to the throne. The only thing weaker than Cersei's grip on the crown is her grip on reality. And now, she's even lost the Reach."

"My father comes before me," he reminded her, pointedly. "If he wishes to take back the realm, then that's his war. My place is in the North, with you and Rickon."

If Rickon still lives, he thought to himself. While that dark thought flitted through his head, Sansa's eyes shone.

"Do you mean that?"

He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "The only reason I would leave your side now is to find Bran and Arya, and bring them home to us."

Sansa gulped, a choking noise deep in her throat as a single tear escaped her eye. Without saying anything, she tugged her hand free and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back, unwilling to let go for a long time.

Winterfell was big. Bigger than the Red Keep which, when Rhaegar was a boy, had felt like an endless labyrinth of halls, vaults and secret passageways. But it could easily have fit within Winterfell's walls. It was also bloody cold, so he huddled inside his borrowed furs and lost himself in the spacious grounds. Ghost, his son's direwolf, accompanied him from a distance. A presence he slowly got used to as he gradually came to realise the depth of the bond between Jon and his strange, silent wolf. Often, all Rhaegar could see were two burning red eyes among the snow, stalking after him and approaching only warily.

Meanwhile, the dragon slept in the broken tower. The day before, after the battle, Sonar had roasted and gobbled down more than one fallen Bolton soldier. For some reason, it had taken him aback. However, it was the morning after now and he had quite recovered himself. As such, after breaking his fast, he made his way over to the broken tower to check Soñar. Only to find Maester Tybald hovering nervously near the entrance.

Maesters and dragons never did mix. Not since the Citadel in Oldtown had orchestrated the demise of the last dragons during the last great Targaryen civil war. Tybald turned at the sound of the prince's approaching footsteps, jowls aquiver as he fixed Rhaegar in a most calculating stare. Inwardly, it made Rhaegar nervous. He felt as though he was being sussed out already.

"My lord," Tybald bowed, stiffly. His chain hung loose about his neck, sagging almost into the snow as he stooped forward.

"I'm not your lord," Rhaegar replied, equally stiff. "I'm plain old Aerys Waters."

"Forgive me," the Maester replied. "I mistook you for one of the old Targaryens."

"A bastard born and bred," Rhaegar tried to laugh, to make the lie sound light and inconsequential. "My father was the Mad King, but he never acknowledged me. My mother was a whore, working in a brothel on the Street of Silk. I was smuggled out of the country before the Sack of King's Landing, and now I've returned to take the black, Lord Commander Snow was commended to me by Maester Aemon before he passed away."

While he spun his hastily made up story, he wondered whether the Maester even half way believed him. But, he rationalised, it hardly mattered. It wasn't like anyone would believe him if he wrote to Cersei Lannister, telling her Rhaegar Targaryen was back from the dead and flying dragons around the North. By the sound of things, she had far more pressing concerns to occupy her fractured mind. He found himself wondering what Cersei actually would do if he just walked up to her?

"I must say, there's no mistaking who your father is. Not with that hair and those eyes," the Maester continued. "If you forgive my say so, ser."

"I'm not a knight, either," Rhaegar pointed out, but not unkindly.

"But, the dragon," Tybald blurted out. "You know, I must inform the Citadel at once."

"You'll do no such thing," Rhaegar retorted. Then, he drew a deep breath. "Look, the Citadel will find out eventually. The whole known world will find out, in good time. But for now, all I ask is that you hold off on informing the Citadel."

Tybald shrank back, a red blush creeping up his neck and into his face. It was then that Rhaegar realised the raven had already flown. He remembered something, then, about a friend of Jon's currently at the Citadel. With any luck, he would get the raven and have good sense enough to burn the message and keep the knowledge to himself.

"Well, never mind," Rhaegar reasoned. "By way of compensation, I would know what happened to young Rickon."

The name was like a whip cracking against the Maester's arse. He flinched, making his pale flesh wobble under the impact. "I-I-I don't know-"

"Don't lie to me," Rhaegar cut in, growing angry. "As if it's not vile enough that you served such as Ramsay Bolton, you're now too gutless to tell us what happened to the rightful Lord of Winterfell."

"I am sword to the castle, not the House-"

"Yes, yes. I know what a bloody Maester is," Rhaegar's tone grew more waspish.

"But you didn't know what it was like," Tybald pointed out, composing himself quickly. "You didn't know what he was like. One false move and it would have been my skin he was peeling off to add to his tapestry. I saw him feed his step mother and her infant child to those dogs of his. I saw him chase those poor girls through the woods-"

"But Rickon Stark?" Rhaegar cut in again.

Seeing the residue of the other man's fear, he felt a little ashamed. He had known of Ramsay's worst excesses already, but Rickon had to come before all that. Before all the girls raped and savaged in the woods and the skins hanging from the rafters, like obscene travesties of battle standards. As tragic as their deaths were, they were not the rightful lords of the realms largest kingdom.

"A quarrel through the heart," said Tybald, quietly. "It was done by the Master at Arms just as the Knights of the Vale entered the field. Ramsay wanted the body thrown over the battlements in a trebuchet aimed at Jon Snow's feet."

"Then why wasn't it?" he asked, feeling utterly deflated,

"Because Ramsay died before he could get back inside to give the order," Tybald replied.

If Tybald was attempting to endear himself to the returned Starks, he had a funny way of going about it. "Why did you not tell this to Lord Snow and Lady Stark immediately?"

The man cringed again. "I could not find the right time. Not after everything that had happened-"

"Well, listen," said Rhaegar, unwilling to listen to any more. "I will break the news to Lord Commander Snow and Lady Stark, you will not breathe a word. Understand?"

Tybald nodded and that was enough confirmation for Rhaegar.

He pushed past the maester and entered the broken tower, where Sonar lay snoozing on a bed of fresh straw. Some crossbow quarrels had pierced his scales and a spear had glanced off his underbelly. Otherwise, he was in fine fettle. Rhaegar knelt at the dragon's side, running his hand carefully down his back. A real, living, fire breathing dragon. It still felt unreal to him. Only the heat radiating from his body and the smoke curling from his nostrils gave constant confirmation of what Soñar really was. A living, breathing dragon. Fire made flesh.

Soñar stirred, his tail suddenly lashing against the straw that made his bed. Instinctively, Rhaegar shuffled back. Binding a dragon took more than Valyrian blood, or the Targaryen name. Plenty of his forefathers had died in the attempt – something he became more acutely aware of now that one was in front of him. One born the night Summerhall burned. As he cautiously placed on hand on Soñar's snout, he found himself wondering whether anything else had been born that night, amidst dark sorcery and wildfire.

Sansa's reflection in the mirror was mottled and darkened in the dull glass, further distorted by a crack down the middle that made her look spliced in two. Ramsay's cuts and bruises had gone, though. Healed long ago. So had the ones dealt by Joffrey's kingsguard. Looking back, she couldn't even remember who it was that had dealt the blow to her legs, that had brought her to her knees. Boros Blount? Meryn Trant? One of the two. She was twelve years old, stripped and beaten in front of a court full of her enemies, all baying for her blood. The passing of time had taken away the potency of the events, but the memories still lingered. She remembered the fear, the powerlessness, the abandonment.

She had shielded herself in her own sense of decorum, her manners had been her armour and she went to great pains to give offence to no one. But she had soon learned it wasn't her actions that led to her being abused. It was other people's. Robb won a great victory and took Jaime Lannister prisoner, but it was her who paid the price. It was her that Joffrey was threatening to kill, should Robb ever get too close to the capital. That was what it was to be a piece in someone else's game, and she had been a piece in everyone's game but her own.

A frightened little girl. That was Olenna Tyrell's assessment of her, and the memory of overhearing that remark rankled still. Petyr protected her, but only because he thought she was pliable and easy to manipulate. And how right he had been. When she remembered, and thought on it, she still inwardly recoiled.

With her gaze still focused on the mirror, she pinned her new direwolf brooch to her cloak and fixed her outer clothes in place. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, so she quickly pinned the front behind her head, stopping it from falling into her eyes. Satisfied, she left her small chamber – the one she grew up – and made her way down the turnpike stair.

The castle was still empty. A shadow of the place she had known as a child. Even so, one or two of the smallfolk had arrived to offer their services. Most, she knew, still did not dare to believe that the hated Boltons really were gone. Soon, she began to regret burning Ramsay alive. She'd seen the flesh sloughing from his bones herself, but it would have helped reassure everyone if she had had an actual body to parade through the streets of Wintertown, Torrhen's Square and anywhere else the fearful still dwelt.

She exited the castle and huddled deeper into her cloak as the white winds blew right through her. But she did not break her step as she approached the godswood. The last time she saw this place was on her wedding night. Time had not eroded the potency of that memory. It still made her insides crawl. Then, just as the memory was set to overwhelm her, her father sprang into the forefront of her mind. Ramsay vanished, replaced by Eddard Stark who had sat beneath that weirwood for hours at a stretch, sometimes even whole days. She paused then, watching the spot beneath the ruby boughs were he would sit with Ice across his lap, oil cloth in hand. Every detail returned to her then. The clothes he wore, the way his hair fell in his eyes and the slow, methodical strokes of the oil cloth against that glimmering blade. She could almost have reached out and touched him.

The snow was ankle deep, now. But she did not care and sat down in her father's old spot. Could he see her now, through the weirwood's face? Like Bran and the Three-Eyed Crow? The crypts had been so badly damaged during Soñar's escape that the swords had been knocked from the tombs, releasing all the angry, vengeful spirits of the dead Winter Kings. Right now, they had a lot to be angry and vengeful about. Not that she could imagine her father ever being like that. Robb sprang into her mind, again. He had died far from home, far from their sacred weirwoods and crypts. All she could do was pray to the Old Gods to find him and bring him to his spiritual home.

She closed her eyes to commune with her gods, only to be interrupted minutes later by the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Petyr Baelish, and she had the sickening feeling he had been hiding somewhere, waiting for her to appear.

"My Lady, I hope I'm not disturbing you." Even now, he still managed to sound so pleased with himself.

She remained seated. "No, Lord Baelish, you're not disturbing me."

She didn't want his company, but she wasn't about to be rude to him either. For what it was worth, he had come through for her with the Knights of the Vale. However, when he approached, he did not sit down. Instead, he loomed over her and looked down his nose. It was enough to make her uncomfortable, so she rose and drew herself to full height. It satisfied her that she was now taller than him.

"I used to come here a lot as a child," she remarked, pressing one gloved hand to the pale trunk of the weirwood. "But I never learned to appreciate Winterfell until I had lost it."

Baelish was regarding her through narrowed eyes. "And now you have it again."

"The Starks have it," she corrected, gently. "Taking back Winterfell wasn't just about me, it was for Rickon and Bran and Arya."

"Hm," he replied, before moving on to something she had been eating away at him for almost a day now. "Who did you say that man with your brother is?"

"I didn't," she pointed out. Sansa knew rightly that Petyr wasn't really asking her that question; t was just his way of politely fishing for information. But she was no longer playing by his rules.

Realising she was not for yielding, he grinned disarmingly and looked down at his feet. "Do you mind my asking who that man is? Honestly, my lady, he looks familiar."

She turned from the tree trunk and met his gaze. "I don't know his full story, but he was about to take the black when Jon was stabbed-"

"But the hair and the eyes and the … er, dragon," he cut in, impertinently.

Sansa continued to act dumb. An act made all the easier by the fact that they all had her down as really being quite dumb. She gave a shrug. "Truly, my lord, I am as curious as you are. Who do you think he is?"

A hesitated before answering. "A rare breed, not seen much around these parts of late. A Targaryen."

She feigned surprise. "The last Targaryens fled across the narrow sea, and House Velaryon have those looks. Why, I saw the Bastard of Driftmark myself and he looked the same."

"But with green eyes," Petyr retorted. "And no eyes, when the Queen catches up with him after he stole all the boats she paid for."

Curiosity piqued, Sansa's head cocked in interest. "Cersei's boats?"

"After you, er … vacated … the royal courts, Cersei ordered dromonds be built and appointed Aurane Waters to build them and command the fleet. He did as bid, took Cersei's gold, appointed his friends in all key command posts … then promptly sailed off into the sunset."

House Velaryon were another of the Targaryen loyalists, she remembered. If Aurane Waters was still in the area, patrolling the seas, he could come in useful for Rhaegar and Daenerys. While she was thinking it over, Petyr moved closer to her. He only stopped when he was within kissing distance, making her step back only to be blocked by the tree. Momentarily caught off-guard, she tried to think what to do next. But, before she could do anything, Petyr suddenly broke away as Jon stepped into the clearing. Directly behind him, Rhaegar kept a respectful distance and Lady Mormont soon came as well. The look Jon gave Petyr could have curdled milk.

"My Lord of Harrenhal," he said, curtly. "I would speak with my sister alone, if it please you."

It didn't please him. "The Lady and I have no secrets-"

While they eyed each other suspiciously, Sansa's nerves twitched. An ominous feeling in her belly. "What's happened?"she asked Jon.

"It's Rickon," he said, sombrely.

Rhaegar avoided looking at her, while Petyr's expression suddenly sharpened. She sometimes wondered whether he could smell bad news that was to his advantage.

"Petyr, go," she said, flatly.

Rhaegar stepped aside to let him pass, then no one said anything until he was gone from sight and earshot. All the while, Sansa remained where she was beneath the boughs of the weirwood tree. Full of apprehension, she did not know whether to approach the other three or not. Torn between the two options she watched, dumbfounded, when they knelt in a show of fealty to her. She knew what it meant, then. She knew why they had come and she had to swallow her grief and steady her racing nerves.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Trick of the Light

The funeral procession was only small. Seven people; one for each year of her brother's short life. Sansa herself led the way, accompanied by Jon and Rhaegar. Ser Davos Seaworth, Lord Royce, Maester Tybald and Lyanna Mormont made the seven and followed behind. Each cradled a candle as they made their way into the crypts, shrouded in mourning blacks. Silently they made their way past the Winter Kings, those whose tombs had been damaged by the escaping dragon. In time, Sansa would put them back together again but, for now, she had come only to mourn her brother.

Rickon's painfully small casket was there already. The sight of it made the breath catch in her throat all over again. The flesh had been boiled from his bones already and what was left of him was neatly arranged inside the box, awaiting burial. Unlike the faith of the seven, theirs was a simple ceremony. They had no septons or septas, nor holy men to speak some ancient rite. It was just them and their dead, alone with their private grief.

They reached the spot where Brandon, Lyanna and Rickard Stark were all grouped together. Sansa had already replaced her uncle's sword, but Lyanna's statue had been smashed by the dragon and Lord Rickard had lost his stone head. The Boltons had not seen fit to provide her father with an effigy at all, although that hardly surprised her. It was one more thing she would rectify herself. Meanwhile, she watched with a growing numbness as Rickon's casket was drawn into the gaping hole at their father's side.

It was all over in an instant and, suddenly, people were murmuring words of condolence in her and Jon's ears. She barely heard them as she continued to watch the spot where Rickon's remains had been consumed by the dark granite. She placed her flickering candle down at the foot of the crypt, the others soon following suit, to create a pool of soft light that bathed the stones in pale warmth. It made the stone faces come alive, except for Rickard and Lyanna. Lyanna's tome really had been reduced to rubble, and her effigy was little more than misshapen rock. Jon noticed it too, and stiffened at her side. She was about to mutter some apology when the glinting of gold among the smashed rocks caught her eye. It glimmered briefly, as it caught the light of the candles, before winking out. She pointed it out to Jon, before another voice cut over her own.

"My Lady, I wondered if I might have a private audience."

Jolted out of her curiosity, Sansa turned to find Lord Royce holding up a lantern.

"I would not normally ask at such a time, but this is important."

Sansa nodded. "Of course, my lord."

She owed the man a great debt for bringing the Vale to her side, so wasn't about to deny him anything. He had been kind to her at the Vale and she remembered him well from a visit to Winterfell as he escorted his son to Castle Black. As she allowed him to escort her back into the open air, she caught sight of the practise yard where Lord Royce had once beaten her poor father into the dirt, almost smiling at the memory. It seemed an age ago now, but could only have been three years. Four at the most. Now, in the light of day, he looked older and greyer than she remembered.

"I wished to speak with you anyway, my lord," she began. "To thank you for bringing your men to my cause."

"Nothing of it, my lady," he assured her. "But it is a related matter on which I wish to speak with you."

Curious, she frowned. "Go on."

He hesitated before continuing, as if gathering his thoughts. "My lady, certain people have been speaking such slanders against my good name that I would greatly appreciate an opportunity to explain directly to you."

They reached the old practise yard, which was empty and silent now, and she stopped to face him. She was mystified as to what he could mean, but he looked pale with worry and wished to reassure him. "No one has said anything to me, my lord. But if you would care to explain I will do what I can to help you."

"It is true that I knew of Baelish's plan to transport you to the Fingers," he stated. "But there is no truth at all to Baelish's accusations that it was I who sold those plans to the Boltons. I can only pray that your ladyship believes me when I tell you, I did not betray you to Roose Bolton. I cannot say who did, or who arranged that ambush that ended with you being forced into marriage with that unspeakable monster. If I did, I would lay their treacherous heads at your feet."

The Fingers? … Ambush? … All of this was new to Sansa. But she wanted to know exactly what tales Baelish had spun this poor man. So, she quickly schooled her expression and hid her ignorance behind a soft smile that reassured him that she bore him no ill-will at all.

"What exactly did Petyr tell you about the ambush?"

"Only that not long after you left the Vale you were set upon by Northmen, then dragged back to Winterfell and married against your will. Petyr said there was nothing he could have done to prevent it."

"Oh, did he now?" she replied. The only thing that really surprised her was that Petyr had told a lie that would be so easily exposed. She almost could not believe he had been so lax. "Did he really tell you that?"

Royce frowned uncomprehendingly. "He did, and he is blaming me. All I wish to do is assure you that House Royce stands shoulder to shoulder with House Stark, as it always has done. We were livid when Lysa Arryn refused to join the war on your brother's side. Absolutely livid. It is my wish that our coming to your aid now will not only avenge the murder of your father, but go some way to restoring the honour lost to us by standing idly by as King Robb fought the Lannisters. Had we been there, then that wedding…"

Sansa could guess at what Lord Royce could not bring himself to say. The Red Wedding would not have happened had the Vale been at their sides. The only reason Lysa refused to join the fray was because Petyr had instructed her not to. She had been enslaved to him, and thousands had died. A feeling of cold loathing washed through her at the thought of Petyr Baelish now.

"My Lord, I know for a fact you did not betray me to the Boltons, nor arrange any ambush," she assured him.

He sagged with relief. "You do?"

"There was no ambush, he sold me to the Boltons of his own free choice," she pointed out, coldly. "I beg of you to take no action yet, my lord. There is much and more I would learn of Lord Petyr's actions, not only now but in the past. For the time being, I believe we need him alive."

Royce was speechless for a long moment. His grey eyes turned hard as granite, his cheeks flushing red with suppressed fury. One gauntleted hand had already reached for the pommel of his sword and Sansa knew he would strike Petyr's head from his neck right now but for her appeal. "A man like that does not deserve to live-"

"I know," she cut in. "His life is already forfeit, he just doesn't know it yet. But there's more that he's done that neither of us yet know about. I would know the full truth before I sentence him to die. I beg you, my lord, to do the same."

A standoff developed, during which neither of them spoke. Eventually, Royce himself broke the silence. "I would have him closely followed, to make sure he does not escape. I will not have him alone with Lord Robert, either."

That was wise, she agreed. "Of course. I will see to it that he does not leave Winterfell again. I will gladly put you in charge of watching him. If he tries to escape, you have my leave to strike him down where he stands."

That appeased the Lord and he nodded his head. "Your father would have done likewise, my lady. So you have my backing."

Sansa flushed with pride at the compliment. "You're very kind to say so, my lord. And I thank you."

"You spoke also of the past," he added. "Can I be so bold as to ask what was meant by that?"

She thought for a moment, trying to think how she would explain all she knew. "It's a long story, one best told by a warm hearth with a warm drink."

Royce raised a smile, gesturing toward the doors of the castle. "Then, by all means, let us repair indoors."

Rhaegar nodded to Lady Sansa and Lord Royce as he passed them in the yard, but did not stop to speak. He was struggling to maintain his grip on a shovel, mortar mix and a pick, wrapped in a heavy blanket. Once he had hauled his load over to the crypts, he nudged the door open with his back and carefully navigated the turnpike stair to descend into the stone vaulted cavern safely. Jon met him half-way, where he gratefully unburdened himself.

"Is that everything we need?" he asked, peering over his son's shoulder at Lyanna's wrecked tomb.

"It is, thank you," replied Jon, turning away from him. When Rhaegar made to follow him, he added: "You can return to whatever it was you were doing now."

He stopped abruptly, pulling up at the curtness in Jon's tone. "Don't you need me to help?"

"You have already," Jon replied, nodding to the tools now in his arms. "I'll see you at supper."

But I want to help, he tried to say but the words seem to get lost somewhere in his throat. Meanwhile, Jon had already made his way back into the crypts. Rhaegar could hear the pick and shovel clanging together sonorously as he ambled away. Understanding himself to be dismissed, he turned slowly and headed for the door again. There was little to be gained by staying somewhere he clearly wasn't wanted.

Outside again, breathing in the biting northern air, he found himself with nowhere to go and no one to see. No one knew him and, if he told them, they would never believe him. Never in his life had he been in such a predicament. As a prince of the blood royal, his life had always been structured around duty, ceremony and the functioning of state. Every minute of every day had been accounted for and free time was a luxury to be spent wisely. Now he had nothing but spare time and he felt like a spare part, superfluous to the running of so much as a piss up in a brewery. Only Sonar the dragon needed him, and he was sleeping at that moment.

Dejectedly, he made his way to the great hall. Only to find the hall occupied by Lady Sansa, deep in conversation with Lord Royce. Picking up on the sensitivity of their conversation, he apologised hastily for his intrusion and backed away quickly. He ducked down a passageway upon hearing Petyr Baelish and Maester Tybald approaching, issuing commands to the Stark's new servants and making arrangements for the arrival of the Northern Lords. Some were less than a day's ride away, but Rhaegar knew he personally had nothing to get excited about. Once they arrived, he would be confined to his chambers for anonymity's sake.

Eventually, it was to his chambers he found himself drifting toward. Winterfell's library had burned down some years ago, so not even a book could offer him solace as he lay back on his feather bed and looked at the direwolf carved into his bed frame. It seemed, once the shock had worn off, his arrival in the future had lost its sheen and he found himself struggling to remember what the point was. Surely, it was not just to help his son win back Winterfell? The real war was supposed to be happening north of the wall, or so he had been told.

Sinking into a torpor, he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. When sleep eluded him, he found himself thinking of Dragonstone. Davos told him it had been left undefended since the usurper's brother left and that Queen Cersei had failed to take it back since the captain of her fleet stole all her new ships and disappeared with them. He could just walk back in there, then yield the castle to his sister. The sister he didn't know at all, but couldn't be any worse than the son he didn't know. Unless he really was a prisoner in this place and there was only one way to discover the truth of that matter…

The chest was larger than Jon imagined. He tried extracting it from Lyanna's tomb with just his bare hands, but when it would not budge he sent Rhaegar for the pick and shovel. Now he had spent an hour working around its edges, carefully excavating whatever it was from beneath the place where her statue once stood. Made from solid oak and banded in iron, it weighed more than a horse to boot. After an hour, he cleared the rusting padlock. Another hour of slow, methodical work and he finally reached the bottom of the chest.

His hands were filthy and his fingers bleeding, where they snagged against rocks and loose rubble. By the time he was done, however, he was numb to the pain. Bent double, with his arms wrapped around the chest, he heaved and hauled it out of the ground with every ounce of what was left of his strength. Once it was out, and he was able to shine a lantern into the hole in the ground, all he could see was the casket containing her bones which had been positioned right next to the mystery trunk Sansa had spotted. There would only be old, dry bones in there though. He remembered Lyanna again: the laughing, dancing girl he knew at Harrenhal and the sight of her remains made his heart ache all over again. Pain and guilt mingling together, on top of a longing for that which could never be.

"It was you I wanted to bring back, not him," Jon confessed to what was left of her, in that box in the ground. "It was a mother I needed, not a second father. Now I have him and I don't know what to do with him."

It was nothing personal. Rhaegar was a good man and it was some small consolation to know he was not begotten by rape. He was even happy that the prince's honour could be restored and he would not be remembered as a rapist. He even understood that Rhaegar had been brought back to fulfil a purpose that had nothing to do with Jon needing to know his real parents. No gods that he ever learned about had been all that family minded. All it had been was an aside that led back to the prophecy, and little more. But none of that dulled the pain of knowing he could do nothing to save his mother.

After he had caught his breath, he kicked over the pile of dirt and rubble to fill in his mother's grave again. Then found himself alone with a locked box. He spent a moment fumbling with the locked padlock and quickly realised that hacking it off with the pick would be much easier than searching the castle for any key that might fit it, so he did just that. One well placed, forceful blow later and it lay at his feet in two bits. The impact of the pick against the metal lock reverberated through the crypts, making him feel uneasy. A feeling that intensified as he lifted the lid to reveal what was inside.

The creaking lid opened onto darkness, at first. Jon reached for the lantern, letting the light fill the inside of the crate, revealing a large and heavy object wrapped in black and red velvet. More curios than anything, he pulled the object upwards, causing the velvet shroud to fall away. In his hands, he was left with a large silver harp. It was the same one he had seen his father playing at Harrenhal and Jon found himself staring at it in wonder.

Why? Was the first question that sprang into his mind. Why would such an item be buried deep below Winterfell. It was beautiful, to be sure, and his father would be beyond happy to be reunited with it. But why did Uncle Eddard not only keep it, but bury it?

Years underground had degraded the fine, silver strings. But the large, ornate frame had not tarnished. It shone and shimmered hypnotically in the flickering light of the candles and lantern. Jon walked around the instrument slowly, looking it up and down intently. The velvet cloth it was wrapped in muffled his footfalls, but it was just an old Targaryen battle standard. After a moment, Jon collected it from the ground and shook it out. The red bits he'd seen were just the three-headed dragon. It was frayed at the edges, and one of the tears marked a spot where it had been pierced by an arrow. Eddard must have taken it from the battlefield itself.

But why? Jon found himself wondering again.

Lost in his thoughts, it took him several long minutes to realise the crate hadn't yet given up all its secrets. There were still one or two items inside, things that had been hidden by the bulk of the harp. One was a Targaryen wedding cloak, which he remembered Lyanna showing to him not long after her wedding to Rhaegar. The final item was a necklace and locket, a direwolf embossed on side and a dragon on the other. There were no miniatures inside, just a lock of baby hair and a small roll of parchment that had grown black with mould, obscuring what was once written there. More than a little disappointed by the degraded parchment, he closed the locket and placed it back in the crate.

Before he could do anything else, the sound of the door opening above soon followed by approaching footsteps pulled him up sharp. He swung the lantern around to get a look at who it was, breathing a sigh of relief when only Rhaegar rounded the turnpike stair and met his gaze. He stopped abruptly, looking from Jon to the harp and back again. Without saying anything, he approached slowly as if the harp were an animal that might suddenly bolt from him.

"Where did you find her?" he asked Jon. "I thought the usurper would have had her melted down for scrap as soon as I was burned."

Jon noted the use of feminine pronouns. "She was buried alongside my mother. Lord Stark must have saved it, or arranged for it to be saved. I don't suppose you know why it's here?"

Rhaegar was still studying the harp. He ventured as far as plucking one of the strings, then flinched back as it twanged discordantly and promptly snapped. The recoil lashed the back of his hand, drawing a fine trickle of blood the width of a single hair.

"Your mother must have asked him to save it," replied Rhaegar, sucking the blood off the back of his hand. "Other than that, I have no notion."

His gaze switched to where Lyanna's tomb once stood, and Jon could hear the breath hitch in his throat; his eyes misting over as he approached the spot. One foot nudged at the recently disturbed ground, rifling through the loose rubble. He soon stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"I really would like to help, Jon," he said. "I loved her too."

"I know," replied Jon, curtly.

Rhaegar looked as if he was about to say something else, before seemingly changing his mind and reaching for the mortar mix. This time, Jon did not try to stop him. He reached for the parts of Lyanna's statue that he had managed to salvage and began sorting them into size, then piling them into which bits were meant to go where. Together, they would piece her back together.

"I know I'm not the one you wanted," Rhaegar said, after a while.

Jon was about to protest, before realising it was pointless. "This isn't about what I want."

"Then why do I feel so apologetic all the time?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Jon, turning to face his father again.

Rhaegar paused before explaining. "I constantly feel like I should be apologising for not being Lyanna, for not being Eddard Stark."

"Don't you think I feel the same about not being Rhaenys or Aegon?" Jon retorted. "You never meant for me to be your heir, did you? The prince that was promised."

"And don't you think I'm just grateful that one of my children has lived?" the other answered. "This is hard for us both, Jon. I have a son who is almost the same age as me, in fact I don't even know how old I'm supposed to be. Feelings are a little conflicted for us both right now."

Jon did not reply immediately. He fixed a piece of Lyanna's statue in place, letting Rhaegar mortar it before letting it hold. "I know, and I'm sorry. I wish I knew how to make sense of this."

"You and I, both," Rhaegar concurred.

They lapsed into silence as they continued to work at Lyanna's effigy. But Jon dwelled on how he had been with Rhaegar since he returned. There had been a distance between them, not helped by the problems they had faced and the battles they had fought together. The distance yawned into a chasm and they were no longer even touching from a distance.

"Am I a prisoner here?" Rhaegar eventually asked.

"Of course not," Jon assured him. "Why would you even think that?"

"You can't deny you've been keeping me out of the way," he explained. "When the Northern Lords arrive, most of whom I never met in my life, I'm going to be confined in my chambers. You said it yourself. If I am not a prisoner, then I am free to leave, am I not?"

Jon sighed heavily. "Where would you go?"

"Dragonstone," he answered, quickly. "There's no one there and I can yield the castle to Daenerys, if she ever gets here."

"I think you should stay here until we find out where she is," said Jon. "It's just common sense. And, in any case, if you're only doing this because you think I don't want you here then you're wrong."

Rhaegar almost dropped the piece of statue he was holding, but caught it in time. "Are you saying you do want me here?"

"Of course I want you here," Jon replied.

It was only when Rhaegar said it that Jon realised he did want him around. He certainly didn't want him to go wandering off across Westeros in hope of just bumping into his sister. Whatever they did next, they needed to do it together.

Like rebuilding stone effigies. Lyanna was slowly taking shape again, reforming from the rubble that the rampaging dragon had left in his wake. Jon felt quite proud of it and stood back to admire the effect. It was then that he cast his mind back to when he first set foot through the gates of Winterfell, after the recent battle.

"I thought I saw her, you know," he told Rhaegar. "When we breached the walls and took back the castle. I looked up at the windows in the south tower, and I thought I saw her there in the upper window."

He thought he saw her smiling, her hand raised in a sad gesture of farewell as she retreated from the window. Just for an instant, before she was gone again. Looking back now, he couldn't say for sure what he saw.

"Maybe you did see her?" Rhaegar posited. "I can't imagine Lyanna wanting to miss out on a fight like that."

Jon laughed. "Nor I." He paused and thought on it a little more. "Maybe it was her, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Either way, she has to be at peace now she has her home back."

Silence again, in which they both studied the hastily repaired statue. The cracks still showed, but it was a good enough likeness until the proper stone mason could be called in. Meanwhile, they both needed food and a place to talk properly.

"Come with me," said Jon. "We need to talk."

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

Apologies again for the long delay in updates.

Chapter Text

In defiance of winter’s onslaught, the North was all blue skies and crisp winds when Sansa opened the shutters of Winterfell’s great hall.  Sadly, she knew she would see little of it as she turned to the high table.  Maester Tybald was already there, his hands folded inside his deep, dagged sleeves, resting on the old weirwood trestle.  The expression on his face was ponderous, quickly softening as he noticed her watching him.  After drawing a deep breath, he began reeling off a list of all they had accomplished since taking back Winterfell, and all they had yet to do.

She knew most of it, but listened intently anyway.  The kitchens were fully staffed once more and the servants were almost at full capacity.  They had a new stable hand to replace Hodor and the Steward in charge of the new house hold was a relation of Vayon Poole, who had served the late Lord Stark well.  Sansa was satisfied, taking her seat at the head of the table with a smile on her face.  A smile that became decidedly fixed as the doors opened, revealing Petyr Baelish.

At the sight of the Lord of Harrenhal, Tybald fell into a dark silence.  “Shall I afford my lady some privacy?”

“I would rather you stay,” she answered, honestly.  She could not face being alone with Petyr so soon after his lies had been exposed.

Petyr looked put out, almost hurt.  “If my lady remembers, we have important matters to discuss.”

“But, my lord, Maester Tybald is my maester,” she pointed out, sweetly.  “Whatever matters we have it is vital he is fully informed of it.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Tybald’s face, which he hid by bowing his head over a sheet of parchment.  Meanwhile, Petyr hid his discomfiture well.  He deeply disliked no longer being her only confidant and councillor.  She could see the distrust in his eyes as his gaze darted from her to the maester.

“Sworn to the Boltons, if I remember rightly?” he remarked, drily.

Tybald drew a sharp breath at the mention of his old Lord.  Sansa was unconcerned.

“Sworn to the Dreadfort,” she corrected Petyr, pointedly.  “Empty castles have small need of maesters, my lord.  So why shouldn’t I seek his wise council.”

“My lady is gracious,” Tybald murmured.

Sansa rewarded him with a smile and, finally, Petyr came meekly.  He joined them at the table and spread some papers out in front of him.  She didn’t much care what they were, but she made a mental note that he had already tried to bring down two members of her new household already.  But it was still too soon to act against him.

“Actually, Lord Baelish, you are just in time,” she informed him as he settled down.  “Lord Royce is due any moment and I know you two work closely together.”

“Really?” he replied.  “What a treat.”

His facetious tone was not lost on her.  Sansa pretended to be oblivious to it and continued her conversation about filling the household appointments, addressing Maester Tybald.  The castle had guards already, men who had helped them reclaim Winterfell.  Excluded from the main conversation, Petyr was reduced to occasionally making a point of clearing his throat.  But Sansa would not be hurried.

“Not all posts need to be filled today, my lady,” Tybald assured her.  “For now, we have enough to cope with the visitors from Deepwood Motte and White Harbour.  We have servants and food enough to satisfy all, even with the oncoming winter.”

It was the duller part of bringing Winterfell back to life, but Sansa still relished it.  She wouldn’t have entrusted any of it to anyone else for anything.  It was her chance to avenge her family, by not only restoring Eddard Stark’s legacy, but building on it.  She knew her gender meant she would have to work twice as hard to win the trust of her lords, but she relished that challenge too.  And she had a feeling she knew how to get off to a good start.

Once it was over, she dismissed Maester Tybald with a smile.  “Ensure all is in order, if you will.”

Tybald’s eye glimmered in the broad morning light.  “As my lady commands.”

Petyr’s interest suddenly looked piqued again.  Leaning back in his chair with one hand lazily toying with his goatee, he watched sharp-eyed as the maester left.

“Ensure what is in order?” he asked.

“You will see in good time, my lord,” she assured him.  “Now, what is it you wish to discuss with me in private?”

“Lord Royce,” he answered.  “I have concerns about him and certain…tales…he may be telling-“

“I’m sure I have no idea of what you are speaking,” she cut in. 

She knew he meant the lies he’d spun Lord Royce about her being abducted by Roose Bolton’s men.  She also knew that that wasn’t the only abduction he had lied about in his life.  Jon was down in the crypts now, trying to mend poor Lyanna’s tomb as they spoke.

“Still, my lady, it seems Lord Royce has had a better offer as he isn’t here, as you thought he would be,” Petyr observed, glancing around the room as though the Vale Lord might be hiding behind a tapestry.  Sansa had never seen him so skittish before.

“He will be here,” she stated.  “I had him send his men out to greet the Manderlys and Glovers on the road, to escort them back to Winterfell.”

Petyr frowned.  “You had him send his men away?”

“They’ll be back soon,” she laughed.  “Anyway, Tybald is sending him in now.”

In the meantime, they lapsed into silence that wasn’t completely uncomfortable.  Sansa affixed her direwolf seal to various formal appointment notices, ready to be despatched to the relevant people.  She hoped they would enjoy their new jobs. 

Meanwhile, Petyr was shifting uncomfortably in his seat.  “You seemed distant earlier.  Have I done something to displease you?”

Preferring to let him sweat, Sansa did not reply.  During the silence, she could hear Jon’s voice calling from outside. Without thinking, her head snapped towards the window but she could not see him.  Even so, she felt a little happier just knowing he was close by.

Before much longer, her new steward appeared at the door and announced the arrival of Lord Royce.

“Finally,” Petyr sighed.

Ignoring him, Sansa answered properly.  “Show him in, please.”

Snowflakes were melting in the older man’s iron grey hair when he stepped inside, his clothes dishevelled from riding.  He bowed respectfully, a mark of deference she acknowledge with a polite nod.

“Forgive my lateness, my lady, but I met your sworn sword not far from the castle,” he explained.

“Lady Brienne?” she asked, feeling hopeful.  She had begun to worry about Brienne.

“Aye, my lady,” Royce replied.  “And … she is not alone.”

That stood to reason; Pod would be with her.  Sansa thought little of it, but made a note to go out and meet Brienne as soon as she arrived.  She had missed the big woman, felt almost vulnerable without her.

“Also, my lady, my scouts inform me that Lords Glover, Manderly and Flint are all approaching.  The farthest only five miles away,” he said.  “There are others: Foresters and Mollens have also been seen.”

That was more than she expected and she felt her nerves twist.  Had they come to show fealty or lay siege to the castle?  She didn’t know what to expect, but now was not the time to worry about it. 

“Thank you, my lord,” she answered, her tone clipped.  “There is one other matter we wish to discuss with you.”

Royce’s gaze went from Sansa to Baelish.  “If it please you, my lady.”

“Lord Baelish has informed me that you were fully informed of the plans he and I made to leave the Eyrie and head for the Fingers,” she tersely explained.  “That there was only one person who could have betrayed me-“

“My Lady, please, hear me out,” Royce cut in, his grey eyes widening in panic.  “I knew the plans, I told you I knew the plans-“

“So who else could have betrayed me?” she demanded.

At the periphery of her vision, she could see Petyr looking stunned.  He looked like a boar staring down the shaft of a hunter’s quarrel, but swiftly recovered himself. 

“Only the intervention of Lord Arryn saved you last time,” said Baelish.  “But you’re on Lady Stark’s lands now.”

“Guards!” Sansa called out, shrilly.  “Guards, seize him!”

In the split second it took for the guards to arrive and surround Lord Royce, Sansa’s heartbeat had raced to thrice its normal speed and her palms were slick with sweat.  Royce’s protests were drowned out as he was swiftly surrounded and she gulped hard as he was dragged, protesting vehemently, out of the side door. 

The silence Lord Royce left in his wake was deafening.  All Sansa could hear was the rush of blood now pounding through her head.  She couldn’t remember leaping to her feet, but she was standing now and gripping the edge of the weirwood table, her knuckles turning white as she faced Baelish.  He looked like he barely knew what was going on.  And she had him.  In that moment, she knew she had him.

Baelish looked at her as though he were weighing her up by the ounce. She realised he was speechless, and she had never seen him speechless before.  He gestured toward the door behind which Royce had been dragged away.

“Wh-what was that?” he asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“He told me that story you told him, about the ambush,” she informed him.  “So, like when you pushed Lysa through the Moon Door, I just went along with it.  Like Lysa, I thought you wanted him out of your way.  I thought this is what you wanted?”

Sansa paused, wide-eyed and suddenly tremulous as if full of self-doubt.  It worked, and Petyr was soon holding her in a tight embrace.  A second later, and he planted a whiskery kiss on the lips.  A kiss interrupted as Jon came barrelling through the doors.

“What was all that about … oh!” he blurted out, pulling up short at the sight of them. 

He flushed a deep red and Sansa was suddenly thoroughly embarrassed.

“Brother, wait outside please and I will explain everything,” she said, roughly pushing Petyr back into his seat.

It was too late, Jon had seen the kiss and his hand was resting on the pommel of Longclaw.  Although clearly furious, he backed away and left them alone.  Once he was gone, Petyr sighed in relief.

After a long and heavy pause, Sansa collapsed back into her seat.  Her breathing was still ragged, her heart still racing.  Trying to compose herself, she drew a steadying breath.  Now she had to prepare for the next stage of the plan, but she needed to give the others more time to get in place.  For now, she bided her time with small talk.

“Now that I have done this thing for you, I need your absolute trust,” she said, looking him dead in the eye. “I kept your secret about Lysa and now I have done this.  Now I have the North and you have the Vale … and Harrenhal, of course.  Together, we rule more than half of this realm and Cersei Lannister doesn’t even know it yet.”

“Of course you have my trust,” Petyr gasped, as though she should never have doubted it.  “Ask of me anything, and you know it will be yours.”

Sansa didn’t need to consider that for long.  “I need the truth from you.  I need the whole truth about this war, and the last.  I want to know about the letter you sent my mother the night before she married my father and what it was that made Brandon think my aunt Lyanna had been abducted.  And I know you know, I have it on good authority.”

“But I never-“

He began, but Sansa cut him off.

“If you don’t tell me everything, I will release Lord Royce and tell him the truth about Lysa.  Then, he can do with you what he will.”

Petyr was cornered and the smile froze on his face.  “And if I tell you?”

She got up and walked over to a vacant chair at the end of the table, on the seat was a battered old cloak of white and grey.  It was folded in such a way that only half a direwolf snarled out from the fabric, baring its jagged silk teeth.  Carefully, she placed it in Petyr’s hands.

For a long minute, all he seemed to do was study the wedding cloak intently.  After what seemed to her an eternity, he slowly lifted his gaze to meet her own.

“Are … are you being serious?” he stammered, as if asking might run the risk of her changing her mind.  “When I arrived this morning I thought you were still angry with me, that you were going to send me away. Instead, you make me the happiest man in Westeros.”

Sansa lowered her gaze, eyelids dipping coyly. “Once, when my mother was in her cups after Bran’s fall, I overheard her saying she regretted not marrying you when she had the chance.  I never want to make the same mistakes as her, and the chance we have now will never come again.  The chance to change everything and make this realm our own.”

Petyr put down the cloak and got to his feet, gently raising her as went. One hand slowly raked through her hair, toying the auburn tresses delicately.  His breathing had become laboured as he spoke.  “I will give you everything.”

“But I meant what I said,” she stated, firmly.  “If we are to be wed, I must know everything. Otherwise, how can we work together?  I have taken a huge risk by imprisoning Lord Royce and now I need you to play your part.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” he assured her.  “And I will tell you.  Tell me where and when, and I will be there.  We must act fast.”

“Be at the godswood an hour before sundown,” she instructed. 

“But what about the septon?  And I have no cloak to give you?” he blustered, sounding panicked. 

Sansa could tell he was unwilling to let this opportunity pass and little wrinkles were getting to him.  She almost laughed.  “We follow the old gods, remember.  We don’t have septons here, or any other holy men.  It’s just you, me and our witnesses.  The Northern Lords are on their way and they will be happy to bear witness.  Jon is my closest kin and can stand for my father.  As for the cloak, don’t worry about it.  That’s just some detail we included to keep the Faith happy.”

Petyr laughed too, relief causing him to sag.  “Forgive, my love, your Northern gods are still foreign to me.  I will learn, I promise you.”

Without further ado, Sansa leaned over and kissed his cheek.  “I have a wedding to prepare for.  You must excuse me.”

Only reluctantly did Petyr let go of her hand.  “An hour before sundown,” he reminded her.

The dragon was healing well.  Now that he was out of the crypts and able to breathe the open air, his eyes shone brighter and his scales gleamed in the sun.  His wounds, sustained during the battle for Winterfell, were closed and vanishing fast.  Jon sat back and watched his father slowly win the beast’s trust. 

“Will you be able to fly him again?” he asked.  He knew some dragonlore, but not nearly as much as Rhaegar did.

Rhaegar seemed unfazed.  “Of course. He’ll mend as right as a hatchling, in time.”

The deposed prince was kneeling in the fresh straw in the broken tower, nursing Sonar back to health.  As for the dragon, he was dozing again.  His heavy breaths sent up showers of dust and loose straw from the ground.  When he was awake, the beating of his wings was like a hurricane.  And he was beautiful.  Whenever Jon imagined dragons, he imagined ugly scaly creatures.  But Sonar was all blues and silvers, swirling patterns from his smoking snout to the tip of his tail.  The more time he spent in their company, the more he felt at one with them.  As though he belonged with them.  Being with them soothed him, even in times as trying as those he found himself in at that moment.

As if reading his thoughts, Rhaegar put down the poultice he had pressed into Sonar’s wing and regarded Jon thoughtfully.  “Are you feeling better now?”

“Some,” he replied. 

“For what it’s worth, I think Sansa well knows how to handle the likes of Petyr Baelish,” Rhaegar added, trying to sound comforting.  “As for Lord Royce, what if he did play a role in selling her off to the Boltons?  I find it hard to believe that a man of Baelish’s low birth has somehow inveigled his way into the highest echelons of Westerosi power.”

Jon huffed indignantly.  “Because he’s clever and devious.  For cleverer and far more devious than anyone realises.”

And, he thought to himself, many powerful lords allowed themselves to be duped by Baelish’s low birth, a lethal underestimation he uses to his own advantage. 

Before they could discuss the matter any further, however, the horns sounded.  Startled, Jon leapt to his feet and brushed the dust and loose straw from his clothes.  Rhaegar did likewise, before thinking twice.

“If that’s the Northern Lords arriving I need to stay out of sight,” he said.  “Some may remember me.”

Jon nodded.  “Stay here, and I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come out.”

With that, he left.  He made his way quickly through the inner yard, passing the main keep that obstructed the broken tower, and out into the main courtyard.  Already, their new armourer had the forge reopened and was busy at work. It still felt strange, almost painful, to look in there and not see Mikken toiling away.

Once he made it to the front gates, he pulled up at the sight of the carriage that was now stationary just inside the walls.  A few bedraggled looking men had surrounded it, their halberds and pikes spotted with rust. More than one of them bore the trout standards of House Tully.  Leading them was Lady Brienne of Tarth and her trusty squire, Podrick Payne.  Although relieved to see her, the sight of the Tully banners made his hackles rise.

“My Lady, it’s good to have you back,” he greeted her while helping her dismount.

“It’s good to be back,” she replied, her sentiment showing in her face.  “Congratulations on taking back Winterfell.  How I wish I had been here to fight beneath Lady Sansa’s banners.”

Jon had a sinking feeling that there would be plenty more opportunities for Brienne to fight beneath the direwolf of House Stark.  For now, he left his ominous feelings buried within himself.

“I see you’ve brought some men for our cause?”

They were led by a much older man, all iron grey hair and bright blue eyes.  Was staring up at the battlements in wonder, smiling at the Stark banners now hanging from the battlements. 

“Tully men who escaped the when the castle fell,” Brienne explained.  “Many of them evaded certain death by swimming beneath the portcullis and up the river.”

Jon had only heard descriptions of Riverrun and, as such, couldn’t really imagine an underwater portcullis.  However, he did not mind Tully men flocking to their cause.  Not all of them were like Catelyn, he knew, and if they came all this way then they must not all hate him. Besides, there were other matters Brienne needed to know about.

“My Lady, there’s something urgent I need you to know about,” he said, trying to lead her away.  “It’s about Sansa and Baelish, there’s something happening and I think he’s in for a –“

“My Lady,” the old man cut over them.  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Brienne looked apologetic, but remained silent as the man approached.  Jon caught sight of a black onyx brooch glittering on the front of his tunic.  A black fish. Inwardly, he groaned as he realised who the man was.  No doubt, Catelyn Stark had told her uncle all about what a deceitful bastard he was.  Poor Brienne blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Ser Brynden, this is Jon …” she began, before faltering.  “Er, Jon …-“

“Snow,” Brynden finished for her, tersely.  “I know who he is.  By reputation, at least.  Last we heard, you were executed for letting wildling hosts through the wall.  I’d be surprised to see you back on your feet now, but these are strange times we live in, Bastard.”

“Bastard or no, I’m the reason House Stark has their castle back,” Jon pointed out.  “In this castle, you are my sister’s guest.  As such, you’ll treat us both with respect.”

He was no longer a frightened child and the Tullys were neither Starks nor Northmen.  He intended to remind them of that. Meanwhile, Brienne had positioned herself between them.  Not that she needed to, as Brynden took his horse by the reins and followed Pod away from the scene.  As they went, Jon watched the stationary carriage once more.  Brynden was on horseback, the men all on foot.  He soon found himself wondering what was in there.

“There’s something else you need to know,” said Brienne, nodding to the carriage.  “In there.”

Knowing what few Tullys had escaped, Jon knew there would be no supplies in there.  He wondered how they even managed to get the carriage in the first place.  His growing apprehension was not helped by Brienne becoming all pale and clammy as she led him over. 

“Brace yourself for this, Lord Commander,” said Brienne, slowly opening the door of the carriage.

Jon looked inside, unable to see anything at first.  His eyes quickly adjusted to the poor light inside, then he saw and recoiled in shock before he even knew what it was he was seeing.

Something was happening, but Sansa had no time to find out what it was.  She barely had time to greet Brienne and instruct her to keep Ser Brynden out of Jon’s way and Petyr’s.  Sadly, she was too late for poor Jon. 

“Once this is done,” she assured Brienne. “I will come and see Uncle Brynden.  But I must do this first.”

If Brienne had made it back even a day earlier, she could have been brought in on the plan.  But it was all too late and there was no time to explain.  Even Jon hadn’t been fully informed and he’d been there the whole time. Instead, she hurried a bath and hurried into a dress, while her new handmaids brushed her hair to a fine copper shine.

While the brushing continued, she neatly folded a fresh document and affixed her seal.

“Is that your marriage certificate, my lady?” the handmaid asked, giggling.

Sansa forced a smile and tucked it down her bodice.  “Something like that.”

As for the dress, it was the same one she had worn to marry Ramsay.  A large and fussy confection of white damask and cream samite.  The tears Ramsay made had been mended by her own hand and were barely visible.  Besides, Petyr had never seen it before and when she met him in the godswood at the appointed hour, she heard the breath catch in his throat at the sight of her.

He greeted her with a brief kiss, from which he pulled back to look at her again.  Those laughing grey-green eyes raking the length of her body.  Now, she had an hour to get the truth out of him.

“My Lord,” she said, holding up one arm.  “Let us begin.”

Servants had already lit the path to the weirwood tree.  Beautiful little beacons that led into the darkness, lighting only the path and the grand ruby red boughs of the sacred tree at the heart of the three-acre wood.  Even in broad daylight, it was dark in the godswood and little could be seen this late in the day.  The sounds of the castle were muffled.  Occasionally, they heard a branch snap underfoot, or a small animal darting through the undergrowth.  All else was still and calm as they took their place before the weirwood.

“Jon will be here in an hour,” she informed Petyr.  “We have until then.”

She glanced around the woods, seeing only the darkness.  Once she was satisfied all was concealed, she knelt before the tree and reached for one of its roots. Closing her eyes, she let the visions fill her mind for the first time in a long time.  Only brief snatches of things the Three-Eyed Crow had already showed her.  Her mother burning the letter, Petyr crying in a woodland. Then, something new: Lyanna walking on the shore of the God’s Eye, a letter in her hand.  Petyr looked on from afar. 

Still gripping the root, she whispered her brother’s name.  “Brandon Stark...” Then … “Rickon Stark … Robb Stark … Eddard Stark ... Catelyn Stark … Arya Stark… Lyanna Stark.”

A sudden breeze whispered through the treetops, sending down a bright red leaf.  She shivered against the chill, then opened her eyes to find Petyr looking positively alarmed. 

“What’s all that about?” he asked. “Are you summoning them, like old magic?”

Sansa laughed.  “No, silly.  We don’t really pray like the Faith do.  We contemplate and sometimes speak to our dead.  That’s all.  But now, I want to talk to you.”

She knew Bran would now be listening from afar, watching through the face of the weirwood.  As for the others, she only said their names because she wanted it to sound like a proper prayer, but if it did raise them from the dead then all the better.  She wanted as many witnesses to this as possible. 

“You said your aunt Lyanna’s name, but not your uncle Brandon,” Petyr observed. “How come?”

Sansa shrugged.  “I’ve never really thought of him.  Besides, all I know about him is that he was cruel to you.  I didn’t feel right mentioning his name on our wedding day.”

Petyr smiled almost wistfully.  “Ah, yes.  I still bear the mark of Brandon’s esteem from collarbone to navel.” 

“Do you remember what I said this morning?” she asked.  “When I told you that my mother regretted not marrying you.”

“That was most curious, I must admit,” replied Petyr.  “Who did she tell?”

Sansa had it all worked out.  “She was nursing Bran after his fall, when he was in a coma.  Often, she was exhausted and I think she was drinking to help her cope. Anyway, she would talk to him.  He could not hear her, he was half-dead, so she must have just opened up on that night.  I went to visit him the night before I left for King’s Landing, but when I heard mother’s voice I assumed someone else was in there with them.  I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I waited outside until the other person left.  And mother was talking, saying things that didn’t make sense at the time.  She said about the letter she got before she married my father, and how she could have married you.”

Petyr looked sceptical, but clearly worried.  “And … what else did she say?”

Sansa reached down her bodice and withdrew the document she signed earlier.  “I’ve already proved my loyalty to you, and here is further proof.  Before I carry the sentence out, I want you to tell me everything.”

Petyr took the document and broke the seal, revealing Lord Royce’s death warrant.  He was unable to keep the smile from his face.  After reading it through twice, he looked up at her again. 

“You will carry out the sentence?” he asked.

“Our way is the old way, who passes the sentence swings the sword,” she explained.  “And you will have unopposed control of the Vale, and now I have Brynden Tully here I can bring you the Riverlands.  My wedding gift to you.”

Petyr folded up the warrant and handed it back to her.  “Very well.”

And so it began.  From the duel at Riverrun, to his banishment to the Fingers which brought him directly into aunt Lyanna’s path at Harrenhal.  As had happened so many times in his life, an opportunity presented itself and he took full advantage.

“Lyanna overheard Lysa telling me about the baby,” he explained.  “She thought we were in love and that her overbearing father was tearing us apart against our will.  Given her circumstances, you can imagine how keen she was to help us.  In return, I offered to help her by delivering a message to her brother and her betrothed, Robert Baratheon.  She knew about the duel, but she didn’t realise it was me on the receiving end of it.”

Petyr paused there, looking up into the face of the weirwood.  “I never knew your aunt, besides her famous name and who her brother was.  It was never personal.  All I wanted was to get back at her brother.  Brandon knew me all too well and I knew he would have no further dealings with me, so I went straight to Robert and told him a version of the truth.”

Sansa’s brow tightened.  “What do you mean by a version of the truth?”

“I knew Robert would be making his way down from the Eyrie to attend Cat and Brandon’s wedding, so I intercepted him on the road and simply told him Prince Rhaegar had run off with Lyanna.  I never said the word “abducted”, he came up with that all by himself. He, of course, wanted to go charging off straight to the capital to demand Rhaegar return her.  But I convinced him to trust Brandon, that Rhaegar would be unable to refuse him – her lord and brother.  More so than a fiancée. They could have gone together, for all I cared.  All I wanted was Brandon out of my path so I could claim Catelyn.”

“Did you know a war would start because of what you did?” she asked, moving closer to him.

Petyr shrugged, his gaze becoming distant and unfocused as he recalled the past.  “How could I?  I thought, hoped even, that Brandon would be arrested and locked up. I never knew the Mad King, but I suspected he might react rather … explosively to a troop of Northmen storming into his court.  But burning them and then demanding the lord’s heirs as well?  That was excessive, even by Aerys’ standards.”

Sansa wanted to recoil, but she held herself steady and steeled herself for what else was to come.  “And after the war, what then?”

“Much and more,” he replied, evasively.  “Robert gave me a position at court courtesy of Jon Arryn’s recommendation, which came from your aunt Lysa.  I climbed, she pined.”

“Why did you instruct her to poison her husband, Lord Arryn?” she asked.

Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped and the undergrowth rustled.  She paid it little mind.

“I needed him out of the way,” Petyr replied, simply. 

“You didn’t have Lysa kill her husband because you loved her and wanted to be with her,” she said.  “Otherwise, why would you have done what you did?”

Petyr laughed.  “What?  You mean, when I threw her through the moon door? I did that because she was proving problematic.  She was irrational. She was talking too much.  She told you she poisoned Jon Arryn to be with me.  And by that time, I had Sweet Robin’s trust which meant I had the Vale.  More importantly, I had you.  Everything was coming together nicely, and she was no longer helping.”

Sansa’s heart was racing, but she fought to control her own reactions to what she was hearing.  All the while, she had to think hard on what the wider implications were, the things she knew he wasn’t telling her.  She had to deduce and extrapolate, and the deeper she got the harder it got.

“When Jon Arryn died, Lysa wrote to my mother telling her the Lannisters did it,” she remembered.  “She knew my mother would tell my father, the new Hand of the King.  Lysa hadn’t the wit to plan something like this, so it had to be you all along.  You told her to blame the Lannisters knowing it would bring the Starks into open conflict with them and the crown.  You lacked an opportunity, so you manipulated Lysa into creating one.”

Sansa looked deep in his eyes, to see if there was any sign of remorse there.  All saw was that supercilious glint of amusement.  “No one can fabricate a war alone, sweetling.  Now, when we are wed, I will gift you Sweet Robin’s head and I will hold the Vale in my own right.” 

“Enough!”

Whatever Sansa was about to say was cut off abruptly.  Petyr almost jumped out of his skin and Sansa recoiled from him as if he had burned her.  She leapt to her feet again and spun around to where she knew Lord Royce and his men had been listening in all along.  She smiled as they stepped into the small circle of light, swords already drawn.  There were five in total, but from what Sansa had seen only one armed man would have been ample to overpower Petyr.

“I said enough, Baelish,” Lord Royce repeated.  “I cannot bear to hear any more of your silver-tongued treachery.”

Petyr had fallen to his knees before the heart tree, his hands help up in supplication as he pleaded silently with Sansa.  “My lady, what are you doing?  What is the meaning of this?”

Sansa allowed a half-smile to curl the corner of her lip.  Finally, she could show the disdain and loathing she felt for the wretched creature kneeling before her.  Deliberately, she touched the corner of Royce’s warrant to a beacon and let it burn. 

“Twice you have burned this realm to the ground,” she spat at him.  “Did you really think I would be fool enough to join you as you attempted to do so a third time?”

Removing herself from Baelish for the final time, she went to stand by Lord Royce’s side.  “My Lord, I thank you for playing along with this mummer’s farce today.  It was the only way of getting the truth out of him.  He murdered your lord, your lady and plotted to kill their son.  Do as you will with him.”

Defeated, Petyr knew he had been out manoeuvred for the first and final time.  Sansa looked at him again, just as Royce’s men descended on him, and felt no pity.

“Take him to the dungeons,” she commanded.  “I want him guarded day and night.”

She moved away from the circle of light, trying to get some air. Only then did she realise there more people than she realised.  Jon was there, with Brienne and Lords Glover, Manderly and Forrester were all looking on.  Had they all seen her entrap and bring down the hated Petyr Baelish?  She could only hope so. 

For a moment, they watched in silence as Baelish was bound and gagged.  Only then did they all drop to one knee in a show of fealty.  Relief washed over her, making her light headed and almost giddy.  She drew a deep breath of cold night air to clear her spinning head and looked down the path back to the castle.

It was then that she noticed the tall, hooded figure clad all in black watching from afar.  She was dimly aware of Jon trying to get her attention, but for some reason she didn’t seem to understand him properly.  The silent watcher lifted their face, drawing back the deep hood of their cloak.  Everyone seemed to notice then, bringing a silence over them all.  Even Baelish stopped making those awful muffled noises as his captors bundled him up.

The newcomer’s hair was brittle and white, her skin the colour of curdled milk.  But it was the throat that got all of Sansa’s attention.  The throat had been cut from ear to ear, leaving it little more than a red ruin.  Whatever that creature was, there was little of Catelyn Stark left in it.

Chapter Text

A brisk wind swept the battlements as Jon surveyed the cobblestone yards below. Smoke poured from the windows of the forge, dissipating fast in the crisp air. It cheered him to once more hear the sounds of hammers on steel ringing from within. Not far from the forge, young squires trained in the practise yard as Ser Davos looked on. They would need a proper Master-at-Arms soon, but for now the old pirate would suffice. His gaze roamed the grounds far below, to where a sleek young greyhound sniffed keenly at the foliage growing at the base of the inner-walls. The dog was a gift from Lord Glover to Sansa. 'A peace offering, more like', Jon thought wryly to himself. The dog continued following the scent, until it reached the Tully carriage that had been left just beyond the inner gate, whereupon it stopped and cocked its hind leg. Jon couldn't help but smile at the dark steaming stain spreading down the grain of the wood.

He had lain awake half the night replaying the moment he first looked into the back of that carriage. At first, he hadn't seen anything. The light was poor and whatever was in there made no sound at all. It was only as his eyes adjusted to the gloom that he realised it was a person. A person unlike any other, whose mutilated face resonated deeply with him. Only a second later did the realisation of who she was drop like a stone in the pit of his guts. He wanted to deny, at first. She was dead. But so was Rhaegar. So was he. Reality hit him in the face like a final insult.

Had he been given a choice of who to bring back from among his many dead, Catelyn Stark wouldn't have even entered his head. He would have brought back Sansa's old direwolf before her mother. And he felt no shame in that. What he did feel was angry. Angry that she had risen again, while Robb and Uncle Eddard lay dead and buried. Angry, that it was her who came through those gates and not Arya or Bran. He tried to be angry with poor Brienne, who had brought her home. But that was useless. Brienne was sworn to Sansa, and Catelyn was Sansa's family. One of only three of Sansa's family left alive, assuming Arya wasn't dead.

It was only that realisation that brought a pang of guilt to his heart. I should be happy for Sansa's sake, he thought. He had his father back; a father he never knew he had. Now Sansa had her mother, too. But it's Catelyn bloody Tully, the demon on his shoulder pointed out and it was useless.

"Good morrow, cousin."

Sansa's voice was light and soft as she approached him on the battlements. She walked with a spring in her step now that the Northern Lords had all sworn their fealty to her. She stood taller, she looked them dead in the eye and dared them to defy her with a smile on her face. If any even dared, they knew they'd be joining company with poor Petyr Baelish down in the dungeons.

"You absence was noted as we broke our fast," she added, drawing level with him.

Jon shrugged. "I thought it … diplomatic," he answered. "Under the circumstances."

Sansa looked puzzled. "What do you mean? It was only breakfast. Have you eaten anything at all?"

He hadn't and his stomach betrayed him by rumbling loudly. That answered her question, so she linked her arm through his own and tried to steer him away. Only for him to dig his heels in.

"Jon, what's wrong?" she asked, meeting his gaze with a twinkle in her eye. "Tell me now or I'll pull your leg hair."

Laughter burst out of him before he could stop himself. Throwing up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender: "I've fought Boltons and wildlings and armies of the undead. But please, my lady, spare me my leg hair!"

Sansa delivered a playful smack to his arm, but her smile died a death a heartbeat later. She looked down at her feet, then out over the yard, anywhere but directly at him.

"It's her, isn't it?" she said, sadly.

Even as they laughed Catelyn had been a monster in the room they did their best to ignore.

"I'm pleased that you have your mother back," he said. It was a sentiment that lacked conviction.

"That's not my mother."

The force of her reply took him aback; it sounded almost like a rebuke. He turned to look at her, but she had taken to surveying the practise yard again but her expression was hard. She had her Wardeness of the North face back on. It was same mask Eddard had worn, and Robb too undoubtedly.

"I know she's not quite as you remember her-"

Sansa laughed, but this time the mirth did not reach her eyes. Those bright and beautiful Tully blue eyes.

She composed herself swiftly. "It's not just because she looks different, Jon. There's more to it. She's gone. Her … her essence. The thing that made her my mother. It's gone. She's not like you, or the Prince. Death has taken so much more from her than it did you and Rhaegar."

His own shock had now clouded the memory of his reunion with Catelyn and he struggled to recall the way she looked at him. But he knew what Sansa meant. Although Catelyn had always looked at him with contempt, but now it was something else. Something harder, more hateful. And it was no longer reserved only for him. She looked at everyone with that same expression on her face.

"Brynden told me what happened to her," he said. "That she was with the Brotherhood Without Banners, hanging Freys and Lannisters. Whether they were involved in the Red Wedding or not, it makes no matter. She just hangs then anyway."

"She had been dead for three full days and nights by the time they found her, on the riverbank," said Sansa. "It was cruel of them to bring her back. Melisandre said she would never have done it."

Jon was inclined to agree. Whenever he looked at the gouges running down Catelyn's face, where her nails had raked at her flesh, he didn't need to be told she did that as she watched Robb die. The gaping wound across her throat had almost been a mercy after that. But now she was back, with her memories in tact and reliving the moment of her eldest son's death over and over again.

"Have you spoken to her?" he asked.

Sansa shook her head. "My guards woke me in the middle of the night. They said she was trying to get into my room. When they left I barred the door." Her face reddened, as though she was ashamed of rejecting her own mother. Half a heartbeat later, her eyes welled with tears. "It's not that I don't want to see her, I just don't know what to say to her. I feel so guilty because it should be Robb in my place, not me. Or even Rickon, or Bran, or Arya. Not me."

Jon pulled her into a tight hug before she could break down. "None of this is your fault and even she must realise that."

It wasn't his fault he had been raised as Ned Stark's bastard, either. But that hadn't stopped her from blaming him for it all. However, Jon couldn't bring himself to tell that to Sansa. Instead, he tilted her chin up and dabbed at her tears with the pad of his thumb. It crossed his mind to kiss her, but she soon composed herself.

Sansa cleared her throat and abruptly changed the subject. "So, how's your father?"

Jon nodded. "Good. He's well. He misses his children and … well, you can imagine." I should have kissed her, he thought to himself. "I think he finds the North too cold. Targaryens need their heat."

Her stance softened again, a smile returning to her face as her gaze met his. "I'm so pleased you're talking to him. You've been given a chance to get to know him and find out who you really are. Whatever it is R'hllor has planned, we can at least be grateful for that."

Jon knew Rhaegar was already planning to leave. They had heard reports that Daenerys Stormborn was amassing troops and ships, ready to cross the Narrow Sea. Then, they'd heard reports that Asha Greyjoy had fled the Iron Islands with Theon in tow. Lord Glover reported that they were last seen sailing into the sunset with most of the Iron Fleet under their command. Even if they were joining his Aunt, Jon's feelings toward Theon were still murderous at best. He decided that it would be for the best if Rhaegar were the one awaiting them at Dragonstone.

"I am grateful," he finally replied. "But it is very strange to have a father that's only two or three years older than me. He feels more like a brother, or a long lost friend I never knew I had."

He had never fared well when trying to explain his feelings and relationships with other people. Something Sansa seemed to understand.

"Spend time with him," she suggested. "Get to know him and love will follow."

He drew a deep breath, letting it out again in a long sigh. "I'll try. And maybe you should do likewise … with Catelyn, I mean."

"Maybe," she conceded. After a brief pause, she added: "You deserve to have her know the truth about you."

Jon frowned at the wording. "I deserve to have her know the truth about me. What do you mean?"

"You saved Winterfell, you saved the Starks. You saved me. You deserve the opportunity to stand in front of her and tell who and what you really are," she explained. "Tell her everything. It's not like she can betray your secrets to anyone."

"Do you mean it?" he asked, heartbeat racing.

"She can't speak more than a few words-"

"No, I meant the bit about saving Winterfell," he corrected.

"It's the truth!" she insisted. "You did. And you sought no recognition. You sought no favour or glory; you didn't try to steal the castle like she always thought you would. You just did it, for us, even though you're not our brother after all. There's no greater sacrifice than that."

"I did it because I love you," he replied, then quickly added: "All of you. You, Bran, Rickon and Arya. I did it because it was the right thing to do. And for you-"

He kissed her then. It happened to fast he didn't know who initiated it. But their lips met and joined, and stayed together for that little bit longer than either of them intended. Simultaneously, they pulled back and cleared their throats. All the same, Jon felt the colour rising in his face as he turned to look out over the yards again. The sparrers were still sparring, the forge was still hammering and belching great plumes of smoke into the pale skies. Snow was not far away, he knew.

"Well, I had best do as you suggested and find my father," he murmured, turning to leave.

"See you at supper," she called after him. "Wear the new coat I made you!"

He stopped, still with his back to her, and smiled even though she could not see it.

Rhaegar unrolled the map, weighting the corners down with dusty old ornaments depicting carved direwolves. The Starks, he assumed, had thousands of such trinkets stuffed away in old boxes in every room in the castle. They wouldn't object is he liberated four them. Once they were in place, he could see the whole of Westeros and the Free Cities picked out in ink and dye, spread out before him. Slowly, he tracked the eastern coastline all the way down to Dragonstone. If Ser Davos could yield the castle to him, he could open the gates to Daenerys. From there, it was tantalisingly close to King's Landing…

His thoughts trailed off as he looked at the black and white castle that was meant to be the Red Keep. He knew every secret passage into that Castle; every twist and turn of the passages and which vaults were where. How many had Robert found? He wondered. And even if he had found them, would he have sealed them? Seeing as they would be taking up to four dragons into combat, it hardly seemed to matter. But he couldn't help but be curious. If he could get in, if he could reach Cersei and talk sense into her-

The knock at his chamber door jolted him from his reverie. The sound was followed soon after by Jon inching open the door and peering tentatively around the edge.

"Come in," he beckoned, grateful for the interruption.

Jon still hesitated. "I can come back later, if you're busy-"

"No," insisted Rhaegar. "There's something I wanted to tell you, anyway."

Jon finally entered the room and he noticed he was dressed in the coat Sansa had made for him. The one that made him look like Eddard Stark. Deciding not to mention it, he instead pulled up seats for them in an alcove overlooking the godswood outside.

"You're leaving?" asked Jon, glancing at the map.

"Soon," he confirmed. "I thought I might jump out at Cersei Lannister and give her the fright of her life."

Jon laughed. "She's mad enough already, I think. I've a feeling that's not what you were planning on telling me, though."

"Not quite," he replied. "It's about the night I was brought back here, in the flames, by Melisandre."

Jon's brow creased into a frown. "What of it?"

"When it happened to you, and you woke up in the past, did you see things? Visions, I mean."

"No. Or not that I can remember," he answered.

"It's just that I did," Rhaegar explained. "And I saw her. Catelyn. Lady Stoneheart, or whatever they're calling her these days. I thought it was a wedding in a godswood, but everyone was there to see Baelish arrested and I got it wrong. But I saw Catelyn, with her throat cut and her face torn up. Well, it's not a face one easily forgets is it?"

His own chest was still marred by Robert's war hammer. If he reached under his tunic, he could feel where it had caved in the left hand side, marked by the broken ribs. It was a permanent reminder of his failure on the battlefield. Still, he thought he'd never complain about his own injuries ever again after seeing the state of Catelyn Stark.

Meanwhile, Jon did not look unduly fazed by the revelation. "Maybe it was just a glimpse of things to come. What else did you see?"

"A girl who looked like Lyanna cutting an old man's throat," he recalled. "And another girl riding on the back of a huge, black dragon."

"A girl who looked like Lyanna?" Jon repeated, leaning forward in his seat. "Tell me about her."

But Rhaegar had told him all he knew. "I thought it was her. I thought it was Lyanna. But I didn't see her for long enough, the image was gone in a flash. All I saw was her slicing into the old man's throat. She was in a hall, but the light was poor."

He cast around for more information, but time had eroded anything else that might have been there. All he could remember was the girls' face, and her striking resemblance to Lyanna. Only then did he remember why it couldn't have been her.

"She was too young to be Lyanna," he pointed out. "Besides, I don't think she has any reason to go around murdering old men."

"No," agreed Jon. "But I know someone who does."

They lapsed into silence, but Rhaegar could see that Jon was still deep in thought. As he grew to know his son, he learned his mannerism and quirks. And those deep, brooding silences were prominent among them.

"The other girl must have been Daenerys," Jon added, at length. "There's no one else who could be riding a dragon."

"Stands to reason," Rhaegar agreed. "But the Lyanna look-alike?"

Jon's expression closed off again as he sank back into his thoughts. "I have a feeling … no, I know. I know who it must be. She's cut his throat like he cut hers."

"She didn't have a cut throat," he pointed out.

"No, I mean 'hers' as in Catelyn's," Jon clarified. "I think it's Catelyn's other daughter, Arya."

"If that old man was Walder Frey we'll soon hear about it," he said. "But as it stands, we know nothing for certain."

"Who else could it be?" Jon retorted.

"Trust me, Jon, Walder Frey does not lack for enemies," Rhaegar pointed out, kindly. "It was so when my father was king. Since then, it would appear he's collected a few more enemies. Like, the whole of the North, number of enemies. And that's on top of the whole of the Riverlands."

Jon sighed heavily, kneading at the space between his eyes as if a headache was brewing. It was clear he wanted that grey-eyed girl to be his cousin and now regret dashing his hopes so soon. He quickly thought of a way to make amends.

"Tomorrow, after Baelish has been dealt with, I'm leaving for Dragonstone," he stated. "You would make me very happy if you came too. We can look for Arya together, now that we know roughly where she is. Our road will take us through the Riverlands anyway."

When Jon met his gaze, he looked almost relieved. Like something else was wrong, and getting away from Winterfell would be beneficial. But Rhaegar decided against pressing for details at that moment. Whatever was happening, Jon would tell him in his own good time. Meanwhile, it seemed they both had a long journey to prepare for.

The Lords of the Vale of begun to drift homewards, setting out before winter cut them off completely. Meanwhile, the northern Lords were out hunting, making the most of it before they too were affected by the storms and snowdrifts heading their way. Many had taken their squires, knights and servants with them and left Winterfell near empty. Only the Tullys remained, and they were few in number and nowhere to be seen as Sansa took her place at the high table.

From there, she watched as the back door opened and a cowled figure slowly shuffled down the centre aisle. Her mother's progress was slow; hampered further by whatever she was carrying in her right hand. But when she got to help, a hand was raised to signal all was well and not to bother. Still hesitant, Sansa sat back down again and continued to watch her mother's cumbersome advance. All the while, she tried to picture the woman her mother had been: still handsome, even in her late thirties. Slim and strong and dignified. Fierce as a lioness where her children were concerned. But all the things that had made her who she was had died at the Twins and only a shade had risen on the riverbanks three days later.

When she made it to the high table, Catelyn sat to Sansa's right. The same seat she took when she was Lady of Winterfell. These days, it was Jon's seat. Before saying anything, Sansa studied her carefully, trying to read the expression in her eyes. There was nothing of Catelyn Stark to be found there, either. Only a dead eyed hatred.

"When Jon comes for his supper, you will have to find somewhere else to sit. That's his place now," Sansa informed her, coolly. "But until then..."

The pale white hand reached for the open throat, covering the gaping wound to allow her to speak. The single word rasping out of her like gravel on concrete. "Snow."

Had the living Catelyn Stark been asked to stand aside for Jon Snow she shuddered to think what would have happened. It wouldn't have happened, anyway. Now that it had happened, it seemed her mother was beyond expressing any true feelings. As she pondered what might be going on behind that mask like face, she noticed the sword Catelyn had been carrying. She had propped it against the table and the smooth metal glimmered in the light of the candles.

Meanwhile, the two of them looked at each other. Both seemed to be searching for something in the others faces and Sansa couldn't help but feel she was falling short.

"Jon isn't a Snow," she stated, blandly.

Catelyn showed no reaction. She only reached for the sword and handed it to Sansa. As she held it closer, she could see it was Uncle Brandon's. Once more, her mother reached to plug the wound at her throat. But Sansa didn't need to hear her say it.

"Baelish," she said for her. "I know who it's for."

Catelyn's hand faltered, then reached for Sansa's hair as she always used to do. She felt her gnarled fingers run through a thick auburn lock, snagging gently on some unseen knot. Her lip trembled then, her eyes filling with tears at this ghost of a motherly gesture. A brief flicker of the mother she used to be. She tried to speak again, but with the throat still open all that happened was a noiseless, formless rush of rattling air escape her larynx and nothing could be discerned. But Sansa knew she understood what was trying to be said.

"I love you, too," she answered, tremulously.

Catelyn's features contorted, the cowl slipping from her head to reveal the patchy brittle hair. It was as silver white as a Targaryen's. But already Sansa was starting to see past all that. There was still little of her mother left, but wasn't a stranger either. That thought made her think of the southron gods. The Seven. The Stranger dishing out death and of Catelyn hanging the Freys. It made Sansa shiver.

Renewing her grip on the sword, she pulled herself together. "But it won't be passing the sentence tomorrow. It won't be me swinging the sword."

Supper began before long, and Catelyn removed herself not only from the high table but from the Great Hall altogether. The sight of Jon, dressed for all to see like a Lord of Winterfell, sent her retreating into the shadows. But Sansa had steeled herself and inwardly refused to buckle. They were in charge of Winterfell: her and Jon. Even the Tullys had to accept that now.

As soon as supper was over, she decided to forego the dancing that normally followed. The others still wanted to celebrate the fall of the Boltons, and she wasn't about to stop them. But tonight, there was someone she had to see and a special sword to deliver.

The following morning dawned heavy with the threat of snow. It made Rhaegar shiver deep in the furs he had borrowed from Jon as he stepped out into the courtyard. They were all there. Brynden Tully, the former Lady Stark, the current Lady Stark and Wardeness of the North. Jon stood at her side, silent and sombre. Lining the walls were Lords Royce, Glover, Manderly, Forrester, Cerwyn and Norrey. Lady Mormont stood belly high to the shortest man among them, but her chin jutted proudly and she more than made herself their equal.

Unnervingly, each and every one of them turned to watch Rhaegar as he walked across the yard. It had been swept over night and the cobbles washed down, but a fine frost had formed over night that made the stones glisten and sparkle under the rising sun. He paused, composing himself with a few deep breaths of crisp air, then continued to the centre of the yard where the block had been placed and the prisoner knelt blindfolded and subdued by two burly guards in Stark livery.

Rhaegar looked down at the man who had started the war which had killed his family. Whether Baelish meant to do it or not, he no longer cared. The outcome was just the same. Lyanna was dead; Aegon, Rhaenys and Elia all dead. His father, his mother and all their loyal friends. Dead in a usurper's war fought on the basis of a spurned lover's lie.

"Lord Baelish, would you speak any final words?"

Silence thickened as the condemned man made no sound. The wait was painful and Rhaegar took the opportunity to locate Sansa Stark. It had been her idea that he should be the one to pass the sentence and swing the sword. It had been he who had lost the most, whose family had suffered the most. And he knew he would always be grateful to her for allowing him to be the one to deliver the justice his dead children deserved.

The Lords still looked at him curiously, they had been expecting Sansa to perform this duty, not some stranger they couldn't quite place. However, Sansa met his gaze quickly and nodded her head. It was time.

In a sure, firm voice loud enough for all to hear, he declared: "I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone, do sentence you to die in the name of Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North."

At the sound of his name, a murmur broke out among the assembled Lords. But soon their eagerness to see this business concluded took over and they settled slowly. Rhaegar allowed them time before drawing Brandon Stark's sword. The edge had been re-tempered in the forge just the day before and the razor edge caught the light, dazzling white.

Rhaegar lifted the blade, aligning the stroke against the target. Baelish shuddered involuntarily as the blade touched the hairs at the back of his neck. He flinched, turned his head as if to cry out for Sansa to rush in and help him. But Rhaegar made an end of it as swift and silent as the wind. The blade passed through bone and sinew and gristle, coming away red as blood soaked the frosted cobbles.

Drawing a deep breath, Rhaegar looked to the skies as the body crumpled and fell dead at his feet.

Chapter Text

Only a sudden chest pain made Sansa realise she'd been holding her breath since Rhaegar raised his sword. Now Petyr's body lay broken and leaking into fresh snowfalls, she exhaled a rush of air so fast it made her head spin. The air around her was filled with discontented, murmuring voices but she couldn't make out a word they were saying. She was buffeted by them as they dispersed from the scene of the execution, but she remained rooted to the spot. All the while, she kept her gaze fixed on the corpse bleeding in the fresh snow.

It was over. He was over. No more lies; no more manipulation. Petyr could go and play his games in the seven hells, for all she ought to care. But even as she thought those thoughts, she tried to find some deed, some redemptive act, to give the dead man just a shred of honour. He did what he did for love, she tried to remind herself. But the consequences of those actions were all around her, they had shaped her and they had led her and him to this moment.

Her view of the body was suddenly obscured as two burly guards in Stark livery appeared, stooped over the body and picked him up by the arms and legs. Like a sack of bloodied potatoes, Petyr's body sagged between them. A third bagged up the severed head and knotted it closed. But they did not move. They turned to look at her, questioningly. It took a moment for her to realise they had no idea what to do with the body. And neither did she, but she thought she knew someone who would.

"Pack him in ice and send him to Cersei. Lord Manderly will arrange your passage from White Harbour." She was about to turn and join the others in the great hall when, as an afterthought, she added: "And do remember to send House Lannister our regards."

The guards paled, but made no protest. Cersei would not be able to hurt them, nor did Sansa think she would be inclined to. Petyr was as much a thorn in her side as he was the Starks, and every other noble house who had fallen victim to his machinations. They all needed to know that the master manipulator was dead. More importantly, they needed to know it was the Starks who had finished him off. House Stark was back and Petyr was the unwitting messenger who would spread word of their return.

As she turned away, a messenger appeared at the gates of the castle but she couldn't make out the sigil he bore. However, satisfied that Tybald was dealing with him, she continued on to the great hall. Jon was the first person she saw, cup of small ale in hand, Ghost at his heels, and watching as the northern lords flocked around his father. Each, it seemed, had a score of unanswered questions.

"I hope they give him room to speak," she remarked, stopping at his side. "He'll not get a word in edgeways."

Jon seemed concerned. "He's used to it."

He returned to watching the gaggle of men crowding around the prince. Whatever else he was thinking, he kept it to himself and sipped at his ale. Up on the dais, Catelyn watched over them all silent and ominous.

"What about her?" she asked, nodding to her mother.

Without looking, Jon seemed to know who she was referring to. "She's said nothing to me. Have you told her anything?"

"Only that you aren't a Snow," she replied. "I didn't tell her how, or who. I thought I'd leave that up to you."

"Thank you, Sansa," he said. His expression darkened as he forced a smile that quickly died. "But I don't think I owe her any explanations, or justifications. Or anything else, really."

Sansa didn't see it that way. She saw his true birth as vindication, not justification. But sensing his lingering hurt over the way Catelyn had treated him, she did not press the matter. Instead, she took a cup of ale from a passing servant while Jon remained silent. He seemed withdrawn, preoccupied. Almost like … he didn't want her there. She remembered the kiss, feeling a twang of regret she found hard to ignore.

"When are you leaving?" she asked, just to try and start a proper conversation.

"Tomorrow, at first light," he answered. "Rhaegar wanted to leave today, but Baelish intervened."

Sansa gave a dry laugh. "Only Petyr could disrupt a person's plans even when he's dead."

Finally, Jon smiled a natural smile. His dark grey eyes glittered in the light of the nearby candles. Ghost got up and began snuffling at the pocket of her cloak, the place she normally kept scraps of bacon treats for him. But this morning she had none, and the direwolf took to licking her fingers. Now that Jon had relaxed, she felt emboldened again.

"You're not leaving because of her, are you?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't retreat again.

Although he stayed put, he seemed reticent. He glanced about the hall, this way and that, before beckoning to follow him. She did so, letting him lead her out into an ante-chamber through a back door near the dais. As she passed her mother, she felt them both being watched.

"I didn't want to say anything in case it turns out to be nothing," he said, closing the door behind her. "But the night we brought Rhaegar back, he saw things in the fires."

"Like what?" she asked.

"He saw you freeing the dragon from the crypts, then he saw Catelyn but didn't recognise her because of the injuries," he answered. "He even said it was a wedding in the godswood, but the wedding was the ruse you used to get Baelish out there. Then, he saw a girl who looks like Lyanna cutting an old man's throat."

Sansa's heartbeat pounded as she made the connection. "Arya." Recovering herself quickly, she added: "But where? She could be anywhere and an old man holds no clues."

"You're wrong," Jon insisted. "Why would Arya kill an old man, unless he'd done some great wrong to her or her family?"

"Walder Frey," she sighed. "But how do we know if she's done it yet? She won't hang around waiting to be caught."

Then her blood ran cold and a dead weight settled in her stomach as she thought of the possibilities. Images filled her head of Arya storming into the Twins and hacking at the old lord in a fit of blind rage, not caring who saw her just as long as she got her revenge. Just as she did with Joffrey, when the Butcher's boy got hurt. She tried to remember his name, but it had faded from memory.

"Gods, Jon, what if she's sacrificed herself to avenge Robb and mother? It's exactly the brave, foolish thing she would do!"

As much as she wanted Jon to disagree with her, to tell her she was all wrong, he didn't. He knew their sister as well as she did.

"Exactly," he said, darkly. "I need to at least try to find her, before she does anything stupid. The Freys will skin her and dish her up for their supper if they catch her."

Without even realising, Sansa had a hold of Jon's arms. "I would that I could go with you. But I cannot-"

"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," he cut over her. "I understand. And given what happened the last time there were no Starks in Winterfell, I utterly insist that you stay."

Despite her fears, she laughed again and released her grip on him. But she stopped herself before she could kiss him again, despite how much she wanted to. Only because he's bringing Arya home, she told herself.

"Well, I guess that's about it then," he said, looking past her toward the door.

"Yes," she agreed.

But when Jon moved to the right, so did she and they collided with each other before Jon could reach the door. Bumping into each other, they both laughed and sputtered fumbled apologies. Even those collided, becoming lost in each other. Seven Hells! Sansa thought and cast caution to the wind as she kissed him full on the mouth. Through this kiss, she needed him to know that she had wanted the last one too. But Jon pulled back, red in the face and no longer able to look her in the eye.

Regret jumped out at her like a brigand in the night. Had she misread the signs? Probably. She felt as stupid as the girl Cersei always told her she was. As they fell silent the voices of the men in the great hall seemed to grow louder.

"I-I thought you wanted-" she stammered, wishing the ground would swallow her.

"The fault is mine," he interjected. "Forgive me, I shouldn't have done that. It was wrong of me and you're not to blame."

He was still looking at the ground, but she could see the shame etched in his face. Once more he reached for the door and, this time, she stood aside. Only for him to freeze with his hand on the door handle. Not moving. Unable to resist the urge, she looked at him, wondering what was going on inside his head. By now, surely, the lords outside would realise they were not siblings. Just cousins. Is that what worries him? She wondered to herself. She dared to hope. If it was, they would soon set them straight. There was no impropriety.

But Jon was still frozen, glaring intently at the door handle as though contemplating it deeply. His lower lip trembled, his brow tightened. "Gods be good, I need you."

It was a confession that sounded like it's had been wrenched by force from the depths of his being. The noise of the crowds seemed to grow louder as Jon caved in, sagging in defeat as he kissed her again. This time, neither of them thought against it. They closed their eyes and let the world fade into the background, until a particularly loud shout brought them crashing back into reality.

Jon looked worried now. Almost afraid and that, in turn, rubbed off on her.

"What was that?"

The noise levels rose again, bringing them both to the edge as the sound of fighting could be heard. A table overturned and curses filled the hall beyond. Without wasting another moment, Sansa pulled open the door and strode back into the hall with Jon at her side.

"What is all this?" she demanded, firmly.

The lords and many of their retainers had formed a knotted group around a figure kneeling on the floor. It was a sparse man, of indeterminate height while he was being pinned to the ground on his knees by Mormont men. His nose was bleeding and his lip split. When he opened his mouth to speak, she could see white teeth slick with fresh blood. From behind, a retainer in Cerwyn livery was holding the stranger's head up via a fistful of hair.

"I come under a banner of peace," he protested. The words were thick through swelling lips.

Anger flamed inside her. "Let him up, my lords. This is now House Stark treats with strangers."

Had they taken leave of their senses, she wondered. This was not how they were, she knew that. But Lord Cerwyn was defiant as he prodded at the prisoner. "Tell my lady who sent you."

Sansa looked back to the captive, expecting answers.

"The Freys," the man rasped. "The new Lord Walder sent me, my lady. A banner of peace, I swear it true."

Under the dirty tunic, she could just about make out the twin towers of House Frey. Sansa felt her stomach churn. At her side, Jon drew Longclaw and directed it at the captive's throat.

"My brother, King Robb, and all his loyal men came to Lord Walder under guest rights and he slaughtered them anyway," she said, coolly. "Tell me again why my Lords should respect your peace banner?"

Her question was met with a chorus of "ayes" from the lords, all of whom had lost sons, brothers, men and even a sister or two at the Red Wedding. Little Lyanna Mormont's expression was hard as stone as she beheld the hapless messenger.

"The Red Wedding was none of my doing, my lady," he said, imploring her. "No one picks their family and, if they could, do you think I'd have picked that garrulous old weasel?"

Before Sansa could say anything, Brynden Tully had materialised at her side and was looking upon the captive with contempt. "Did you say the new lord Frey? What happened to the old one?"

The captive ignored Brynden and kept his hopeful gaze on Sansa. "Let me up, my lady, and I'll tell you everything."

Everyone was interested now so she didn't have to give the command. Cerwyn's retainer released his grip on the Frey's hair, but Jon kept Longclaw drawn and trained on the man as he staggered to the nearest seat. Sansa made no apologies for his treatment, however. He could have expected no less when coming into Winterfell. He must have thought the castle was still in Bolton hands.

Sansa thought she already knew what was coming next.

"The Old Lord Walder is dead," he said, to no one's surprise. "We found him after a feast with his throat cut open."

Brynden stifled a laugh. "Poetic justice, if ever I knew it. Where is my nephew?"

"Gone with the Lannisters to Casterly Rock," the messenger answered. "Jaime Lannister took him after the surrender of Riverrun."

Sansa turned to her great uncle, watching him turn a violent shade of purple. Even with the old Lord Walder dead, the Freys would be in no hurry to relinquish their new castle. The Frey that held it now was married to Tywin Lannister's sister, Sansa knew. But only one thing preoccupied her mind now, and it wasn't bricks and mortar.

"Did you catch who was responsible?" she asked, stepping closer to the messenger.

He shook his head and she tried not to look as immensely relieved as she felt.

"It was a serving girl," he said. "She didn't look local and we thought she was with the Lannisters. But none of them knew who she was either. She's not been seen since the feast."

"What did she look like?" Jon asked, taut as a bowstring.

"A beauty she was, we all noticed her," he replied. His explanations grew harder to understand as his split lip continued to swell. "Deep brown eyes, black hair and dark skin. Like I said, an exotic look to her that we all wanted a taste of."

Whoever that poor girl was, Sansa pitied her. No one deserved the Frey weasels pawing at them. But, she could only be relieved that she looked nothing like Arya. The girl was an innocent and Sansa couldn't let on that she knew.

"For the sake of justice in this realm, I pray you find her," she said, coolly. "But you will not be leaving this castle. Guards, remove this man to the dungeons. I would question him further."

Sleep proved elusive that night. Jon tossed and turned in his bed, scrunching his eyes closed and trying to wipe his mind clean of all that ailed him. But if it wasn't Arya keeping him awake, it was Catelyn, or Rhaegar, or the Others and the Night's Watch that he had left behind. However, more than any of that, it was Sansa. No matter how he tried to push them all out of his thoughts, they found a way to sneak back in.

If Catelyn's face reared up in his head, he rolled onto his side and buried his face in his furs to try and block her out. If it was Arya, he was face down and shouting into his pillow to muffle the sound. The Others, as always, made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, bringing a cold sweat breaking across his brow. So he lay on his back and looked up at the canopy above him, trying to pinpoint the exact moment his feelings for Sansa changed. Or had they? Thinking about it in the dead of night, it felt more like his feelings hadn't so much changed, but gone charging out of all control.

He tried to think what Uncle Eddard would say. After all, he had raised them as siblings. But even Eddard couldn't deny that they were nothing of the sort. Despite that, shame plagued him. He should have stopped it. He should have removed himself from her as soon as he began to feel this way. He should have done the same with Ygritte and cursed himself for a fool … for always wanting the women he couldn't and shouldn't have.

The more he thought about it the more the chamber walls seemed to close in on him. Unable to bear it any longer, he rolled out of bed and pulled on some clean breeches and the same shirt he'd worn that day. Given the hour, he didn't bother with his boots and prepared to head to the hall in his bare feet. Before leaving, he clicked his fingers to signal for Ghost to follow. Having already stirred from his fireside slumber, the wolf came padding along without hesitation.

Neither of them made a sound as together they trod the cold stone passageways of the castle. Down the turnpike stair, he emerged into a wide open gallery with a door at the far end which would take him to the Great Hall. Not wanting to disturb the servants, however, he detoured to the kitchen to get some spare cuts of meat for Ghost and bread, cheese and ale for himself. They ate together in the still warm kitchens, while outside snow drifted silently past the windows of the sleeping castle. No longer sunk deep in his own turmoil, Jon felt something like contentment as he and his wolf ate together.

They didn't stay long once they'd finished. Just long enough for Jon to top up his tankard of ale before heading for the hall where the fires would still be burning. And it was there that he found her. She was sitting up at the high table, in her old seat, toying with a bronze crown of swords. When she heard him enter, she stopped and looked at him. She was a nightmare made flesh, but he had grown accustomed to that. He almost smiled to himself as he considered that the outward flesh merely reflected the bitterness that had always been within her.

"You're in my seat, Catelyn," he said, loud enough for her to hear.

She had scared him when she first arrived, true enough. But that fear was gone now. He didn't know what was left in its wake. Perhaps nothing, or less than nothing. Dead or alive, he had faced a lot worse than her and he knew he no longer had anything to fear.

However, even as he approached the high table, Catelyn did not move. Her hand closed over the wound at her throat and he found himself getting much closer than he intended, just to hear what she was about to say.

"Dead," she rasped, fixing him with a keen and cold gaze. "You."

"For a while," he confirmed. "Not as dead as you though, eh?"

Only a handful of tallow candles guttered on a nearby candelabra. The rest of the light came from a pale half-moon shining through the high windows of the hall. It made Catelyn look even more spectral, even more savage. The congealed blood at her open throat shone like silver. Similarly, silvered streaks ran down her face, where her nails had gouged great tracks in her face.

"Whose is the crown?" he asked, settling into a seat at her side. The one normally now occupied by Sansa.

He didn't really need an answer, but she provided one anyway. "Robb's."

Jon had thought as much, and gently took it from her. It was made of bronze and hastily forged. The original crown of the kings in the north was long gone, so clearly Robb had had to make do. After studying it closely, he gave it back to her.

"I'm surprised you let that sorry farce go as far as it did," he said, thinking aloud more than anything else. "When I heard about Robb's campaign, I almost abandoned the Night's Watch. But I'd already said the words and my friends dragged me back." He smiled at the memory, remembering the old Lord Commander's exact words and paraphrasing them aloud. "My friends brought me back and honour made me stay. That would be the honour you told everyone I didn't have. The honour that got me killed."

The shawl around her head slipped as she grasped at its edges, revealing her bone white hair. Death really had been unkind to Catelyn Tully.

"Bastard," she rasped.

Clearly, she hadn't been listening when Sansa divulged his little secret. Jon smiled a half-smile, a small and empty gesture of amusement. Eddard lied to protect her, and she had never stopped punishing him for it.

"Back then, if you had known the truth about me, Catelyn, you'd soon be wishing I really was just a bastard born to an unknown camp-follower," he laughed aloud, but it sounded bitter. "You thought I'd be a danger to you and I was. I was a danger to anyone who spoke to me, who ever gave me shelter. But not because I'm a grasping bastard with no sense of honour."

Catelyn was gripping Robb's old crown so hard the bronze swords were digging into her bloodless fingers. There was a cold, hard hatred in her eyes. Eyes that would have bored right through him, if he still cared. Her other hand was now gripping her throat so tight it was as if she was trying to strangle herself.

"Whore," she said. "Whore's son."

"That's no way to talk about your sister in law," he chided, mockingly.

Whatever she was going to try to say next, she changed her mind and cocked her head. Those hateful eyes narrowed, homing in on him further. He spared her the effort, while not wanting to spell it all out for her.

"Didn't you find it odd that Eddard went looking for his sister and came back with a baby?" he asked, not flinching from her gaze. "You're not stupid; you never were. Looking back now, I can't help but wonder at how you didn't figure it out. You must have known that Lyanna eloped with Rhaegar willingly. Your sister met her at Harrenhal, when Petyr Baelish was being taken back to the Fingers. Surely she told you?"

Clearly, Lysa had told her nothing. Catelyn continued to gaze at him, crown still gripped in one hand.

"You?" she asked.

"Me," he confirmed. "Lyanna is my mother; Rhaegar my father. They were married in secret, months before I was even conceived."

He paused and drank the rest of his ale, having almost forgotten he'd brought it from the kitchens. Meanwhile, Ghost hadn't settled at all. He wound his way between Jon's chair and Catelyn's, walking a figure eight around them.

"You were so worried about my usurping Robb's inheritance that you didn't stop to consider how you'd discourage him from throwing it away all by himself," he observed, sadly. "Your interference dragged the North to hell and you dumped it there for Sansa and I to pick up. Looking back on it now, you were the biggest danger to the North and no one realised. As for me, Catelyn, I could take this whole realm if I wanted. Never mind the North. But I won't, because my place is here, at Lady Sansa's right hand side, serving her as I should have served Robb. You were wrong about me, I've always known my place."

He took no pleasure from the home truths he told her. Each one made him feel sadder, more defeated even though he had scored them their biggest victories since the glory days of Robb's early battles. But one slip was all it took for Robb to fail, and that was something Jon reminded himself off every day. Just one slip…

"I don't hate you Catelyn," he continued. "I never did. I feared you, but that's not the same as hate. But I went to wall and learned to be the man you never thought I could ever be. And I all but forgot about you. Then when I found out the truth about my parents, I felt a little bit sorry for you. You were lied to as much as me, after all. But now that I've seen you like this, I pity you. Death would be kinder and even Sansa said the same."

By the time he stopped talking, Catelyn was no longer looking at him. She wasn't trying to speak, either. She was staring forlornly at the double doors at the back of the hall, all malice gone from her eyes. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, but Jon found that he didn't need her reply. He didn't need her approval, or an acknowledgement that she was wrong. He just needed her to know she was wrong. And there was just one more thing he needed her to know:

"Tomorrow, I'm leaving Winterfell with my real father, Rhaegar Targaryen, and we're going to find Arya to bring her home," he explained. "Then Bran will come down from the wall, and what's left of the Starks will be united once more."

She jerked her head around to face him again. For a moment, he wondered whether she even knew that Bran was alive. If she didn't, he wasn't about to explain. He really had told her everything he wanted her to know. He considered confessing his love for Sansa, but swiftly changed his mind. That wasn't for her to know. That was something sweet and sacred, between him and her alone. At least until they had both cleared their heads and decided on what it was they really wanted.

So he stepped down from the dais, signalling for Ghost to follow and walked out the door. Only the sound of that rasping voice of gravel stopped him in his tracks.

"Forgive?" was all she said.

Chapter Text

Sansa had hoped the worsening weather would drive everyone indoors that morning, so she could say goodbye to Jon in privacy. In a castle populated by hardened northmen, she should have known better. Wrapped in her own furs she kept her distance while Jon helped load up the pack mules for their outward journey to the Riverlands. Every so often he stopped and turned around, meeting her gaze and causing her to look away feeling almost abashed. In those moments, she remembered the kiss they stole. The one ended so abruptly by the arrival of a messenger from the Freys, so sudden they hadn't the time to talk about it afterwards. Now she knew she would have to wait months on end for that conversation. It would be like waiting for dawn in the midst of the Long Night.

After the shock of her marriage to Tyrion, followed so swiftly by the horrors of Ramsay Bolton, she hadn't wanted this. Especially not with someone she and the world thought was her brother. She remembered Olenna telling her about her own late husband; about how he had been so busy looking at the sky that he rode his horse off a cliff. This, whatever it was she was feeling for Jon, felt much the same. One minute her two feet were firmly on the ground, the next she was crashing through thin air; above her only the circling skies. It was a surprise, to say the least.

"We're almost ready." Jon approached her with snowflakes melting in his hair, just as Robb had the last time she saw him. That was a goodbye, too. "Will you ride some of the way with us?"

Reluctantly, she had to decline. "I had best stay here. I can't go too far from the castle."

She wanted to, desperately. But she didn't want to draw out the pain of a farewell, not in front of so many others. For Ser Davos was going with them, to yield Dragonstone to Rhaegar and, in turn, Daenerys Targaryen. Meanwhile Jon, Brynden and the Tully men were headed for the Riverlands. It made her suspicious that they were going as well, like they were trying to involved northmen in another catastrophic campaign in the south.

"Don't let my uncle nag you into meddling in the affairs of Riverrun," she advised. "I know you won't, but I couldn't rest until I heard you say it out loud."

Jon laughed drily. "I promise you, I won't. Even if I wanted to, we haven't the men. We haven't any siege engines and Ser Brynden says they're fully stocked for at least a year. I'm going to see if I can find Arya, then we'll be coming straight back."

As they lapsed into silence, she suddenly found herself struggling to find something to say. Something other than what was already in her head. The silence drew itself out and she began to hope he was thinking the same thing she was. And now, he was so close to her, she could see the shape of the snowflakes landing in his hair, melting to nothing.

"I going to miss you," she said, finally. Her tone was choked and her throat felt constricted. "So much has happened since I came to you at Castle Black that your not being there is going to feel like the loss of a limb."

He looked startled for a moment, as if he hadn't considered it. But he soon composed himself and managed to raise the ghost of a smile. "We won't be able to do that thing with the tree, like we could when I was stuck in the past. But I'll be thinking of you always, and that's got to count for something."

"I almost forgot about that," she replied, flushing in the face. It seemed insane to her, that she could have forgotten something so vital. But by the end of that whole episode, time travelling through a tree was something she had done so often it almost became mundane. She smiled faintly at the recollection before adding: "Well, even if it gets me nowhere, I'll come to the godswood and pray daily for you."

Despite the lack of privacy, he leaned in and kissed her. A chaste kiss, but that chastity was stretched as it lasted just that little bit too long. She felt her cheeks burn, but as she looked around no one else seemed to have noticed. Life in Winterfell continued uninterrupted. Only Rhaegar, mounted on a fast and strong courser, was looking over at them. Now that she had seen him and Jon together so often, she could see the similarities between them.

"Your father's waiting, so I best not keep you any longer," she said, ruefully. "Make the most of your time together, because I have a feeling all seven hells will soon break loose before you all return."

She heard the breath hitch in Jon's throat, his gaze suddenly dropping away from her own. He was about to walk away, even turning from her, before abruptly changing his mind. After a few paces, he ran back to her and kissed her one final time.

"And when all seven hells do break loose," he said between sharp breaths. "I'll be back and we'll face them together."

Sansa took that as a solemn promise.

Once he was gone, she climbed up the steps near the barbican and walked out onto the battlements. From there, she watched the small host disappearing on the horizon. Ghost was the first to vanish from sight as he blended perfectly with the fresh snowfalls. Only his ruby eyes were visible, when he stopped and looked back at her. Then the sound of giant beating wings sounded from far behind her. She knew what it was and she smiled as the dragon soon soared overhead, his silver blue scales vivid against the dull grey skies. For the first time, she realised what an extraordinary sight a dragon in flight truly was and goose bumps prickled all along her arms.

When they all returned, they would come with an army and three more where Soňar came from. They would be invincible.

The dragon was the first to vanish. Jon scanned the skies above, looking for him. Ghost, the direwolf, was usually enough to attract funny looks and dark glances, but he dreaded to think what kind of attention an adult dragon would bring. And, in their situation, all attention was unwanted attention.

"He's behind the clouds," Rhaegar stated, brusquely. "I'm starting to wish I had left him behind now, just to stop you from worrying."

Rhaegar was so on point that Jon felt affronted. "That's not what I was looking for-"

"Yes it was!" Rhaegar cut in. "You've been gawping at the sky ever since we left Winterfell. Well, stop it, he'll be good and stay out of sight."

Jon was far from satisfied. For all they knew, the weather in the south could well be decent. The next day may dawn bright and sunny, offering their secret weapon no chance of cover. But Rhaegar would not hear of leaving him behind. To his further dismay, Brynden Tully had become fascinated by the creature and offered no objection to his coming along too. Only ser Davos, as ever, had intervened with words of caution.

"I do think we should exercise a little discretion, your grace," he'd said to Prince Rhaegar. "And fire-breathing monsters which haven't been seen on these shores in nigh on two centuries don't leave much room for discretion. Not in my experience, anyway."

Rhaegar took offence at his beloved dragon being described as a "monster". Although fully briefed on Davos life, Jon couldn't help but wonder what other monsters he'd encountered over the years. However, it was Brynden who settled the matter.

"You sound like a pair of old women," he chortled, to Jon's annoyance. "Who cares if anyone sees the dragon? They won't be able to touch him and they won't be able to prove he's with us."

Despite his annoyance, Jon had been forced to agree. Rhaegar may have the looks of his family, but there was still no way anyone could prove the dragon was his. Besides, the dragon would be miles away most of the time, terrorising smallfolk and devouring live stock. That veneer of protection now had to suffice.

Two full weeks after leaving Winterfell, and he still hadn't seen the dragon again. Weary from the rough ride through difficult terrain, they arrived at Moat Cailin. A crumbling edifice of a fortress that protruded from the surrounding land like broken teeth. It made him shudder to think that a collapsed bridge and a decayed tower was all that stood between the North and a southern invader. Sentiments seemingly shared by his travelling companions.

"Catelyn always said this place was a death trap," said Brynden, dismounting his horse.

"I'll take my chances in the death trap rather than spend another night out in the open." Rhaegar sounded less concerned.

"What lies south of here? The Neck, isn't it?"

"The Neck," Jon confirmed, although he had never been this far south himself. At least, not in this lifetime. In his other lifetime he'd been as far as Dorne. "There's a causeway that'll lead us safely through the swamps, though. If we show Stark banners the Crannogmen will let us through right enough."

Or so Jon hoped. There had been so much fighting he would not blame Lord Reed for distrusting anyone attempting to cross his land. He would have sent a raven declaring their intentions, if he thought it stood any chance of locating Greywater Watch. The fortress was famous for forever being on the move, no raven ever found it. Even the last army that attempted to invade the Neck was still feeding the Lizard Lions that dwelled deep in their treacherous waters.

To Rhaegar's intense dismay, however, it was as cold inside the tower as it was outside. Colder even. Jon tried not to laugh as he watched his father attempting to light a fire in vain – not normally a problem for someone of his name. Gently nudging him aside, Jon took the flint himself and soon managed to catch a spark on some of the dry wood Davos has piled in the hearth. He blew gently on the catching flames, helping them to spread.

"Thanks," said Rhaegar. "I suppose you learned that north of the wall."

"I've always known how to light a fire," Jon protested.

He hadn't meant to sound like he was chiding him, but now Rhaegar appeared abashed. Reddening and rocking back on his heels, away from the smoking hearth, as if trying to discreetly disappear.

"Forgive me," he softly said when his efforts to vanish failed. "I think you must know a great deal many practical things that any other prince wouldn't have the first clue about. Things that I could never have taught you."

The words 'any other prince' jarred in Jon's head, compelling him to staunchly correct the other man. "That would be because I'm not a prince."

Rhaegar looked even more dismayed. "I know, I mean I understand. Your life has not been what it was meant to be. Neither your mother nor I ever intended this for you-"

"And I'm very glad I'm not a prince," Jon interjected. He was no longer looking at his father, keeping his eyes trained on the blossoming fire. The chimney was blocked, but the blockage cleared itself before the room could get unbearably smoky. Still his grey eyes reddened and watered as the acrid fumes stung at him. After a moment, he drew a deep breath and regretted being so waspish with his father, when he hadn't meant to be so in the first place. "I'm just glad I'm not a prince because I wouldn't have wanted everything handed to me on a plate. What I have in this life, I earned. I wouldn't swap any of that to be a pampered, spoiled prince."

"Is that what you think of me?" Rhaegar asked, sounding stung. "That everything's been given to me because of who I am? That I'm pampered and spoiled? Because the truth is, and surely you realise this, is that I lost everything because of who I am."

Jon had rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. At which Rhaegar was on his feet, huffing indignantly.

"I didn't mean-"

But he was cut off by the door slamming behind Rhaegar's back. He sighed heavily as a cloud of dust and loose plaster cascaded down from the overhead rafters, making him sneeze. Instead of running after his father, he turned back to the fire and tried to lift his temper by warming his hands against the growing fire. When that failed to work, he looked around the tower he was in, wondering how they were going to raise the funds to completely repair it. Moat Cailin needed to be permanently manned again, the Ironborn attacks proved that.

Pondering the repairs of Moat Cailin did not work for long, either. Ghost came to join him, the fur around his maws red from a recent kill. Deer, or so Jon hoped. The direwolf sniffed at him, nuzzled his face and licked his cheek. His pink tongue was rough against his unshaven face, making him wince. The smell of blood coming from the wolf made him want to gag.

Jon was in no mood to play. "Not now, boy. Go and hunt again."

Ghost hesitated, his red eyes dull in the poor light. Inwardly, Jon groaned at the thought of having pissed off another of his nearest and dearest. He said nothing as Ghost padded toward the door, hesitantly as though Jon might change his mind. However, he did not and continued staring glumly into the fire. He was leaving the North, he realised. And all he wanted was to go back home.

Sansa spread an old cloak out beside the pool of the godswood and carefully sat down. Leaning over the edge of the large pond, she could see where the roots of the heart tree winding away into the unfathomable depths of the still water. When she was little, she thought the lake was enchanted and she had loved that. Now, her adult self thought she might not have been too far wrong after all. There was a peculiar form of magic at work in the North; a type most had lost touch with a long time ago. But she had seen it, felt it and she needed it now.

Gingerly, she dipped her hand in the icy cold water and suppressed a shiver. Persevering, she wrapped one hand around the root and held it tight. It wasn't long before her fingers began to tingle, quickly turning her whole immersed hand numb with cold. Closing her eyes, she willed herself back with Bran, far beyond the wall in the Three-Eyed Crow's tree.

"Bran," she whispered, hoping beyond hope that he could hear her. "Arya's in the Riverlands. We need to reach her, to tell her Jon's gone searching for her."

Holding her breath, she kept her eyes closed and waited. She barely knew what she was waiting for, because Bran couldn't just materialise in present day Winterfell, like he did the historical Harrenhal. She knew that, but she still she waited for a sign. But all that happened was that the wind sighed through the trees, sending down a shower of ruby-red leaves. She opened her eyes in time to see one flutter down to the surface of the lake. When it landed, it didn't cause so much as a single ripple before gliding away from her.

The cold began to burn, the way that cold sometimes does. Nothing burns like the cold, she had heard someone say once. She had forgotten who but it no longer mattered. He was right, whoever he was. Involuntarily, she released her grip on the tree root and nursed her aching hand. Maybe Bran had heard her through the roots, on the endless unseen network that connected all the weirwoods in Westeros. If he had, he gave no fathomable sign.

But, that night, she slept and she dreamed. The crow showed her its third eye, then the vast wolf pack racing through the Riverlands. They moved as one vast host, led by a huge she-wolf twice the size of her subordinates.

"Nymeria," a voice in her head whispered clearly. It sounded like Bran.

"Arya," she tried to reply.

Before she could form her sister's name, she saw the river and the breath was stolen from her body. The whole river was ablaze, lighting up the night sky in oranges and reds. The shadow of a great winged beast spat more fire, sending the smallfolk fleeing toward the burning river and they had no place left to run. Sansa tried to scream, but the scene shifted again. She saw her sister, alone in a crowded room. But when she tried to reach Arya, her face had completely changed and it wasn't Arya at all.

Sansa tried to catch her again, but found herself on a hillside overlooking vast swamp. A lone man stood on the prow of a tiny boat, his face obscured by a deep hood as he poled his way northwards. She squinted and shielded her eyes to get a better look at him, but the more she did so the darker and fuzzier it got. It was a while before she realised she had woken up in her dark chamber.

It was the fires that had stayed with her. The burning smallfolk running for the rivers, hoping to find a watery refuge. Only to be met by more fire, rivers of fire. It made her want to vomit.

Jon awoke at dawn, shivering and hungry. Breakfast consisted of stale bread and hardened cheese procured from Barrowton on their way down. He washed it down with some small ale, wincing against the sickly taste. He couldn't see where the others were, except Rhaegar. It seemed he had not returned indoors the night before, and was out there still. Jon could see him sat on a hillside, looking out over the Neck. Memories of their previous day's row came back to him in an instant, making his breakfast weigh heavily in his stomach.

Unlike pampered princes, he knew when he was in the wrong. Accordingly, he pulled on the coat that Sansa had made for him, before wrapping some bread and cheese in a clean cloth. When he joined his father on the hillside, he handed over the food.

"Here," he said, "I thought you might be hungry."

It appeared that Rhaegar was ignoring him. Although inclined to leave him to it, Jon remained at his side and suppressed a sigh. However, the prince soon gasped, genuinely startled that Jon had suddenly appeared at his side.

"You must have been miles away!" Jon laughed, pressing the food into his hand. "I said 'you must be hungry,'"

"Forgive me," he replied, accepting the peace offering. "My head was in the clouds."

"I think it's I who ought to be asking forgiveness," said Jon, quietly. "You're my father, and you deserve more respect than I showed you. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Rhaegar assured him. "And nothing to forgive. Children are allowed to test the patience of their parents."

All the same, Jon had his regrets but he left them unspoken. At least it was a beautiful morning. The Prince opened up the cloth and picked at his light breakfast, sharing it with Jon. Meanwhile, they watched the mists part, revealing the endless waterways covering the Neck. When he squinted, he could just make out the causeway that provided the one safe route to the Riverlands.

"You were deep in thought when I first came to you," Jon noted. "What was on your mind?"

"Daenerys," he answered.

He had never met his sister and Jon was surprised it took this long for her to come up in casual conversation. When Rhaegar volunteered no further information, Jon prodded him gently. "And?"

Still Rhaegar hesitated. "To phrase it politely, I am concerned she inherited the family's eccentric streak. She is my father's daughter, after all. And I have no intention of marrying her so you needn't try to make me."

Jon almost choked on his own laughter. "Of course no one will make you marry her. Those brother-sister marriages are probably why there's a streak of madness in our family in the first place."

"It's as well Sansa and you aren't siblings then," Rhaegar replied, grinning now and unbothered by the swift change of subject.

However, Jon was taken aback. "There's nothing – nay, less than nothing – going on between Sansa and I. Now let's return to Daenerys. She's your sister and my aunt. I want to meet her. And, if she's mad…"

He trailed off, considering the possible ramifications. A mad queen in control of three adult dragons. It made him shudder.

"She's not married to Viserys, is she?" Rhaegar added. "He was a sweet child, but started to show the madness as he got older."

"Sansa said there were rumours of his death at court," replied Jon. "As for Daenerys, they say she married a Dothraki horse lord."

Rhaegar turned to look at him, his expression utterly incredulous. "I thought you might be jesting."

Jon shrugged. "That's what Sansa told me and she overheard Uncle Eddard talking to Robert about it."

"I'd wager the usurper loved that." Rhaegar laughed bitterly. "He couldn't have arranged a better match for her himself. As for my brother… I barely knew him."

They lapsed into silence as they watched the sun rise higher in the sky. It was bright, as Jon had worried. But the dragon was nowhere to be seen. He noted, too, that Ghost was nowhere to be seen, either. Hadn't been seen since the previous evening. Jon did not worry unduly, Ghost was always going off on his own north of the wall. He'd be back. He always was.

Jon kept watching the green treetops of the Neck, carpeting the valley floor and reclining into deep grey waters. He thought he saw some movement down there, then put it down to a trick of the shifting light.

"Ser Brynden told me Ser Barristan Selmy was part of Robert's Kingsguard," Rhaegar continued. "I was thinking about that, too. Ser Barristan was a friend of mine, well clearly not anymore."

"Father, Ser Barristan would have had no choice," Jon was quick to point out.

"I'd have fallen on my sword before swearing to serve that bastard. Still, I suppose he's dead as well now?"

The bitterness in Rhaegar's tone took Jon aback. "I wouldn't know, father. A lot's changed since you were here last, but take it as you find it."

His advice was half-hearted and he knew it. He'd become distracted by a figure poling a small boat up a waterway, close to the Northern border. Whoever he was, he wasn't alone. Jon chided himself for not noticing them sooner and he immediately felt his hackles rise.

"Get the others," he said, darkly. "We have uninvited guests."

Chapter Text

Jon shielded his eyes from the rising sun, squinting at the small group of men now disembarking from their small boats. They waded ashore, some of them knee deep in swamp waters. His nerves settled, there wasn't enough to them to cause any real trouble – if that was what they even intended. He was almost embarrassed by his initial panic, until he remembered how stealthily that small group approached. More could easily have been waiting, hidden from view. But only if they were…

"Crannogmen," he said aloud. "They're Crannogmen."

Not just any Crannogmen, either. The small sails on the boats were a deep grey-green, with a lizard lion sigil emblazoned on them.

"Lord Reed himself," Rhaegar added.

They were making their way up the steep hill toward Moat Cailin now, swifter than Jon realised. He could soon make out their small, narrow frames. Half the size of landed adults, quick and lithe. One moved ahead of the others, wrapped in a grey-green cloak with the hood still drawn over his head. He only removed it when he reached the top of the hill, a good ten foot from where Jon and Rhaegar stood.

Curious, he went to greet the man he'd heard so much about but seen only rarely. There was Harrenhal, of course, but Jon assumed Howland would have forgotten him from that time just as Benjen and his uncle Eddard had. If he was ever really there at all, and not some strange alternate version of it. He felt he had half a hundred questions to ask, but before he could even marshal his thoughts the Lord of the Crannogmen had dropped to one knee.

"To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater. Hearth and harvest and we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you," he intoned, solemnly.

Jon tried to intervene, to politely inform the man he was swearing to the wrong person. But by then the other little Crannogmen had caught up and added their voices to Howlands'.

"We swear it by earth and water," the chorused.

"We swear it by bronze and iron," Howland alone continued.

They all spoke the last line simultaneously. "We swear it by ice and fire."

For a long moment, Jon stood there looking at the kneelers, at a loss for what to do next. Blurting out that he was not the Lord of Winterfell seemed rude and just going with the moment felt like an affront to Sansa. It wasn't until Rhaegar nudged him sharply in the back, jolting him forwards, that Jon snapped out of his indecision. He turned sharply to his father, silently demanding some other clue as to what to do next. But Rhaegar only scowled at him, nodding to the newcomers.

"Do something!" he mouthed, silently.

'You're a great help,' Jon thought drily to himself.

Pulling himself together, he stepped forwards and tried to summon a little authority. "Well met, my lord, and be welcome. Here you will find meat and mead in our halls, a place by our hearth…"

He forgotten the rest of it, but had a feeling his reply was wrong anyway. The Reeds pledge of fealty was different to everyone else's'. It was older, felt darker and he had not heard it since he was a boy. Not that it mattered; Howland had risen from his kneeling position and stood looking up at Jon.

"I was on my way to Winterfell, my lord, to pledge directly to Lady Sansa. But it is you and your father I needs must speak with more urgently."

Jon exchanged a look with Rhaegar, finding him equally surprised at how well informed Lord Reed was.

"Forgive me, my lord and your grace," Lord Reed added, apologetically as he looked from Jon to Rhaegar. Clearly, he had sensed what they were thinking. "You understand that Bloodraven and I-"

"Of course," Jon interjected, laughing stiffly. "You and he, I presume, have your ways of keeping in touch."

"As you can imagine," the Lord confirmed, raising a small smile. "If I may be so bold as to suggest we find somewhere to talk?"

The shock appearance of the most reclusive lord in Westeros had startled the manners right out of Jon. After giving himself an inner shakedown, he quickly recovered himself and gestured toward Moat Cailin. It was all they had, since they couldn't very well go all the way back to Winterfell.

"Follow me," he said, leading the way. "And apologies for Caillin's run down state, but we're headed farther south."

"I understand," Howland replied. "I still need to speak with your cousin, of course. But my men will gladly guide you through the Neck, taking you a much shorter route through the swamps."

Jon was genuinely grateful and thanked the Lord accordingly as they made their way inside the ruins.

There were only a few Crannogmen with Lord Reed. That was how they always travelled, in small units that moved swiftly and could attack in the blink of an eye before melting back into the land. The land around them, their own environment, was their ally and their weapon. They used it with devastating ease, Jon knew. Not for nothing were they called the Gatekeepers of the North.

By the time they made it back to Moat Cailin's one remaining tower house, the hearth fire was burning again and they were able to begin roasting fresh butchered lamb on a spit. Brynden Tully was able to procure mead from a cask brought down on one of their pack mules and Ser Davos had managed to harvest fish from a nearby river. Wrapped in fresh green leaves Jon could not identify, the fresh fish was tossed into the open fire to cook slowly without burning. Once the preparations were done, they gathered at the room's only trestle table each man nursing a horn of mead and Jon could finally gather his thoughts.

"You were at the Tower of Joy," he said, looking to Howland. "My uncle told me as much, but no more. What happened? What did you see?"

Howland didn't reply immediately. His green eyes dimmed as he lost himself in memory. It was almost twenty years passed, Jon reminded himself.

"Princess Lyanna was already dead by the time I made it into the Tower," he explained. It felt strange to hear her addressed as 'princess' but that's what she was. "Lord Stark cradled her in his arms, silent and broken with grief. I tried to speak with him, but he could not hear me. So I loosened the grip of his hands where he held her, gently as I could. Only then did he seem to realise I was there in the room with him and that Lyanna was not."

Jon felt a lump forming in his throat. During his travel back in time, he had left the Tower months before her death and had not seen it. While he was growing up, his uncle had not spoken of it. At first, Jon assumed it had been too traumatic for him. After he had learned the truth of who she was, he thought Eddard's silence on her death was part of the secret plan. Now, after hearing Lord Reed's account, he thought he might have been right the first time after all. He could see Eddard now, a young man barely out of boyhood, cradling the sister he had cherished enough to carry her most dangerous of secrets to his own early grave.

Sitting next to Jon, Rhaegar had taken to staring fixedly at the contents of his cup. "Was she in pain?"

"I cannot say, your grace," Howland answered, honestly. "There was a lot of blood. I prepared her body myself, while Lord Stark travelled to Starfall with Dawn. For the love I bore her, only the woman – Wylla – handled her naked at the end. I didn't think it right that she be examined."

He meant before the flesh was boiled from his mother's bones, for her final journey back to Winterfell. Jon was grateful to Lord Reed for leaving out the details of the procedure.

"It was only afterwards, on the sailing back to the North, I learned of the solemn vow Lord Stark swore to your mother," Howland continued, looking back at Jon. "Princess Lyanna had heard of what happened to your half-brother and sister. She thought the same would happen to you, my lord. With her last breaths she pled with Lord Stark to take you, to protect you. He told me that, after he made the promise, the fear left her and she died at peace."

It was small consolation to Jon, but at least she had that final assurance. And he upheld it, to the end.

"He never told a soul," said Brynden Tully, echoing Jon's thoughts. "Not even our Cat."

He remembered his last conversation with Catelyn. She had asked for his forgiveness and he had walked away, giving her no answer.

"Neither did I, my lord," Howland replied. "No one but us could know and I wouldn't have been told had I not been there to see it for myself."

Jon hadn't considered that. Howland knowing was one too many.

"As it happens," Howland continued. "My knowing had its uses. Had Robert ever, somehow, learned the truth then it would be to Greywater Watch that Jon would be taken. No one could reach the last Targaryen prince there. So I never left again, keeping our profile low and our eyes and ears peeled for the faintest whiff of rumour. That's how we operate."

Only Brynden seemed unhappy. "Had Catelyn known she could have helped. At the very least, she wouldn't have kept drawing attention to Jon through that feud she had with him."

Jon doubted that, but he wasn't about to argue the point with Catelyn's own uncle. He suspected that, if she did know, she would only see him as an even greater danger to her children. He had grown up a fugitive, undercover so deep even he himself couldn't have been trusted with the truth.

"With all due respect, Lord Tully, I think Jon had a right to know before Catelyn Tully," Rhaegar curtly stated. "Lord Stark could hardly compromise my son's safety by divulging all to a woman just because she had an unfortunate habit of making innocent children suffer for their father's sins. If anything, I would say that was all the more reason to keep his mouth shut on the matter. She had given him no reason to trust her."

Brynden glowered in response. "Most underhand, your grace. Had she known the truth she would never have done half the things she did-"

Rhaegar sniffed. "She wouldn't have misunderstood half the things she did had she simply given Lord Stark a chance to explain before flying into a rage-"

"What did Ned Stark expect her to do?" Brynden shot back, angrily. "My niece is a highborn woman unaccustomed to having unknown bastards planted in her nursery. How was she meant to react? Most others would have left him in the woods to die!"

"Gods, man, she has a brain between her ears doesn't she?" Rhaegar retorted, getting to his feet in anger. "Didn't she find it odd that Ned went to get Lyanna and came back with only a baby? It's not as though anyone truly believed I'd abducted and raped Lyanna so what did she think we were doing for all that time?"

Brynden drew a deep breath, folding his arms across his chest and looking at Rhaegar accusingly. "If you hadn't have run off with Lady Stark in the first place, that war need never have happened-"

"Oh ho, but who was it who really caused that little misunderstanding, Lord Tully," Rhaegar snorted in disgust. "Some up-jumped little shit who was a member of your own household, actually. Wasn't Petyr Baelish under your care at that time?"

Brynden looked utterly outraged and Jon wanted nothing more than to crawl under the table and hide. He sorted out conflict every day as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. But this was a conflict between a man he had come to love and a man whose respect he thought he could never win, but had against the odds. He looked to Brynden, silently pleading with him to back down.

There was no chance of that. "That boy was under my brother's care. Hoster was Lord of Riverrun, your grace. Your brush with death appears to have affected your memory."

Before Rhaegar could reply with more oil on the flames, Jon leapt to his feet and got between both of them.

"Enough!" he snapped, angrily. "Both of you: that is enough. Please, let it be."

Still positioned between the two men, he glanced apologetically at Lord Reed and drew several deep breaths to compose himself. After a long pause in which to let the tension drain, Jon met his father's gaze.

"Lady Stark didn't know anything and was told the same story as everyone else. You said yourself, Lord Stark had no choice and blaming Catelyn for not working it on her own is deeply unfair. So stop this," he said, calm but stern. He turned to Brynden and added: "Lord Stark meant no slight against your family with this secret, my lord. His word was sacred and he swore to his sister that no one would ever know. You knew him, you knew how he would have kept that promise to the very last letter."

The stand-off continued, with both men looking daggers at one another. Figuring that he stood a better chance at reasoning with his father, it was to him that Jon silently pleaded.

Rhaegar could not ignore him. He sighed and slumped his shoulders, before reaching across the table to Brynden. "Forgive me, my lord, I spoke out of turn. I was not here to raise my son and I took my anger out on your niece."

To Jon's immense relief, Brynden shook Rhaegar's hand. "There is nothing to forgive, your grace."

"Good," said Jon, looking to the lamb still on the spit and the fish baking in its fat green leaves. "Now we can rescue our food before it burns."

The solar had become Sansa's favourite place in Winterfell. It was shut off from the rest of the castle, making it quiet. It was small and snug, with an open hearth that the servants kept well fed with pine logs that filled the air with a rich, sharp scent. There was a wine cabinet she could help herself to and a bell that connected to the kitchens. She could sup here in the evenings with no more than one invited guest. Usually it was another Lord, one with far more experience and wisdom than her. She could ask them for advice or just listen to anything they had to say. It was the sort of thing her father would have done and she intended to honour the tradition.

But, on this particular night, it was not another lord sat beside her. It was her own mother. As hard as it was for her to think of this person as her mother. 'Lady Stoneheart' they called her and Sansa shuddered to think why. Nor could she think why she had invited her mother here. Catelyn was as silent and emotionless as ever as she stared vacantly into the open flames. Worse, Sansa could not share her supper with her and sat there picking awkwardly at the food.

Better still, the conversation was stilted at best.

"Jon's bringing Arya home, you know," she said. "So I hope he comes home soon; we miss them both."

Catelyn did know. Sansa had mentioned it half a hundred times. And Catelyn probably wasn't missing Jon all that much. For a while, the only sound to be heard was the crackling fire.

"I love him, too," she blurted out.

The words were out of her before she knew it. But she would not take them back. Even Catelyn turned to her, her neck moving in that stiff and crackling way that it now did. There was something like anger in her eyes, but Sansa didn't flinch. She had been so long a piece in someone else's game, including her mother's, that being in control of her own destiny had emboldened her too much to back down.

"I was never married to Tyrion," she said, recalling that unhappy time. "He was already married to someone else, or so I was told. A girl Tywin chased away, but they were married all the same. Besides, our union was never consummated so it was not a true union. As for Ramsay … well, I'm a widow now. There is no one left to decide my husband but me. Anyway, it's all too soon for that. But I know I love him. You were always keen for me to not look upon him as a brother and I didn't. I suppose I ought to be grateful for that now. It would have been more difficult had I looked upon him as a full brother. But he isn't. I mean, he could marry Arya if he wanted and they would be doing nothing wrong. But I don't think they could, because they see each other as siblings."

She was thinking aloud, giving voice to the stream of thought going through her head. It was for no other purpose than straightening out her own clumsy thoughts and filling the terrible silences that fell between them. Now that Catelyn was largely incapable of answering back, it made things wonderfully uncomplicated.

But it was not to last. Catelyn covered her throat and a single word rasped like gravel from her dry throat.

"Iron." She said, quickly followed by: "Throne."

Whatever it was Sansa expected, it wasn't that.

"Our place is here, in Winterfell," she murmured in reply. "The rightful King is still Prince Rhaegar."

Before she could ponder it much further, an anxious sounding knock came to the door. Startled, Sansa dropped her fork and made to answer. On the opposite side of the door, her new Steward was standing beside a large man with a chain wrapped around his neck. But it wasn't Tybald.

"My lady," said the Steward. "A visitor, from the Citadel-"

"Maester Marwyn," the newcomer brusquely cut the Steward off and thrust one large hand in Sansa's direction. "A friend of Samwell Tarly's, as it happens. When I read his letter I realised how much the Starks of Winterfell needed me."

He was a large man, almost square in shape and unlike any Maester she had ever seen.

"Oh," she replied, belatedly shaking his hand. "Er, does Sam know you're here?"

Marwyn looked rather taken aback. "I never realised I needed his permission."

Sansa caught herself on. "No, of course not Maester. Forgive me, please join me in the hall and we can talk."

She tried to close the door before he could see inside, to where Catelyn was still gazing into the fire. But it was too little.

"So, it's true then," he murmured almost to himself. "The rumours are true."

She didn't need to ask which rumours. From what she had heard, the Riverlands were alive with speculation about her mother's continued existence. However, she did hope the new maester would enlighten her as to what was going on. Without asking more, she led him to the great hall. However, before they went in he handed her a scroll of parchment.

"There's records at the citadel," he murmured. "I trust you to keep it safe."

She studied the scroll. It had curled at the edges and gone brown with age, but the seal was already broken when someone else had already read it. When she unrolled it, it was a simple document. A formal declaration of the annulment of the marriage between Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. Initially, her heart soared. But then she read it again.

"This won't be enough to prove Jon's legitimacy, though," she said. "Wasn't there another detailing the Prince's marriage to my aunt Lyanna?"

Marwyn shrugged. "Tarly searched the archives for four days and five nights. He found nothing else."

She raised a smile anyway. "My thanks, Maester. Jon will be grateful too."

Come the dawn and they were setting off again. Jon helped load up the pack mules, ready for the journey through the Neck. At the end of this treacherous route, he hoped Arya awaited him. Before Howland left for Winterfell, however, Jon took him aside. He found an alcove overlooking the wetlands of the Neck, where they could speak privately.

"I don't think I had the presence of mind to thank you for coming to us," he said. "So I'm saying it now. Thank you for everything; for keeping my secrets most of all."

"I owed your mother a great debt," he replied. "She saved my life and I could not save hers in return."

Jon saw the regret in his eyes and was quick to reassure him. "The debt is more than repaid, my lord."

Howland did not reply. Instead, he reached into his satchel and withdrew two scrolls of parchment. "Only with these is the debt repaid, my lord."

Jon took them both, breaking the seal on one of them for the first time. It was a formal record, meant for the citadel at Oldtown, of the marriage between his mother and father. The sight of it made his eyes mist over. But the second stole the breath from his lungs. A formal record, also meant for the citadel, of his own birth. His name had been written in Eddard Stark's small, neat handwriting. It was clear for all to see: "Jon Targaryen, son of Lyanna of House Stark and House Targaryen and Rhaegar of House Targaryen."

"Your uncle was the only person able to write the document," Howland explained. "And Jon wasn't even your original name. But, under the circumstances, it was so secret Ned wouldn't even trust the citadel with it."

"I understand," Jon assured him, his voice choked with emotion. "And I thank you. It is I who owes you the great debt, my lord."

He read the two documents one more time, before placing them carefully in his own pocket. As soon as he returned to the retinue, he would lock them safely in the strongbox they had brought with them. Meanwhile, Howland clasped his arm and Jon returned the embrace. Nothing else needed to be said.

Chapter Text

The Neck closed around Jon's small travelling party like a smothering embrace. One by one, their small boats had passed through a seemingly impenetrable wall of green foliage only to emerge on the other side into a whole new world. A world not normally seen by the likes of land-dwelling men such as them. They were too big, too clumsy and too accustomed to the ground staying firm beneath their feet. Here it was all marsh, swamp and waterways punctuated by crannogs of varying sizes. Not even they remained in one place. One or two drifted in their wake, as if following them before their course diverted and they were swallowed by the grey-green gloom that permeated all around them.

Even by day it was dark and menacing. The canopy of trees overhead blotted out the sun. At best, they passed beneath the places where the branches were thin and they caught a little dappled sunlight that fell in shafts from above. Then it was beautiful. The sunlight picked out the purple glow of the poison kisses growing on the banks, venomous leaves a splendour of colour. The beauty blended with the omnipresent danger, masking it from the naked eye and Jon began to understand why no invader had ever successfully taken the Neck. Even the First Men fell victim to this waterlogged death trap.

Occasionally, they passed a lizard lion who'd poked their snout above the surface of murky brown waters. He tried to feed one some salted beef, only to have a wiser Crannogman pull his arm back over gunwale.

"No, my lord, it'll swallow you whole," he warned.

Like everything else in the Neck, the danger of the beasts lay hidden beneath the surface. When it rose from the water to snap at an unwary bird, it revealed its huge body and its long poisoned teeth sinking easily into flesh. The splash of it crashing back into the hidden depths almost capsized one of their little boats.

By night they set up camps on whatever floating Crannog they could find. They were perfectly round islands floating south toward the Riverlands. Some had dwellings built on, others did not. In the places where the land was sturdy, he could see the blurry dots of light from torches borne by Crannogmen he could not see. When he did see them, he noted how swiftly and easily they moved across the treacherous land. They knew every sink hole, every pit of quicksand and every hidden current like the backs of their hands.

"This place is extraordinary," said Rhaegar, one night. "Have you ever been anywhere like it?"

All of them had managed to set up camp on the same crannog, but their added weight had slowed it down. Ghost curled at Jon's feet, perfectly relaxed in his new environment and Jon knew he was among friends.

"I must say, your grace, I thought I knew every boat there was to know," Ser Davos replied. "But these are new to me and I thought I'd never say that again."

In truth, Jon thought, Davos had been having the time of his life as he learned from the Crannogmen. Together, they were navigating the watercourses and the grizzled old sailor was an eager student. Rhaegar, too, hadn't missed out on learning a new skill and had become adept at fishing with a Crannogman's fine net. Some of the prince's catch was soon roasting on an open fire they'd managed to get going. Jon's efforts at learning to spear frogs had ended in comedic disaster.

That night, as they neared the border with the Riverlands, they grouped together on the crannog and warmed themselves by the fire. Jon had spent the last few nights composing a letter to Sansa, ostensibly to update her on their progress. But now he'd covered the business end and he wanted to stray into the personal. Someone once told him, and that someone was more than likely Sam, that writing down one's finer feelings was much easier than speaking them aloud. For the first time, he realised there were some things even Sam had no knowledge of. Then, as he went to reach for his parchment, Rhaegar called them together.

"Tell us, Ser Brynden, what awaits us in the Riverlands?" he asked. "Without the Tullys for protection, and the Freys in charge, it worries me."

Before Brynden could say anything, Ser Davos spoke and echoed what Jon was thinking all along. "We'll emerge from these swamps close to Seagard. House Mallister has served both House Tully and House Stark faithfully. That would be my first port of call."

By the look on Brynden's face, Jon could tell it was bad news. "Patrek was captured at the Red Wedding, my lords. When Black Walder threatened to hang him, Ser Jason surrendered the castle."

Jon knew, and had always thought highly of, Ser Denys Mallister. The news grieved him. "Where are they now?"

"All prisoners," Brynden replied. "Held inside Seagard itself, as best I know."

Ser Denys should have been Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon thought to himself. And the last election was Mallister's last chance.

"Is Black Walder still in Seagard?" he asked, looking to Brynden. "Or will he have left to attend his father's funeral?"

"More than likely," Brynden confirmed. "If not for the old man's funeral, then to stake a claim to the Twins. He's not the rightful heir but I wouldn't put it past him to organise his brother's untimely demise."

"Who is his heir?" Jon was endlessly bewildered by the old Lord's heirs. Having died at the age of ninety, there were several generations of Frey's waiting in the wings and he couldn't name a single one of them. But Brynden was better informed.

"His great-grandson, Edwyn Frey. Edwyn's father, Ryman Frey, was killed not a few months ago, and he was the son of Stevron Frey, who was Walder's eldest son by his first wife, Perra Royce," Tully explained. "Stevron, of course, died fighting alongside King Robb at Oxcross."

Jon tried to commit all that to memory, but all that mattered to him was that Black Walder was probably long gone from Seagard. All that remained to trouble him was the unanswered question of who had been left at Seagard in Frey's place. For sure, they wouldn't have left a prized jewel like that unguarded.

"Really," he said. "All that matters is that we can get past both the Twins and Seagard unmolested by Frey's men. But if the Mallisters are now sworn to them-"

Brynden cut him off with a loud choking noise, like a large chicken bone had caught in his throat.

"Horse shit!" he snorted. "The Mallisters will turn at the first opportunity. They served House Tully and House Stark as faithfully as any true Northman served them. It was their men who let me pass in the first place."

Opposite Jon, with the campfire burning between them, he noticed Rhaegar looking at him, studying him intently. But when their gaze met, the prince quickly looked away again and poked at the cooking fish with a long stick.

Once they had eaten, Jon returned to his letter to make use of the firelight before it died away. He included the information about House Frey taking over Seagard, but stopped short of asking Sansa for reinforcements. Then he stopped as he tried to frame the words in his head, words to express some finer sentiment. Every time he thought of something, he thought again and cringed at how embarrassing it all sounded.

"Who're you writing to?" Rhaegar asked.

His arrival was so abrupt that Jon startled. Even while his heartbeat still raced, his gut instinct was to hide the letter as best he could.

"No one!" he answered, defensively.

But Rhaegar wasn't fooled. "By 'no one' you mean Sansa, I take it."

Jon felt the colour rising in his face and thanked the gods it was now almost too dark to see.

"Now don't blush," his father teased. "I've already told you you're doing nothing wrong. Anyway, it's a fine match in my estimation. How can it not be? You're a Targaryen prince and she's Wardeness of the North. Once you have Arya and Bran back you can set them up in Winterfell and bring Sansa south."

Jon was mystified. "What are you talking about? Sansa and I will rule the North together, should it come to a true match. We have no business in the south."

Rhaegar hesitated, looking genuinely mystified. "But you are a Prince of the realm-"

"Have you told Cersei that?" Jon cut over him. "I've already told you, neither Sansa nor I have any interest in the Iron Throne. I have come south to find Arya and bring her home, where she belongs."

But is that true? A small voice asked from the back of his mind. He thought about the Mallisters again. Prisoners in their own keep, ruled over by Black Walder Frey. None of that would have happened had they not sworn their swords to Robb. Now the Starks were restored to Winterfell and turning their backs on their former allies. Allies who continued to suffer the consequences of a Stark rebellion.

In growing frustration, Jon pushed the letter away. "What can we do? There are four of us and one dragon."

"And a direwolf," Rhaegar pointed out. "And you heard Brynden. The Mallister's men are waiting or the right time to strike. We can raise them, Jon. We can rally the townsfolk as well. They all want the Freys gone."

"And then what?" asked Jon. "I have no interest in abandoning my people in the North to carve out a fat little kingdom north of the Trident. I will not repeat Robb's mistakes-"

"No one's telling you to do that!" Rhaegar hissed, keeping his voice down despite his mounting frustration. "But the Riverlords fought for you, too. If they wanted you to help take back Winterfell they couldn't because they'd already lost everything fighting for the Starks in the first place."

Jon could no longer meet his gaze. He knew all this and more. "The Northern Lords will not send men to die in another southern war. Sansa and I promised them we would never even insult them by asking."

But Eddard Stark would not have turned a blind eye to this mess. Still Jon remained silent.

"Take the realm, Jon," Rhaegar spoke so softly. "Starting with the Riverlands, take the realm."

"What about Daenerys-"

"She has no claim compared to you," he cut in quickly. "You can do this, Jon. You're a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch who had warring wildlings fighting on your side. You're a leader of men. Take the realm."

Rhaegar had gone from being the father he never knew he had to being a little devil sitting on his shoulder. Take the realm … take the realm. He made Westeros sound a little sweet cake just conveniently sitting there for the taking. Jon's jaw clenched, unable to voice any further protest.

"You have the North," Rhaegar pressed on. "You have the Vale and you could take the Riverlands while the Freys are still in disarray. So take it!"

Jon's brow creased, tightening into a frown. The Lords of the Vale could reach the Riverlands in a matter of weeks, he thought to himself. All he had to do was get Sansa to ask that besotted little cousin of hers. The same cousin who owes her his life since she exposed Littlefinger's plan to dispose of him.

"I cannot," Jon insisted. He remembered the documents lord Reed had given to him, proving his birth and legitimacy. They were locked in a strongbox now, safe. "I cannot," he reiterated.

He reached for his letter again and began to write.

The glass vial caught the light, making the blue liquid inside shine like molten sapphires. Sansa smiled at the sight of it, but she could not guess at what it was. Meanwhile, Marwyn dangled it in front of her face almost teasingly. She looked from the vial to the Maester and back again, as though searching for clues.

"I give up," she said. "What is it?"

The gruff looking Maester smiled a victorious smile. "Shade of the Evening."

Sansa was still none the wiser. "What does it do?"

Before answering, Marwyn replaced the crystal vial in his battered leather satchel and buckled it carefully. Once it was secure, he explained: "You have your bone white weirwoods with red leaves. You eat the paste of that tree and you can explore history."

Sansa had done it herself and nodded her head. "Yes, my brother told me all about it."

"But did you know about the black ironwoods with the blue leaves that, if made into Shade of the Evening, will show you the future?"

"No," she admitted. "We have Ironwoods here in the North as well, but not ones with blue leaves that make a potion."

"They grow in the east," Marwyn clarified. "You see, my lady, everything in this world is balanced. The power of the weirwoods in Westeros is countered by the power of the eastern ironwoods. Here, you have your greenseers and wargs, in the east they have their blue-lipped warlocks. The northmen have their old gods, the southerners their new gods. Your late aunt was ice and your uncle by marriage is fire. Your cousin, their son, is the perfect balance of both. At least, according to the prophecy and prophecy is a treacherous bitch."

Sansa held back and looked out over the empty hall they were in. The Northern Lords were still hunting what they could before winter closed in and the winter promised to be harsh. Where's the balance in that, she wondered.

"That was the prophecy that Rhaegar believed in," she said aloud. "But what of the warlocks you mentioned. You said they drink that stuff all the time, so they must know what's coming if it shows them the future. Surely they already know who the prince that was promised is and how the war against the dead will play out."

A look of regret crossed the maester's features. "Alas, the Mother of Dragons took the liberty of destroying their temple with the warlocks inside it."

Sansa remembered the dream she had had. The river of fire, the smallfolk burning inside their holdfasts. She had long since stopped trusting her dreams to just be dreams.

"If I drank it, what would happen?" she asked.

Marwyn smiled, reaching for his satchel again. "Nothing is ever straight forward, my lady. You will see the future, but you will see the past and you will see things that could have been, but never were. You will see things that might be, if only you take another path in life. Interspersed throughout will be snippets of your fate. Some have gone mad trying to decipher which were the real thing."

He found the vial again and handed it to her. Sansa held it delicately in the palm of her hand, suddenly feeling reticent. "But what use is it if it only shows you fragments that can't be trusted?"

Marwyn shrugged his broad shoulders. "That's the danger; that's the risk you take. Like I said, everything's in balance."

She could feel herself being led down a path of temptation, and she made no effort to stop it. But she resolved to do nothing with the vial just yet. What she did do was pull out the stopper, breaking a small wax seal before taking a sniff at it. For such a pretty substance the odour was repellent. Rotting meat, spoiled milk and something else … something equally foul she couldn't quite put her finger on. Wincing, she replaced the stopper and set it aside on the table.

"It's no lady's perfume," Marwyn noted. "Initially, it tastes like it smells. Only for a second, before it changes to something sweeter."

"You have tried it yourself, then?" she asked, curiously.

"Why, of course," he confirmed. "I'll leave it to grey sheep to write about the things they've only ever read about in other written books. Be warned though, those grey sheep won't err from action if they find a way to destroy the Targaryen dragons."

That night, she lay awake in bed and stared at the vial on her nightstand. The potion inside caught the moonlight, turning the inky liquid silver. She found herself thinking of Jon, and Arya, and whether they were together again yet. Could I swallow that potion and find out? She wondered to herself. But there was a war coming. A time when someone might need a little foresight might just be able to unhinge the balance of the universe.

When she awoke in the morning after a dreamless sleep, her handmaiden passed her the letter that had arrived in the night. The sight of Jon's personal seal made her smile as she snapped the wax in half. She read it once, then twice, and she needed no stinking blue elixir to tell her what to do next.

"Maester Marwyn," she greeted him cheerily. "If it pleases you, could you inform the men who fought for House Bolton that, if they fight for House Stark now, I will grant them all a free and full pardon upon their return. Later, I will need you again. I must write to my cousin, the Lord of the Vale."

With that concluded, she sought out Lord Wyman Manderly who was preparing to return to White Harbour. He was too large to sit a horse these days, so there was a reinforced litter waiting for him in the courtyard of Winterfell.

"My lord," she called out before his men could get him inside. Once in, it would take forever to get him out again.

He could not bow, but he bent his knees in a form of deference. "My lady."

Sansa didn't waste time on niceties. She had an army to cobble together in a matter of days.

"When you came to swear me fealty, you lamented that you had no chance to exact revenge against the Boltons for the murder of your son," she reminded him. "The Boltons are gone, but the Freys are still out there." She handed him Jon's letter and watched as the smile spread across his broad face. "What do you say to that, my lord?"

He didn't have to say anything. His tears of grief turned to tears of hope. Next, she had to arrange passage with Lord Reed, who had only arrived at Winterfell the day before. But when she spoke to him it was if he had already guessed what would happen.

Later that day, she returned to her chambers and opened her closet door. She found what she was looking for immediately. It was meant as a gift for Prince Rhaegar but she had set it aside when she learned he was travelling incognito. Arya had begun shaken the foundations of House Frey, now it was down to them to bring the whole edifice crashing back down again.

Another week of drifting down the Neck and they made it safely to the Riverlands. Jon and Rhaegar were the first on dry land, breathing the open air gratefully. This close to the Neck, however, there was no sign of enemy forces. Emboldened by the fact, Jon dared crest a steep hill for a better look around from a high vantage point.

What was once green and fertile fields was now a burned wasteland. In the near distance, a small village had been looted and he could just make out a gibbet inhabited by a blackened corpse, swinging in the breeze. Any living souls had long since fled that place. To him, it looked like a greener and wetter version of the wildling camps he had encountered north of the wall. Certainly not the most productive and fertile regions of the whole realm.

He thought again about what Rhaegar said the week before. Take the realm…

"My Lord, a message from Winterfell!" a man's voice called from behind him.

Jon spun on his heels, turning his back on the Riverlands he ran back down the hill to where the messenger sat atop of sturdy garron horse. His clothes were stained from the road and soaked from his journey down the Neck. When Jon reached him, he could see the man had ridden non-stop.

"From Lady Stark, my lord," the man said. There was another package under his arm, but he passed that to Rhaegar.

Jon glanced over Sansa's letter and smiled to himself. Reinforcements would be arriving forthwith, it said. Bolton men in need of a pardon and a few hundred Manderlys looking for revenge against the Freys. It was by no means an army, but it was enough to kick the Freys out of Riverrun and Seagard. He had taken back Winterfell with less.

"Good news from Winterfell," he said to Rhaegar.

But the Prince was busy with something else. His package, wrapped in coloured paper, lay open on the packed earth ground. Its contents spread out flat. A battle standard the size of a bedsheet. Black silk with a silk scarlet three-headed dragon sewn expertly in the middle. They both regarded it with a growing sense of an ever shifting destiny.

Chapter Text

The farther they travelled through the Riverlands the more the ravages of war revealed themselves. Once fertile fields had been put to the torch, reducing them to little more than scorched earth. He wouldn't have been surprised if the raiders hadn't sown salt into the ground, just for good measure. Whole villages had been laid to waste, leaving only stumps of houses that had been stripped to the foundations. Wattle and daub homes of the smallfolk had been torn away completely. Many were populated only by rotting corpses hanging from gibbets suspended from the town walls that were meant to protect them. A stray dog followed them through one such place, yapping incessantly at their passing horses. Jon noted that that dog was the first sign of life they had seen since leaving the Neck.

Regardless of who governed the Riverlands now, it would take years for the land to recover. And there wasn't so much as a grain of corn to see any survivors through the oncoming winter. If the Maesters told it true and this winter would be the longest ever, the region was doomed.

"Who did this?" he asked Brynden Tully as they passed the remains of another derelict village. "The Freys?"

"Not even the Freys would do this to their own people." It was a begrudging concession that made his real guess all the more ominous. "Lannisters."

Of course, he thought to himself, the Lannisters food supply would be coming from The Reach so why did they need the Riverlands? Although, that didn't make sense because Cersei had the Tyrells murdered in the Sept of Baelor. That had to be the most stunning act of self-sabotage Jon had ever heard of. When he mentioned this to Brynden, the old man laughed mirthlessly.

"Cersei's mad! Do you think the mad see reason?"

Jon stifled a sigh and kept his gaze on the road ahead. What few scouts they had had already ridden ahead, forewarning them of whatever fresh hell awaited them in the next village. Seagard was coming into view now, a good sized town spread out along the northern lip of Ironman's Bay. The woods that surrounded it were only sparse, the remains of once great forests felled to fuel the shipping industry. Jon could only be grateful for that as it afforded him a clear view of the town they hoped to take as soon as Sansa's reinforcements arrived. Now that he had seen the destruction for himself, he soon found himself wondering whether they could even wait that long.

"Do you know the castle?" he asked.

"As well as any outsider," replied Brynden. "What are you thinking?"

"I suspect I'm thinking the same thing you are, my lord," Jon replied. "That we get in there, somehow, and free the Mallisters. A small hope, I'll grant you, but if we have someone who knows the castle it could be possible."

The older man didn't try to hide his scepticism. "If it were that easy, my lord, I'd have nipped in and done it myself on the way up to Winterfell. Even with that wench Lady Sansa sent down it would be a tough call. And the Freys may be stupid, but they're not unprepared."

Dismayed, Jon suppressed a sigh and continued gazing out over the town. It, at least, looked like it was still functioning. Penetrating the castle continued to be his only idea for springing the rightful Lord out of his cell and it persisted in his brain like a stubborn stain.

"I still want to see for myself," he said.

"Are you mad?" Brynden demanded.

Jon only laughed. "Not in person, my lord. I need Ghost." He looked around, locating his direwolf at the edge of the sparse woods where he was sniffing at the undergrowth. "Ghost! To me!"

The wolf hesitated, but finally obeyed. Jon began to wonder at what was in those woods, that so fascinated his wolf. Easy prey? Other wolves? The only other traveller they had met talked of a vast pack of wolves led by a she-wolf the size of a royal wheelhouse. The ragged man had grown skittish at the sight of Ghost, until Jon called the wolf to heel and settled the man's nerves. It made him wonder something he dared not give voice to, but he was sure Sansa once told him Nymeria was let loose in the Riverlands.

That night, they camped close enough to the coast to hear the sea. When Jon closed his eyes he opened them again when he close enough to smell the salt and hear the waves crashing against the basalt cliffs. He was in a place where the trees thinned out and looking down a steep incline, leading into the town. The air was heavy with pine, salt, and men. It was the men who made him nervous as he ran down the incline. The town was in darkness and he slipped unseen through the shadows of the walls. Only when he passed the strips of light from beacons and candles in windows did he show himself, but it was enough to make him skittish.

He passed down dank alleyways, where the air stank of open latrines and rotting food that had been tossed from windows overhead. Beneath his paws, the cobbles were slick with an unknown slime while high overhead the winged beast circled beyond even his sharpened eyesight. Still he felt safe in the knowledge that if he was attacked, the beast would swoop down from the skies in the blink of an eye.

The cold stone castle rose from the edge of the land and the sound of men were closer than ever. More than he'd encountered before, he could hear their voices as they walked the walls. Little of consequence from what he could decipher, until…

"A dragon, they said."

"Aye, and I saw a merman out in Ironman's Bay yesterday morning."

"And what about those wolves? You can't deny them wolves. Hundreds, they say, led by the biggest she-wolf in Westeros. They attacked the camp outside Riverrun so don't tell me they can't come prowling around here. There's truth in what the smallfolk say, no doubt about it."

"Since when have you known wolves to come sniffing around Seagard?"

He prowled silently around the perimeter of the walls, trying to get the men in his line of sight. But all he could hear were their voices, disembodied but still close at hand.

"The wolves are bold. It was Robb Stark who brought them down from the North, whole armies of them. Everyone knows them Northern wolves are demons sent from the seven hells."

The other man laughed out loud. The sound of it startled him, causing him to flinch away. He exerted his will through sheer force of effort, otherwise he would have bolted.

"You worry about the wolves all you like," he replied. "I'm more concerned about Black Walder's coming home from the old man's funeral. No more than a day or two away, my scouts tell me. Now he's Lord of the Crossing he'll have no more use for this place."

"What'll he do with the prisoners?"

"He can put them to the sword, for all I care. If I heard it true, that's exactly what he will do."

He'd heard enough. Jon let go of his hold on Ghost, pulling himself back into his own conscious body with a force of will that left him breathless. Suddenly, Rhaegar was standing over him bearing a bowl of something hot and steaming. He knelt, almost spilling the broth over his clean tunic, with a look of concern etched on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "You look terrible."

Nonplussed, Jon scrambled to sit up. "Thanks. You look wonderful yourself."

"Sorry, what I meant was, you were doing that wolf warging thing again weren't you?" he asked. "It must take a lot of out of you. So I prepared this for you."

Proudly, Rhaegar proffered up the bowl of broth and Jon accepted it gratefully. Warging really wasn't like that, but it was difficult to someone who didn't have the ability to do it. At first, it was confusing and easily passed off as a strange dream. Now, years later, it was almost second nature.

The prince had lit a small oil lamp and positioned it between them on the floor of their shared tent. Up-lit, with the yellow glow in his face, his eyes looked bright purple. It was almost disconcerting.

"Well, was it worth it?" he asked, expectantly.

Jon allowed himself a smile. "I heard a lot. I know now is that we don't have time to wait for reinforcements. Get the others so we can talk properly."

While Rhaegar went to round up the others, he found some hard bread to go with his broth and ate quickly. So quick he barely tasted it and still didn't have time to finish before the others returned. Then he had to recount what he had heard and even now he struggled to discern his own feelings from those of Ghost. But he still was able to cover the basics. Including the tidbit he overheard about Edwyn Frey's death and Black Walder's absence from Seagard. Two days ride away, he remembered.

"The fact is," Jon concluded. "We can't take the castle, even with the dragon. But if Black Walder's returning from the Twins any day now, we can take him."

Brynden was quiet for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Eventually, he went further than Jon. "If Edwyn is dead and Black Walder really is the new Lord of the Crossing, if we get him alive we'll have control of the Twins. He'll yield quick enough with a dragon breathing down his neck."

"So long as we take him alive," Jon emphasised. Although, the dragon and the wolf could still help, he was certain of that if nothing else.

Silence settled once more over Winterfell. Snow blanketed the yards and courtyards in an unbroken virgin whiteness as far as Sansa could see. It capped the walls and turrets and trickled silently down the icicles hanging like molten wax from the gargoyles and overhanging guttering. Horses whickered in their stables and a lone dog barked at the moon. Little else stirred on such a harsh night. If winter brought with it only snow, it would be beautiful. But she knew better. She had seen them herself.

Watching from the warmth of the Great Hall, Sansa looked out over the scene without really seeing any of it. Needlework lay across her lap, momentarily forgotten. All around her silk Direwolves snarled at three headed dragons from fields of black and silver-grey linen. Her new bevy of women had been helping her assemble to the multi-coloured silks of war. The previous night, she hadn't stopped sewing until she was to tired she'd accidentally stitched a half a direwolf's jaw to her own skirts.

In the weeks since sending reinforcements to the Riverlands her thoughts had turned increasingly to war. She had knelt in the godswood until her knees were raw and spent whole nights lying awake, sleepless as she agonised over the merits of sending her men back out to war. No matter how many times she told herself that this wasn't like Robb's war, it felt the same. The end result was the same: untold numbers of dead northerners. Now she was so tired she was practically falling asleep on her feet.

'Your father was a killer; your brother is a killer…' a voice from long ago awoke her as her eyes drifted shut. For a fraction of a second she thought she saw his face. 'You better get used to looking at killers.'

It had been so long since she thought of Sandor and she wondered where he was now. Dead, more than likely. So many people feared him, even Arya in her own way. But Sansa never had. She saw the pain and fear in his eyes as he told her about the night his brother pushed his face into the fire. She made him a promise that she would tell no one and she had been true to her word.

Wide awake once more, she ventured out to the gallery beyond and ask that warm spiced wine be brought to her. That stuff always made her drowsy. But when she returned to the hall, she saw that she was no longer alone. Maester Marwyn was there with her mother in tow. Her mother never slept any more, but she rarely ventured beyond her chambers. Curious, she joined them at the trestle table beside the fire.

"Pardon us, my lady," said the Maester. "We saw the lights and assumed it was you. If something ails you, you know I can help."

Sansa hesitated before answering. "Can you help my armies win a war?"

He looked apologetic. "Alas, some things are down to luck and sensible commanders. Both are rather rare these days."

Sansa pulled at a loose thread in the sleeve of her gown, nervous and tense. "But it's different now. Jon and I have no desire to rule the Riverlands, but to restore them to their rightful rulers. That makes all the difference, right?"

"You're looking for approval," Marwyn replied. "You want someone to tell you you're doing the right thing and, moreover, you're looking for someone to tell you the outcome. But it's impossible. You can only do what you see fit and hope for the best."

It was hardly reassuring, yet comfortingly true. She never could abide liars. "There's more to it than that. There's a war coming in the North and it matters not a jot who sits the Iron Throne. If Jon gets caught up in a protracted southern war, what's to stop the Others moving south?"

Marwyn raised a pained smile. "The Wall." He paused, letting that detail sink in before adding; "Your cousin knows this and he won't let that happen. He knows, better than any of us, what's headed this way. If he liberates the Riverlands, he could raise an army of grateful lords. Lords who have men by the thousand to travel beyond the wall. Right now, as things stand, you haven't the men to take them on."

The loose thread in her sleeve had snapped, so she took to digging her fingernail into a crack in the weirwood table. She worked away at the groove in the wood grain, channelling her nervous energy into it.

"Why now?" she asked, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Why have the Others returned now, after all this time?"

Marwyn's answer was equally low. "True, they hadn't been seen. That doesn't mean they'd gone away."

"So, they were there all along," she replied, frowning. "Ever since the last Dawn Age, they've been roaming the Lands of Always Winter and just biding their time. Even so, it still means that something is drawing them south?"

"That's why I'm really here," he answered. "To try and find out. To see if there's a way of reaching a settlement with them. My lady, they live here. They're as much a part of this world as us and dogs and wolves. So let us see if we cannot reason with them. While your cousin must raise his army and prepare for the worst, let us also hope for the best and find a way to make that army redundant."

Sansa shifted uncomfortably, but if he wanted to talk to the Great Other over tea and lemon cakes, she wasn't about to stop him. She would bake them herself if she thought it would bring peace to her people.

The scouts caught sight of the Frey company not three miles from Seagard. Twenty men in the guard around Black Walder's wheelhouse and an unknown number of scouts riding ahead. It was then that Jon realised their small number might be an advantage. They just looked like weary travellers passing through the Riverlands headed for the safety of the Westerlands. A far from unusual sight, only Brynden had to be kept hidden. Jon, Rhaegar and Davos were free to hunch down and walk the road in single file with their packs strapped to their backs. If anyone stopped them, Jon was the son of Davos and Rhaegar was their humble companion.

They heard the horses of the household guard before they saw them. The tramping of steel shod hoofs pounding on the packed earth road that led to the town gates. Having donned roughspun cloaks over their clothes, their weapons were concealed. Jon carried Longclaw with an extra dagger thrust into his sword belt for good measure. As well as his own sword, Ser Davos found an axe fit for planting in skulls if need be. Ser Brynden, following them from behind a roadside verge was ready to spring out and lead the attack as soon as Jon called the signal. Only Rhaegar was lightly armed with a simple castle forged sword. His greatest weapon was coiled around the tree stumps just out of sight of the road.

As they drew level, the three men walking the road fell to the pathway at the side ostensibly to allow the wheelhouse to pass. Only at the last minute did Jon jump out into the road, shrugging off his pack as he went, unsheathing Longclaw and causing the guardsman's horses to rear. The one out front was thrown off altogether and he cursed heavily as he hit the ground. He called out to Brynden at the same time Rhaegar bellowed some Valyrian command that brought Sonar crashing through the trees as he tried to build enough momentum to take flight.

In the ensuing chaos, Jon managed to dispatch the fallen guardsman with a quick downward thrust. One of his fellows dashed over to help, only to be picked off with an axe to the skull. Sonar beat his wings, screeching loud enough to wake the dead. At some point, when Jon wasn't even looking, the door to the wheelhouse was flung open and a weasel faced man demanded to know what was going on. He took one look at the dragon before flinging himself back inside and slamming the door shut.

Ghost had joined the fight by tearing the throat out of one of the horses, its blood gushing from the open wound and drenching the wolf's pure white fur in slick red slime. Seizing the initiative, Jon grabbed the dead horse's fallen rider and pressed his dagger to the man's throat.

"If you value your lives drop your weapons now!" he yelled over the racket. To make his point, he drove the edge of the dagger deeper into the man's exposed throat, right beneath the loosened gorget of his helm.

Sonar circled overhead, swooping down and screeching as the guards attempted to advance on them. Jon leapt back from the swing of a sword, but it caught his prisoner in the belly and he could only watch as the man's entrails slid from a gaping wound. They slopped to the ground with a nauseating wet slap. Dropping the useless hunk of meat the man now was, Jon took another man out with Longclaw and Rhaegar gave the command for Sonar to open fire.

"Dracaris!"

"Shit!" Jon cursed, "We need Black Walder alive! Don't let that creature burn everything!"

The dragon's flame missed the wheelhouse and set a guardsman and his horse alight, before the others dropped their weapons at the sight of the jet of flame. It was as if they hadn't yet realised that Sonar was a real dragon. Stunned, they all watched in horror before fleeing on foot. Ghost gave chase, and they fled into the arms of Brynden Tully who was waiting farther down the road with his sword drawn and ready. The old man had waited a long time for this moment and he set about it with relish.

Without wasting time, Jon wrenched open the wheelhouse door fully prepared for Black Walder's attack. He had donned armour, but without a squire he hadn't had enough time to strap it on properly and the breastplate hung uselessly from his left shoulder. It was more a hindrance than a help. But his sword was drawn and he leapt out fighting, thrusting the blade at Jon's breast. It could have reached his heart had Jon not parried so easily. The other man was still in deep shock and Jon was quick to seize the advantage. He slashed with Longclaw while kicking out to trip his assailant.

"Who are you?" Black Walder demanded, retreating fast. "What do you want? Gold? I can give you gold. I am the Lord of the Crossing. Name your price and you shall have it, ser."

Rhaegar had jumped in behind Frey and now had his sword trained on the Lord's back. Wolf, dragon and man had finished off the rest of the household guard and Black Walder knew he was surrounded. Jon touched Longclaw's tip, just enough to draw blood and set the blade alight. Black Walder watched the flames take light, the blade turning red, in horrified fascination.

"On your knees and drop your weapons," Jon commanded, flaming sword to the man's throat. "Hands behind your back. You're coming with us."

Surrounded and with one terrified eye on the circling dragon, Black Walder knelt. He hit the packed earth road and the jolt caused the breastplate to finally fall from his chest. Meanwhile, Ser Brynden had come up behind him, stopping only to wipe the blood from his sword.

"I'll name my price, my lord," he growled in the kneeling man's ear. "I'll have back all you stole from us and more besides."

Jon watched as the colour drained from Black Walder's face.

"You cunt!" he spat. "You complete cunt!"

Brynden laughed. "And you'd know a cunt when you see one."

"End this," Rhaegar commanded, returning to the small fold with Ser Davos. "End it now and tie the bastard's hands together. The sooner we get to Seagard the better."

Black Walder tried to resist, but a swift punch in the jaw from Ser Davos set him to rights. Blood burst from his lip, dribbling down his chin and onto his clean tunic. Jon made no effort to help. Trusting Brynden to keep their new prisoner properly constrained, Jon went to help Rhaegar round up the horses that had been pulling the wheelhouse.

"Wait!" Ser Brynden called out as they turned to the task. "Wait right there."

Both Jon and Rhaegar stopped and turned to see what the old man was planning.

"Secure those horses by all means. We'll be needing them later," he said. "But I say we take my lord of the Crossing for a little walk, don't you?"

Normally, Jon would have protested. Memories of being paraded through the wildling camp were raw in his mind. The humiliation of it, the vulnerability to attack that was only spared him because of Ygritte's fearsome nature. But then, he had never organised a massacre before. Less still a massacre that resulted in the fall of his house. Any qualms were set aside as he remembered hearing about how Grey Wind's head was sewn to Robb's corpse and paraded through the Riverlands in a grotesque triumphalist procession.

"Very well," he replied. "We could all do with the fresh air."

Sonar had eaten one of the corpses already and was making a start on a dead horse. But Rhaegar went to him and stroked the scales on his flank. He whispered soft Valyrian to the beast and kissed his smoking snout. After that, the dragon took wing and soared into the sky.

They were only a mile or two from the town of Seagard. An hour or so and they were there.

"Do you know how many men I have in that town?" Walder demanded. "Do you think the four of you can take on an army of thousands? Do you really?"

"No," answered Jon, nonchalantly. "Do you think they could reach you in time before we cut your throat to the bone the same way you cut Lady Stark's?" He smiled brightly at Lord Walder and added: "More importantly, are they flame proof?"

Still bound and being forced along the road at sword point, Black Walder suddenly sagged and laughed entirely without mirth. "You're a fucking Stark, aren't you? Forgive me, I heard Ramsay Bolton did for the older girl and the younger boy and Theon Greyjoy did for the cripple. Which can only mean ..." he trailed off as he tried to guess at Jon's identity. "Which can only mean you're the bastard! That must be it, you're Ned Stark's bastard. I don't know why you're so grieved for the throat of Catelyn Stark, Bastard, because she fucking hated you, you know. She would have taken great pleasure in opening your throat just as I did hers."

Guessing what was going to happen next, Jon sidestepped away from the prisoner so Ser Brynden could get a clear aim. He kicked out from behind, knocking the legs from under Black Walder and sending him sprawling into the muck.

"Up!" Ser Brynden yelled. "So get up now."

Jon had reached his limit and called Ser Brynden off. "My Lord, he is our prisoner and he is disarmed."

Jon stooped to help Black Walder back to his feet and then used the roughspun tunic he'd used as a disguise to wipe the dirt and blood from his face. None too carefully, but he did it all the same. Meanwhile, Brynden remembered his Knight's code and reddened before backing away. But he offered no apologies and Jon certainly wasn't about to start demanding one.

When they reached the gates of Seagard's town more guards appeared. They readied their crossbows, training them on the approaching party before realising what they were seeing and freezing in indecision. They couldn't fire at their lord's captors without hitting him.

"Command them to stand down," said Jon. "And inform them they are free to leave in peace. No one will harm and no dragon either. Resist, and there will be another attack with fire."

"Do this, and you might just come out of this with your life intact," Rhaegar added.

Black Walder had little choice. But he hesitated a long time before wringing the words from his breath.

"Sers, stand down and depart," he said, choking on every syllable. "I am yielding the town."

The men patrolling the walls and manning the gates looked to each other and then the four men holding their lord prisoner.

"But, my lord, we can take them cunts for our supper if you wanted," said one, utterly perplexed,

A huge winged shadow swept across them, followed by a piercing shriek from the skies and a jet of vivid flame. Rhaegar smiled up at the guards beatifically. "Are you sure about that?"

They dropped their pikes and opened the gates in stiff and awkward movements. Meanwhile, the townsfolk saw the dragon and their screams filled the air as they ran for cover. But Jon knew Rhaegar would call him off and tried to call out to them to not be afraid. Before they entered the town, Rhaegar did as he thought he would and Sonar made for cloud cover once more.

Having figured out who Jon was, Black Walder now turned his attention to Rhaegar.

"So, who's this one?" he asked. "Silver hair, purple eyes and humble pet dragon in tow. Well that rules out House fucking Bracken, doesn't it? Viserys, is my guess. He's the one that got away. Him and that sister of his. You know, we had a brother named after one of your lot. Aegon Frey. Turned out to be a lackwit so my grandfather dressed him in motley and made him a capering fool. Personally, I think it quite apt for a fucking Targaryen namesake."

Rhaegar merely sighed. His verbal reply was cut off as a heap of shit sailed through the air in a perfect arc, hitting Lord Walder square in the face.

"Here he comes, the upjumped weasel!" a fine young maid of the town called across the town square. "Look at him now, the Frey murderer!"

With the dragon now out of sight, the people grew bold. When they saw their tormentor bound and being marched through the streets at sword point, they grew positively jubilant. Chaos reigned, but chaos of a different order than before. Soon rotten vegetables and night soil was being flung from all quarters and dumped from upper storey windows from the tightly packed houses. In an effort to avoid the filth, Jon steered his group into the middle of the square, hoping to be out of range of the human shit at the very least.

Rhaegar ducked a flying turnip with surprising grace and fell into step with them. "We need to move quickly before we're all killed."

"They're aiming at him," Jon replied, nodding to Walder. "It's nothing personal."

"I know that," Rhaegar retorted. "But I'd rather we weren't so prominently in the line of fire."

They picked up their pace before the crowds of people could close in on them. Jon tried to force them back to clear the path to the castle, but there were too many. Women clawed at Frey's face, scratching red livid marks down his cheeks from eyes to jawline. He looked like he was weeping blood. Finally Jon, Davos and Rhaegar formed a human shield all the way to the castle gates.

"Now yield," Jon yelled above the din. "Yield the castle to Ser Patrek Mallister and I swear, I will plead with him to spare your life."

Having run the gauntlet of hate, what was left of Frey's anger and pride had taken a severe battering. He fell to his knees before the gates of the castle, watching in despair as the portcullis was raised. To Jon, it all seemed to happen in agonising slow motion. Inch by painful inch he watched the gate rising.

"Lay down your arms. I yield the castle," Frey called out. "I yield the castle to my Lord Mallister."

"Very good," Jon whispered in his ear. But he kept a watchful eye on what the men in the barbican were doing. There was an air of shock and disbelief in the castle as they slowly filed into the yard below. When most were assembled, Jon and the others marched their prisoner within the walls. He gripped Frey's shoulders, holding him up and hissed in his ear: "Now tell them again. Tell them you yield and you want the Mallisters out here, unharmed."

They were surrounded by stunned and silent faces. Mostly men at arms, barely able to comprehend this fresh trauma breaking out all around them.

"I yield," Frey said again, sagging in his captor's hands. "The castle is yielded to my lord Patrek Mallister. Release him from the dungeons and bring him and his family to the yard."

It seemed to take forever and a day. In reality it was no more than a half-hour. Shaken and pale from their ordeal, the Mallisters slowly appeared on a balcony overlooking the courtyard of their newly restored castle. Their eyes were glazed, their faces slack with shock and uncertainty. Only slowly did the realisation sink in and that didn't even begin until they saw a man they recognised. "Claim the castle, my lord. It is yours again."

Chapter Text

It took all of Jon, Davos and Rhaegar's powers of persuasion combined to stop Mallister loyalists from lynching Black Walder from the top of Seagard's tallest tower. The chaos of the liberation, followed by the out-pouring of anger and the need for revenge threatened to overrule even the most logical minds. The three of them together had spell out their plan over and over, until Jon knew every nuance of the speech off by heart. Kill Walder after winning just one battle and they would lose the war … again. Keep him alive and they could take the whole of the Riverlands back and then some. Even after the cool heads had won out, Jon still felt uneasy about Lord Frey being left in the dungeons with just the Mallisters watching over him. It would only take one guard to look the other way while another stuck a knife in their captives' heart. As such, he sent two of Brynden's men down there and Ser Davos volunteered himself.

Meanwhile, Jon and Rhaegar were left with valuable time to breathe until the newly restored Lord of Seagard was well enough to receive them. If Mallister joined their forces to his own, and Sansa's reinforcements arrived soon, they would have the beginnings of a fine army. But only if Lord Mallister could be convinced to join them, and Jon knew better than to rely on gratitude for that outcome. Mallister may think twice before backing another Northern Lord, especially one only known to him as the bastard get of Eddard Stark. He may think twice before committing lives to another lost cause. However, it was a chance they would have to take.

The day after the liberation, he and Rhaegar walked the battlements together. It was a crisp and clear day and the view of the Iron Islands was second to none. But it was the great foam-capped, crashing waves that so captivated Jon. Having lived all his life in the landlocked North the open sea was a rare sight and a welcome one.

"You don't think there'll be trouble from them now, do you?" asked Rhaegar, looking across the sea toward the Islands. "I asked one of the tower guards here and he said he's seen great fleets of ships sailing out over the last few turns of the moon."

"There's always trouble from them," Jon replied, flatly. "I'd be more worried if there wasn't trouble from the Ironborn. And if I have the good fortune to see Theon Greyjoy among them, I'll have his head myself. There'll be no coming back from that, harder or stronger… Cunt!"

Rhaegar's eyes widened against his son's vulgarity. "Is he the one who first took Winterfell from Robb? And then Ramsay took it from him?"

Jon nodded. "Aye. Ramsay took Winterfell and most of Theon, if what Sansa says is true."

"Do you doubt her?"

"Sansa has a soft heart and a gentle soul, father," he explained. "I think she forgets that Theon was the one who started all this."

He fixed his gaze on the distant islands, lip curled in disdain as he picked each one out. Each misshapen lump of land that passed for an island looked dark, damp and dank in a haze of thick sea mist.

Meanwhile, Rhaegar kept looking at him incredulously. "It pains me to bring it up again, but Sansa spent months being routinely raped and beaten-"

"Enough!" Jon cut over him, suddenly angry.

"Forgive me," said Rhaegar, instantly backing down. "I only mention because firstly, I don't think you realise how strong Sansa really is. She's not made of glass. And, secondly, I think you should remember who got her out of there. Your old tormentor."

Jon couldn't deny the truth of it. "Brave enough to kill Ramsay Bolton's whore and steal off into the night with his wife. But not brave enough to bring Sansa to me directly."

Rhaegar sighed. "A guilty conscience isn't the same thing as cowardice, Jon. Anyway, Greyjoy didn't leave Sansa's side until Brienne of Tarth swore her sword to the Starks."

After making a full circuit of the battlements they decided to take a look at the market stalls. It had been less than a day since Black Walder had been frog-marched through these streets and already the small town square was thriving. Jon remembered that it had taken weeks for the North to get their confidence back after the fall of House Bolton, but the spectacle they had provided seemed to work wonders. Jon paused by a stall selling fresh codfish the size of a small horse that he'd seen being hauled up straight from the nearby port. It was now hanging from a hook in its gullet from the stalls' crossbeam. Fresh sea fish was rare where he came from. It was always smoked and salted to preserve it on its long journey north.

"I'll take three of those codfish, if I may," he said to the brawny armed woman tending the catch. "How much?"

He had dragons of the gold variety in a purse tied to his belt. But the woman waved it away.

"To the men who freed us from them Freys, it's free," she said. "And here's a little something for that dragon o'yours too. Tell our Lord that Seagard will always be Mallister."

He thanked her appreciatively and accepted the offering of a side of pork for the dragon. By the smell of it, it was nowhere near as fresh as the fish but it was nothing a good roasting from Sonar wouldn't cure. All the same, before they departed for the kitchens, Jon slipped two gold dragons into a discreet corner of the stall where only she would find it.

As they made their way back they chatted easily about nothing important. Until they reached their destination and Jon told Rhaegar to wait outside. He left the fish with the cooks and by the time he returned to his father, he was chatting with a young serving girl. She was of middling height, with honey coloured hair and lively blue eyes. Her Frey livery now looked somewhat out of place, but she had ducked away again by the time Jon returned.

"Who was that?" he asked. "Have you suddenly found yourself otherwise engaged for this evening?"

Rhaegar looked scandalised. "What? No! Of course not. She was employed by Black Walda just a few days back and now has no idea of what to do, poor thing. Anyway, I told her to report to the Stewards just on the off-chance; they may take pity on her."

Jon couldn't help but tease him anyway. Ribbing him all the way back to the great hall, where they were awaiting word on Lord Mallister's progress. After that, they would all dine privately in the Lord's solar, deciding where they went from here.

Sansa broke the seal on the letter with a sharp snap and read quickly. Her nerves were so bad her hands were shaking and, at first, the meaning of the words didn't seem to sink in. After a second read, she paced the dais and grinned like a lackwit.

"They've done it!" she cried out to Marwyn. "They've taken Seagard! They suffered no losses and they have Black Walder under their own guard. This is it, Maester Marwyn, they have control of the Riverlands in all but name."

"I must say that was well done," Marwyn agreed once she read out the whole letter. "Now he needs to march his army back north again."

Sansa disagreed. The time for wolves had come again. They were cresting that wave already. Next would be the time for dragons and they could not stop until they have taken the realm. It was an opinion she kept to herself, but she was now too worked up to sit still. As much as she loved having her home back, it was hard to sit there and do nothing while he was rallying forces to sweep the evils that had engulfed them since the death of King Robert.

Only the sight of her mother pulled her up sharp. Catelyn was sat at the end of the long trestle table, her face expressionless but her eyes near closed as her cheeks glistened with more than just semi-congealed blood.

"Can you excuse us for a moment please, Maester?"

She wasn't really asking and Marwyn rose to leave without preamble. Once they were alone, she took the seat beside her mother and let the silence soothe them both.

"Do you think this should have been Robb?" again, a non-question. A self-answering question. "The bitter truth is, mother, that it could so easily have been Robb. He had the love of his people, he had the army, he had the military expertise and he even had the money. The only thing he didn't have was the wit to play the game."

Catelyn looked small now. No longer frightening, or fearsome. Just small and sad and more dead than alive.

"It wasn't your fault," she continued, touching her mother's clammy hand. "You begged him not to send Theon to Winterfell. You begged him to keep Lord Karstark a hostage. You didn't know he had married that woman until it was all too late. But now Jon's taking it all back and you have to love him for that."

Sansa didn't even know why this was important to her. She didn't know why she needed her mother to love Jon now. Catelyn had lost her power and her opinion changed little for her as it had for Robb. Then it came to her in a flash. She was only searching for some trace of humanity still residing deep in the heart of this stony corpse. The saddest part of all was that, even if the humanity was still in there, Lady Stoneheart had few ways of expressing it.

Catelyn moved her hand and took a hold of Jon's letter before covering her throat with the other. "King," she said. Dropping the letter she took hold of Sansa's hand and added: "Queen."

If that was a blessing Sansa was prepared to take it.

There was a cold wind blowing from the north that evening. It could be heard in the rafters, shattering the peace of the night by pulling tiles from the rooves and smashing them into the cobbles below. It blasted the shutters over Sansa's bedroom windows wide open and brought squalling hail stones pelting against the mullions. She had to reach out of the open windows and slam them shut again. As she did so, she saw Marwyn in the yard below holding his peculiar glass candle. The flame was still lit and it did not so much as flicker. He told her he used it so "send and receive messages", but it was one more aspect of the world's awakening magic that she did not understand.

She returned to her books, going over the household expenses that Ramsay had left to gather dust. Before him, Theon hadn't troubled himself much and prior to him Robb had been otherwise engaged. In reality, no one had been balancing Winterfell's books since her father's day. And these endless columns of figures had been her inheritance. She tried to concentrate, but the blank inky numbers blurred and swam before her eyes. Arya was the one with the head for mathematics, she remembered.

When she pushed the books away, her eye fell on the small vial of Shade of the Evening. The blue liquid shone, still stoppered in its wax-sealed vial. Visions of the future, visions of the past, visions of things that could have been. It sounded like an interesting way to liven up a dull evening. But so far she could not bring herself to try it. It stank like rotting meat and sour milk, she remembered. All the same, she knew she would. Eventually.

As she went to reach for the bottle now, a horn blast sounded over the storm. Once and then twice. Voices called out in the yard below, startling her even more. Worried, she dropped what she was doing and reached for her cloak before hurrying for the door. As she made her way, the horn sounded again, soon followed by the clatter of hooves on wet cobbles. She pushed her way through the doors and out into the night, ignoring the pleas of her handmaiden to stay inside.

As the men stood aside for her, she saw the visitors at the gates. For a moment, she could not decide what to do. People calling at this hour was never good news. But she would not allow the horrors of the past erode the hospitality of the North, especially not in weather like this.

"Open the gates," she commanded. "Open them."

They were on horseback, shrouded in cloaks and roughspun covers. None of it was adequate to keep the hail and blustering winds off them. One of her men-at-arms came cantering over the cobbles toward her.

"I do not like the look of this, my lady," he called out to her. "One insists he knows you, but I can tell he's lying."

"Did he give a name?" she asked, reaching for a lantern.

Marwyn had gone, taking his glass candle with him. She had been left with a mere mortal light. Meanwhile, the man was hesitating. "No, my lady. Please, do not go out there. They're dangerous. Brigands, outlaws or wildlings – I cannot tell."

All the same, she wanted to see for herself. There were more of them than she at first realised. But in the poor light she could not make them out and their hoods were up, covering their faces. As she drew nearer the portcullis she held up the lantern in an effort to get a look. The largest one, a man who looked as if he had been hewn from rock, dismounted his horse. He was soaked to the skin, huge and bulky, even his companions seemed to want to keep their distance from him.

"Who goes there?" she called out to him.

He moved forward slowly, pressing his face between the latticework of the portcullis so they were almost at kissing distance. Then he lowered his hood slowly. She held up the lantern and shone the pale light on a face all scarred down one side; his smile causing the scar tissue to twist all the more. His smile never had been friendly.

"Well, look here, the little bird has spread her wings and flapped up a storm big enough to blast this whole realm to the ground."

She thought she would never see him again. She thought that he was dead. She was glad she was wrong.

Sansa smiled into the storm. "And faithful dogs always find their way back to you, in the end," she replied.

The solar was an intimate place, with a brazier burning in place of a hearth. Jon warmed his hands against the burning coals within, studying the tapestries that covered the walls. They showed storm tossed ships in a perfect reflection of real time weather conditions happening outside.

"That storm's coming down from the North," Rhaegar observed as he joined his son at the brazier. "A good thing we're not on the roads this night."

Jon agreed as another squall of rain hammered off the shuttered mullions. It had rattled and howled all through the evening and into the hours of darkness, closing in suddenly on what had been a fine day. But that was winter. The sun would be a rare thing now, soon blown away by the cold white winds from the north. It was only a matter of time before they were caught out by one on the open roads.

Turning from the brazier to make room for his father, Jon returned to the table. Lord Mallister's servants had laid out wine, fresh baked bread and the codfish he purchased earlier that day had been fried up in oils and butter, crusted in toasted breadcrumbs. The wine was good too, served in a manner fitting for such a violent night: heated and generously spiced. They weren't left waiting for long before Jason Mallister joined them, his son Patrek in tow.

Lord Jason was a lean man to begin with. But his year of captivity had left him gaunt and hollow cheeked. His indigo cloak looked like it was drowning him. Although his hair had turned completely grey, his eyes remained a bright and piercing blue. The supper was informal, so the four men seated themselves around the one trestle table set up in the middle of the solar and served themselves, for the time being.

"Yesterday, I lacked the presence of mind to thank you for all that you have done for House Mallister, Lord Snow," Mallister began. Before Jon could wave it away, he pressed on: "My son and I wish to make it plain to you, whatever wars are to come, House Mallister will stand with you and fight beside you until this realm it set to rights."

"Then I thank you also, my lord," replied Jon. "But this is not as before, when King Robb was campaigning. The war we fight comes from the North, from the winter."

Patrek frowned, but his father looked more understanding. "I hoped Ser Denys was exaggerating. I prayed he was mistaken, or playing some jest. But now you are about to tell me he speaks truly in the letters he sends."

"I cannot speak for what Ser Denys puts in his letters, my lord, but I can tell you what I've seen on rangings beyond the wall," explained Jon. "The Others have returned and with them the armies of the dead. The Great Other grows stronger all the time, more and more free folk villages are falling. The more they kill the bigger their hosts get and they're marching on the wall."

Patrek appeared to his lost his appetite. "But… the wall itself. It will stop them. It will hold them off. That's what it's for."

Jon turned to him and answered: "The wall will hold them. But it will not stop them. Even if the wall is to contain the threat, it needs men and equipment. And I'm sure ser Denys has told you all about that."

Ser Jason coloured in the face. Jon thought he could tell what was coming next. Undoubtedly, like all Lords across all seven kingdoms, he had been meaning to help the watch. He had been meaning to send men and supplies… but never quite got around to it. Jon wasn't angry, but it was the same story they'd been hearing ever since the war of the five kings began. Everyone would love to be able to help such an ancient and noble brotherhood such as the Night's Watch … just as soon as they've won this battle, settled that old score and planted another crown on the head of another pretender. Where the Night's Watch was concerned, 'tomorrow' never came.

"So now you're going to march north again?" Patrek asked.

Rhaegar took over now. "It's not as simple as that. We already have the North and the Knights of the Vale have rallied to our cause through the intervention of Lady Sansa Stark and her cousin, Lord Robert Arryn. We're here to take back the Riverlands. If you agree to follow us, we will take the realm. And then the realm will turn North and fight the oncoming winter, as it should have been from the beginning."

While Rhaegar talked, Lord Jason was studying him intently. Growing more intent, those piercing blue eyes now as sharp as knives.

"My Lord," he addressed Rhaegar. "They say you are Viserys Targaryen already come from across the Narrow Sea. And I will grant you, my many months of captivity may have addled my wits. But I never forget the face of a man who has beaten me in the tourneys – in my youth it happened to so rarely. And you beat me at the Tourney of Storm's End. You and Ser Barristan Selmy, if I recall rightly. You, Prince Rhaegar."

Jon suddenly became much more interested in his fish supper, while Patrek coughed and spluttered.

"But that's impossible!"

"It's certainly a long story, my lord," Jon agreed, looking up from his food again. "But can I just say there are many powers afoot since the return of dragons and the rise of the Others."

Rhaegar drained his wine glass, as if fortifying himself. "I'll start from the beginning, shall I?"

"I would appreciate that greatly," Mallister replied.

But the beginning was Jon's assassination at the hands of his brothers in the Watch. Something Mallister already knew about courtesy of Ser Denys, as well as his lingering coma and sudden return. Rhaegar, however, had been kept well under wraps. While all the explaining was going on, Jon finished his supper. No matter what else was happening in the realm, the cod was excellent. And by the time they were done, the wine was almost running out too and they all needed a stiff drink.

"So what is Lord Commander Snow's connection to you, my lord?" Mallister asked Rhaegar.

Rhaegar smiled and answered bluntly. "He's my son. My only living son."

The revelation was met by silence. No one even moved. Jon could feel the colour rising in his face as all eyes turned to him.

"No matter what else is happening," he eventually said. "We must remain focused on the war that's coming. There will be time enough to work it all out later. If we tarry too long, there will be no time for anything."

"All else is a distraction, I agree," said Rhaegar.

Coming so close to getting them focused on the war in the north, Jon was beginning to feel frustrated that his own personal history was once more becoming an issue.

"Well, that explain the late Lord Stark's reluctance to name your mother," Mallister concluded, quite magnanimously. "And I will be honest, your grace, I fought against you in the rebellion. I fought against you at the Trident. I did what I thought was right and followed my Lord Paramount-"

"And it will not be held against you," Rhaegar cut in, drearily. "If it was held against you I would not have helped take back your castle. What's done is done and, what's more, it was done a long time ago."

"We cannot be any fairer than that," Jon agreed. "Now, I say we drink to our new alliance and leave the past where it is."

His suggestion was met with a murmur of approval and a servant was summoned to bring more of the spiced wine. It was the girl from before, with the honey coloured hair and bright blue eyes. She came through the door with the wine on a silver tray, in a silver decanter. Rhaegar seemed happy to see her, Jon noted.

"You got the job, then?" he asked, looking up the girl.

Suddenly, her hands trembled and she spilled the wine over the prince's lap. She began apologising, reaching for a napkin to mop up the spillage.

Jon laughed, trying to break the tension. "You're frightening the poor girl, father. Leave her be."

He tried to help, but the girl choked and glared at him as if he had wronged her somehow.

"Girl, I think we can serve ourselves from here," Lord Mallister said, not unkindly. "My lords, it's her first day-"

For a long moment the girl seemed rooted to the spot, her gaze locked into Jon's with tears in her eyes. He tried to tell her it would be all right, that even the best servants made mistakes and even he had once done her job for the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Badly. But she tore herself away and fled the room, breathing raggedly.

"Is the girl sick?" Rhaegar wondered. "I think we should check."

Jon's nerves twitched, there was something off about her. "I'll go."

Without waiting for agreement, he got up and went through the same door as the girl and found himself in a passageway to the kitchens. A passageway used only by servants that connected to every room in the castle, enabling them to move freely without being seen by important guests. There was no sign of her, at first. He kept going, checking every alcove that led to another outer door and he wondered whether she hadn't risked hiding in one of the castle's actual chambers. But the sound of stifled sobbing led him farther through the passageway, until he found its source. Only, it wasn't her. The crying girl didn't look anything like her but for the fact that their clothes were identical and the bow in her hair was the same.

"Girl," he said. "Look at me."

She looked up and Jon felt his mouth run dry. He thought he might be seeing things, like poor Lord Jason when he first saw Rhaegar back from the dead.

"Arya!" he yelped as if he'd been bitten.

Chapter Text

They lay together in semi-darkness, listening to the storm raging outside and talking. Talking most of all, while Jon held on to Arya protectively, only breaking off to stoke the fire or refill their cups. Slowly, she told her story. From the day she escaped King's Landing, when their father was arrested, until she arrived at Seagard hell bent on killing Black Walder Frey and everything in between. Throughout it all, Jon's emotions went into varying degrees of freefall. When he found out she had only just escaped the Red Wedding, he had to turn away from her before she could see the tears in his eyes.

By the time she was done, he was left with one stupid but burning question. "Why didn't you sail to Eastwatch? The brothers would have looked after you and sent for me straight away. I was Lord Commander by then."

But she hadn't known. How could she? All she had was a few pieces of silver and a battered iron coin embossed with the Braavosi giant. All she knew were the magic words: valar morghulis.

"I asked the boatman," she replied. "But he said all there was to the North was ice and war. And when he said he was for Braavos I remembered the coin. It was all I had."

It was only natural that she would have wanted to find her mother, first. Jon did not blame her for that. As soon as this "Brotherhood" found her it sounded as though the choice was taken out of her hands, anyway. All the same, he sighed deeply and rolled onto his back, staring up at the canopy above the bed they now shared.

"I still wish you had come straight to me," he lamented. "You needn't have gone through all that pain and trauma."

"Don't you think I wanted to?" she retorted, near waspishly. "I thought of you all the time; I risked my life to get Needle back just because it reminded me of you."

Jon choked on whatever reply he had, apologising instead. "And I ached for you too, little sister."

He reached over and mussed up her hair, the way he always did when they were growing up in Winterfell together. It made her laugh, allowing him to catch a brief glimpse of the Arya he had always known and loved. But there was still a brittleness to her; a hardness that had never existed in her before. Behind her once guileless grey eyes lay an unspoken trauma, the fragility behind that prickling exterior.

She lay on her side limned in moonlight that slanted through the beams of the shutters, making her look paler than she already was. "Before we left Winterfell, you said: 'different roads lead to the same castle'. Turns out, you were right."

Jon laughed, recalling that almost flippant missive. He had said it to make them both feel better; to comfort them both that their goodbye was not final. He'd had no idea of just how truthful it would turn out to be.

"Well, here we both are," he answered. "At the end of our different roads and in the same castle. Neither the roads nor the castle are the ones I expected."

Another silence fell between them, filled only by the storm still howling around the curtain walls beyond. The rain pattering against the mullions lulled him into a semi-doze before the loud crash of a tree falling jolted him upright. The sound startled Arya too, but she quickly settled again after Jon put his arm around her, pulling her in tight.

She was still small, he noted. And lean. But still taller and more filled out than he had last seen her. Stronger, too. It was muscle he could feel beneath the sleeves of the linen shift she wore now.

"Sometimes, especially when I was with the Brotherhood Without Banners, I thought everyone would hate me for the things I've done," she admitted. "Because I killed people. Then I was taken in by the Faceless Men and I killed people for gold."

"You had to survive, Arya," he interjected. "And we're your family; we could never hate you. Ever."

"Father would," she insisted. "He would never have killed a person for gold- "

"Father never had to survive alone in the world with just a sword for company and a price on his head," Jon cut in again. "And you were a child. You still are a child. The only people at fault are the ones who put you in this position in the first place."

Although, Jon had recoiled when he saw what the Faceless Man had taught her to do. She changed her face the same way he changed his smallclothes and it set off his internal warning bells. What if she wasn't the real Arya? What if she was just some waif and stray wearing Arya's face as she wore that servant girls' face? The only thing that convinced him was that she knew things about him and Arya that no one could get from simply wearing some poor dead girls' death mask.

"You would have hated what I became," she stated again. "But that wasn't me. I only remembered who I really was after I became no one."

"You're Arya Stark of Winterfell," he said.

"I know that now," she replied. "But I don't think you understand."

Jon had to concede that he didn't. Perhaps he never would. There were some experiences you had to live before you could understand and the closest he came was going undercover with the free folk. Even then, he had Ygritte and the others who chose to follow him after the battle. Tormund, Val and even Mance in the end. They had learned to trust each other, while Arya had learned to trust no one.

"Don't take any more revenge," he said. "Go home to Winterfell, where Sansa is waiting for you."

"She hated me even before all this- "

"She never hated you," Jon retorted. "She just didn't understand and now she wants to make it up to you. She did with me."

Arya frowned, her brow darkening so he couldn't see her eyes anymore. "The last I heard of her she had murdered Joffrey and fled King's Landing in the form of a bat. I'm guessing only one of those things is likely to be true."

"Neither is true, I don't think," he assured her. "Although, she was there when Joffrey died and I don't think she was in any rush to help him."

Arya laughed again. "She was so in love with him."

"She won't thank you for reminding her of that," he stated.

"Then I'll be sure to remind her every day." Her eyes twinkled moonlight, a little more of the old Arya shining through.

Despite that, Jon's heart sank a little as he thought of the changes he had not yet told her about. He wanted to hear her story before burdening her with his own. It was true she had heard him call Rhaegar 'father', but he had palmed her off with some nonsense about the prince being his Night's Watch father. She hadn't believed him, he could tell. But it was enough to buy time before framing exactly what he was going to tell her.

"Joffrey was an angel compared to her husband," he said. "Not Tyrion, that union was never consummated so it was never valid."

Arya was frowning again. "What other husband? I only got word of Tyrion Lannister."

Jon drew a deep breath before answering, marshalling his own feelings that were prone to rage when he thought too much about it.

"Petyr Baelish sold her to Roose Bolton, who promptly forced her to marry his son, Ramsay," he explained, at length.

Arya drew a sharp breath. "He murdered our family and stole our home. How could she have been forced?"

Jon had given it a lot of thought over the months. Perhaps Baelish had a greater plan and Jon was inclined to think he did, given his feelings for Sansa. But from what he knew, he filled in the blanks.

"Baelish sold her to the Boltons and then tried to rally the Knights of the Vale to her cause by telling them she'd been kidnapped and forced to marry Ramsay," he continued. "I think his idea was that the Knights of the Vale would come rushing to Sansa's rescue and she'd be so pathetically grateful that she would throw herself into Baelish's arms and marry him."

Arya shrugged. "This is Sansa, so it sounds like it might have worked. She loved those stories where the maid was rescued from her captors."

"This is no story," Jon pointed out. "For what it's worth, Baelish succeeded and the Knights of the Vale joined our cause. But, by that time, Ramsay Bolton had raped and beaten Sansa so severely she had fled at the first chance."

Arya pulled away from him sharply, doubled over as if she'd been gripped by a sudden gut ache. The look on her face was the hardest he had seen in her so far. "What do you mean she was raped and beaten? She was the heir to Winterfell; how could that have been allowed to happen?"

"The Boltons already had Winterfell," he pointed out. "Sansa was only there to add a little Stark legitimacy. But Ramsay Bolton… was not like other men. He was- "

"A sadistic shit who deserves to die the worst possible death," she interjected, reaching for Needle as if Ramsay Bolton was in the room with them.

Jon got up, calming her. "He's already dead. Sansa killed him when we took back Winterfell. She's killed Petyr Baelish too, as it happens."

For a long moment, Arya was silent. It was if she was trying to comprehend the new Sansa who was hardened enough to kill.

"Good," was all she said in reply. "How did she kill him?"

"She fed him to a dragon," he explained. "The same dragon that's been flying around Seagard, as it happens."

He realised that the time had come. It was the early hours of the morning, but neither of them were sleeping and no one else would be around for a goodly while yet. In that time, he would have to tell her everything that had happened to him, and what led to them having access to a dragon in the first place.

Before that, he wanted them both to be comfortable. He fed a few more pine logs to the fire and stoked it back into life. Then he poured them both some hot and spiced wine, his hands shaking as he decanted it into two pewter goblets. All the while, Arya watched him, her large grey eyes following him about the room as he pulled up two chairs beside the fire. The grew later and the room got colder, so they'd be needing the flames.

"Arya," he said, handing her one of the goblets of spice wine. "I found out who my mother was."

Accepting the cup, she smiled easily. "But that's a good thing, isn't it? Why do you look so sad?"

Jon motioned for her to sit down. "My mother was your Aunt Lyanna."

Arya gasped again, a wordless show of surprise as her eyes widened to the shape of saucers. "Oh!" she said. "But father … father wouldn't do that! He's not that sister-fucker Jaime Lannister or a Targ…"

The realisation dawned on her face like fast spreading mortification, leaving the rest of her sentence unspoken.

"Oh," she said again. "Oh, Jon. Rhaegar Targaryen. But … but that man … the one I spoke to earlier … the one downstairs … but it's impossible. How? Why? I am not your sister anymore…"

She grew increasingly agitated as she tried to make sense of it, until Jon guided her into a seat by the fire.

"You will always be my little sister," he assured her, mussing up her hair again. This time, it didn't make her laugh. "But listen, I want to tell you everything."

Sansa sat at the high table in the great hall, inspecting the hastily prepared dishes of food before passing them to the lower table. Given the short notice, her kitchen staff had come up with the goods. There was bacon, eggs fried and scrambled in butter, fresh bread meant for breakfast, honey combs and plenty of chicken dishes. A whole roast chicken was brought before her and that she passed straight to Sandor Clegane. To wash the hastily prepared feast down, wine had been brought from her own private cellars. A good strong red for the men of the Brotherhood Without Banners and a sweet Arbour gold for herself and her ladies.

At such an early hour of the morning, she chose only a honey comb and some fresh bread, warm from the ovens, for herself. Meanwhile, the travellers dived into the rest of the food with gleeful abandon. Beric Dondarrion well enough from the Hand's Tourney, when her father was still alive. Thoros of Myr she remembered only for his flaming sword. With the exception of Sandor, however, the others were new to her.

Tom O'Seven Strings strummed his woodharp and had a lute slung over his back. Gendry was a powerfully built young man of an age with Jon, with a shock of jet black hair and dazzling blue eyes. She reminded him of someone, but she could not put her finger on who. She would have asked him, had he not come across so taciturn. However, every so often, he glanced up and looked at her before quickly looking away again.

It was Sandor who filled her in. "A bastard o' King Robert's that one."

That made sense. "How did he end up with you?"

"He was with your sister until the Brotherhood took them," he explained. "Then the Red Woman took him to Dragonstone and almost fed him to Stannis's leeches."

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. "Does he know where Arya is? Where was she when you last saw her? Brienne told me what happened. The man with the scarred face was you, wasn't it? Melisandre won't hurt him here, tell him that."

"I will," Sandor replied. "As for your sister, wherever she is she's safe. More than capable of looking after herself, that one is."

With that, she finished off her bread roll and sought out Beric and Thoros. They seemed to be the leaders of this strange band of brothers. It seemed Thoros was becoming reacquainted with Melisandre as they were deep in discussion, conversing in High Valyrian which she could not understand. Rhaegar spoke it, she remembered, but he was miles away.

"Excuse me, sers," she greeted them. "I wondered if I might have a word."

They were seated around the fire, their plates in their laps and horns of ale in their hands. Parting in the middle, they made room for her at their bench. Marwyn was there too, also conversing in High Valyrian but now retreating to the shadows with his large arms folded across his broad chest.

"Lady Melisandre and the good maester here have told us all about you, little lady," Thoros of Myr explained. "You've been north of the wall, seen the dead rise, been to the three-eyed crow, been back in time and beyond. That's quite an adventure, if you don't mind my say so."

On the contrary, she was relieved that Melisandre had spared her the trouble of having to explain all that herself. It had all happened so fast, at a time when she was still so troubled by Ramsay and full of worry for Jon, she felt like she hadn't really learned anything from it all. That it had happened in a haze and she missed the real clues she should have been looking for.

"Is that why you're here?" she asked. "To help us defeat the Great Other? My brother, Brandon, is training to take over from Brynden Rivers and my cousin is rallying the south. We have a dragon for fire and we're hoping to win three more through Daenerys Targaryen. But we still need more men. We need whole armies."

"Aye, that's why we came." It was Beric Dondarrion who spoke. He was leaning forward, horn of ale in hand, and gazing through his one eye at the blazing fire. She had heard he was dead, but prone to rising again. "But you'll need more than men and armies to defeat the darkness heading our way, my lady. You'll need more than dragons."

Sansa's heart sank. She simply had nothing else she could throw at the Others. There was no fire hotter than dragon fire; there was no army bigger than the seven kingdoms combined. There was literally nothing else they could do but fight.

"It's happened before," she stated, glancing between him and Thoros. "There's been another war for the dawn. Mankind won it before, we can win again surely? If Jon really is Azor Ahai…"

The rest of her sentence died in the silence of the others. For a long moment, all they did was listen to the fire crackling in the hearth, relishing its pallid warmth as best they could in the oncoming winter. Suddenly, to Sansa, the whole place felt colder and darker.

"You're still erring on the side of caution with that potion," Marwyn eventually said. "I quite understand. But given all you know, all you've seen, it would be very interesting to see what it shows you."

She had been about to swallow the Shade of the Evening before the Brotherhood arrived, but she saw no need to tell Marwyn. It sounded like an excuse, even to her own ears.

"What potion is this?" enquired Beric.

"Shade of the Evening," Marwyn confirmed.

Thoros made a face. "That blue piss the warlocks of Qarth are so enamoured of? It's worth a try I suppose." He paused a moment, before adding: "R'llhor brought Rhaegar Targaryen back for a reason, though. I'd wager he knows something about all of this."

Sansa remembered something she was once told about Thoros of Myr. That he was sent to Westeros to try and convert Aerys to the faith. Only, by the time he arrived, the rebellion had happened and the fire god would have to wait again. Robert had no interest in the seven, just as he had little interest in any other gods. But he was just a good a drinker as Thoros of Myr. She also the other time she saw them.

"I saw you in a vision the three-eyed crow sent me," she said. "You had my sister in a camp on High Heart and you were with an albino woods witch. She made a prophecy and I was in it. She said she saw a maiden at a wedding with purple serpents in her hair. Then she saw me again, in a castle made of snow, slaying a savage giant." She had their full attention now and she pressed the advantage. "It was king Joffrey's wedding; the poison was in an amethyst in my hairnet. The savage giant was Petyr Baelish, it was his family sigil the Braavosi giant. You know her, too. Who was she?"

"She can't help you now, little lady," Thoros said, not unkindly. "Prophecy is a dangerous thing, isn't that right maester?"

She looked to Marwyn, who nodded his agreement. "A treacherous woman. That's what I've always said about prophecy. Sucking your cock one minute; biting it off the next. Begging your pardons, my lady."

Sansa waved his apologies away. Gone were the days when a little crudeness offended her more than people rising from the dead to attack the living. However, she was still dismayed that they saw no point in finding the little woods witch again. Beric, on the other hand, remained thoughtfully silent throughout and spoke only quietly.

"She might have a point, you know," he said. He glanced through his one remaining eye at each of them in turn. "Haven't you noticed? She's always there. She was there at Summerhall, when the fire happened. She's always hanging around that hill, when she knows we'll be there. She was in Lady Stark's visions. She knows the Three-Eyed Crow. She made the prophecy that the Prince that was Promised would be born from the line of Rhaella and Aerys. I've always thought that mad old goat knew more than she was letting on."

Everyone was silent for a moment, until Sansa said: "If there's even a small possibility that she can help us, then we need to find her again."

But she was all the way over in the Riverlands. And so is Jon, she reminded herself.

"I'm still interested to know what that potion shows you," said Marwyn. "You've seen more of what's out there than any of us."

Sansa nodded. "Tomorrow," she replied. "I'll do it tomorrow."

It was dawn by the time Jon had explained everything to Arya. Outside the storm had abated, but the curtain walls were now decorated with straddling seaweed. An outhouse had blown away and debris scattered the yard below. Arya surveyed it all sadly, looking down from the terrace in his chambers.

Jon couldn't think what to say to her. Everything he thought of felt so woefully insufficient. Just as he was about to say it anyway, she abruptly looked up at him and smiled.

"I don't care," she said. "You're still my brother. You'll always be my brother."

The tension broke and he smiled brightly with relief. "And you'll always be my little sister."

He reached out to muss up her hair, but she expertly dodged out of his way. Laughing, she darted through the open terrace doors, forcing him to chase her. He caught her up easily and mussed up her hair more than he'd ever mussed up it before. She squealed with delight, laughing as they ended up wrestling on the chamber floor. Still he didn't let up, not until a serving girl came to fix their fire.

They broke apart, both red in the face and their clothes askew. Both fell into the nearest seats, regaining their composure. Once the servant had made the bed and fixed the fire, she left and they began talking again.

"We need Black Walder alive," he told her. "Once we have Riverrun back under Tully control, however…"

"Then you'll have the Riverlands and you won't need him anymore," she finished the sentence for him.

"Then he's all yours," he confirmed. "Think of the Red Wedding when you do what you do. But let this be an end to it. After that, we look North and think of the wars to come."

She had had no idea about the Others and the armies of the dead. Which could only mean no one in the Free Cities knew, or would be prepared to help.

"I'll go straight home after Riverrun is taken, I promise," she said. "After that, will Sansa call her banners and go to war?"

Jon hesitated, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "There's one more thing I haven't told you."

"What?" she asked.

He could even see her guard being thrown back up, bracing herself for bad news. It only served to make him feel worse.

"You said I'll always be your brother," he said. "But Sansa is different."

Arya's face clouded. "What do you mean? Is she still being a bitch toward you, after everything you've done-"

"No!" he cut in, abruptly. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

"But that's the best, it means she loves you after all. I mean, she did anyway but she was so proper about it all the time. I think it was because of mother. But you said even mother approves of you now. Now that she's been brought back, like you and Rhaegar were."

"That's just it," Jon agreed. "We do love each other. I am the heir to the House Targaryen; she is Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North. But even all that to one side, we love each other."

A number of expressions chased themselves across Arya's face as she picked up on what he was hinting at. To his dismay, there was more than a trace of disgust there. "You mean you 'love' love each other?"

Jon faltered and only managed a small nod. "Ever since we worked together and she helped me learn the truth of my parents and then I helped her take back Winterfell… we got to know each other all over again. And I love her, Arya. We're doing nothing wrong."

She still looked far from certain, going so far as to back away from him as if she was about to flee. But she didn't.

"When she came to me, she was broken," he continued. "She'd been sold, beaten and raped. Bolton almost killed her. And when she reached me, she was told that I would die. But she never gave up and crossed the wall, risked her life again to reach Brandon north of the wall, all to reach me and help me find my way back. I would never have survived this without her and, once this is all over, I never wanted to be parted from her again. Or from you, but for different reasons."

Arya sighed, her shoulders dropping again as she relaxed. After another second, she came back to him and covered his hands with her own. "All that matters is that we're back together. After that, we'll all be alright."

Chapter Text

Horn-blasts shattered the stillness of dawn, awakening Jon with a sharp jolt. In the bed next to him, Arya was curled up tight and stirring slowly. Loath as he was to wake her, he had no choice as the horns were soon joined by several voices raised in alarm. Outside, the storm had died and he could hear the gates creaking on rusty hinges and the stuttering clatter of the portcullis being raised. In the room next door, muffled thumps informed him the commotion had also disturbed his father.

Jon was relieved. If there was trouble below Rhaegar would be needed. He rose from the bed he shared with Arya, nudging her gently enough to awaken her without causing panic. She stirred again, eyelids fluttering just as another blast of the horns below startled her into full consciousness.

"What's happening?" she asked, looking all about her.

"I don't know," he answered, pulling on his breeches and boots. "Wait here, take cover in the garderobe beyond until I know it's safe."

She pulled a face, already reaching for Needle. "I'm coming with you, stupid!"

Although he knew it was pointless, he tried to reason with her anyway. "Arya, if there's trouble that thing won't help you. Now take cover, please."

"This 'thing' has saved my life more times than you know," she argued. "I'm coming with you."

She was already pulling on the clothes she had brought from Braavos, dragging them out of a roughspun sack she carried all her worldly possessions in. There was no use in arguing further, not now she had that stubborn look about her – one thing that had not changed since their childhood at Winterfell. Besides, there was no more time as a sharp knocking came at the door. Jon quickly fixed his sword belt in place as he hurried to answer the call.

On the other side of the door he found an old serving lady wrapped in layers of shawls and her gathered under a tatty old net, clearly just roused from her own bed. She bore a single candle, wax dripping down its sides. "My Lord says you're to come now, they're gathered in the yard."

"Is it an attack?" he asked, brusquely.

She had no answer. "I know not, my lord."

She was obviously busy, so Jon let her go on her way. In the room behind him, Arya was dressed already in breeches and a tunic too big for her. Needle was sheathed at her hip, looking woefully insubstantial for any protracted fighting that may lay ahead. Meanwhile, the old serving woman was now hammering at Rhaegar's door. Farther down the corridor the sound of running feet echoed down the turnpike stairs.

Grabbing Arya's hand, Jon led her out into the fray with Rhaegar soon falling into step behind them. He hadn't even properly met Arya yet and was still under the impression that he'd gotten a young girl a new job within the household. However, now wasn't the time to explain. The three of them emerged into the common where Lord Jason Mallister and his son were speaking with a man he dimly recognised as Wyman Manderly's master-at-arms. Relief swept over Jon, bringing a rare smile to his face.

"They're ours," Arya said, almost laughing. "Sansa's called her banners for us."

Amidst the tumult of Arya's arrival, Jon had almost forgotten the reinforcements Sansa had sent. Turning from the common hall, he hastened toward the exit, where the foot soldiers and cavalry men were still pouring through the gates. Many were mounted and armoured, but the vast majority were simple foot soldiers. Manderlys, Glovers, Cerwyns, even a couple of Mormonts. They weren't thousands strong yet, but they were inching ever closer to it.

"She hasn't called the banners, my lord. But she's come through with those reinforcements she promised."

Jon turned around to find Brynden Tully at his shoulder. He beheld the scene before him with a small smile, something akin to hope. After a moment, he noticed Arya.

"Oh-ho!" he exclaimed. "I believe it is my niece."

Arya smiled the smile of a girl who'd forgotten she even had a real family and found herself meeting relatives she never knew she had. It heartened Jon to see her happy so soon after yet another scare. She bounced up, extending a hand to her great uncle.

"My mother told me all about you?" she greeted him. "I'm Arya, of House Stark. How do you do?"

"All the better for meeting you at last, Arya of House Stark," Brynden mussed up her hair, playfully pulling her into headlock as he moved closer to Jon. "Many of that lot are Bolton's old men looking for a way back to good grace. They're fighting under your cousin's banners now."

Initially, Jon bridled. But he gave it a second thought, considering it evenly. They were not actual Boltons, just regular soldiers who had the misfortune to be born on Bolton lands. They never had the luxury of actually picking a side or a Lord to serve. Unless they were sell swords, and whoever of those the Boltons had would be long gone by now.

"Well then, I have a duty to show them the way back to good grace," he replied, at length. "And it stars at dawn on the morrow, my lord. For then we march on Riverrun."

Brynden met his gaze, a look of understanding passing between them. Arya, still in the playful headlock, managed to wriggle free as her great-uncle fell still.

"Then it will be done," he agreed.

Jon already felt they'd waited too long at Seagard, while the rest of the Riverlands had laid to waste. But now it was done, and it felt like progress.

The Godswood of Winterfell was a dark and primal place. Three acres of ash, oak and pine sentinels, while at its core the huge white heart tree held dominion among their ancient gods. Some of the trees were as old as the realm itself. Watered by the cold and stagnant pool, its surface made black and glacial in the weak light that made it through the canopy of trees overhead. It was there that Sansa brought the vial of Shade of the Evening. If the ironwood trees whose leaves made the potion were connected to the weirwoods, it felt like the right place to be.

She held the small vial in the palm of her hand, its liquid made inky black by the poor light. Gathering her courage, she dug her nails into the waxy seal and popped the stopper out. It landed at her feet, lost among the undergrowth that sprouted at the base of the heart tree. Marwyn said she had to take it all, so she wet her lips and pinched her nose with her free hand to stop herself from smelling the rancid meat and sour milk smell it gave off.

Although she blocked the smell, there was little she could do about the taste. And the taste was every bit as bad as the smell. It was all she could do to gulp it down and keep it down. Her stomach churned, her mouth watered as if she was about to vomit. But, just as she thought she would retch it all back up again, the sourness dissipated and gave way to a smooth sweetness she had not experienced since the weirwood paste Bran had given her. It felt warm, like she had been wrapped in a soft woollen blanket and she eased her back against the trunk of the tree and waited.

Little happened, at first. She seemed to keep waiting, while the woods grew darker and darker. The light seemed to turn a deep blue, causing her to grow anxious. Marwyn had said nothing about the world turning blue. Then he anxiety was increased as somewhere a baby cried. It was distant, at first, but growing louder, closer.

"Craster serves crueller Gods than you and I, boy."

It was a man's voice that spoke, but she couldn't see him. But his words were clear over the wailing baby. Mildly panicking, Sansa stood up quickly, looking for the source of the noise. She stumbled to the edge of the pool, where she saw the images playing across the surface of the water. A baby in swaddling, snow blowing in its face, falling silent as the ice monster touched its face, turning its eyes a burning blue. She gasped, trying to recoil but the scene changed and held her fast in place.

The ice baby was replaced by another baby, held in the arms of a terrified girl. Sansa didn't know her, but she was travelling with a brother of the Night's Watch. It wasn't Jon, but a large fat young man with ice forming in his beard and an obsidian dagger clutched in his hands. A chorus of disembodied voices seemed to echo in her head: "the baby … the baby…" All the while, Sansa watched the baby in the girl's arms, the connection completely lost on her.

Sansa closed her eyes, trying to erase the images she saw. But the visions continued as she stumbled deeper into the godswood. When she opened them again she found herself face to face with a huge black dragon, who quickly took wing and soared into the air. She turned a corner, to where Jon was standing at the prow of a ship, looking the Night's King dead in the eye, an army of corpses coming back to life. She tried to scream but the sound was lost, drowned out by Cersei's anguished cries. Joffrey lay in her arms, purple cheeked and bloody-nosed, eyes bulging blindly from his face.

"Seize him!" she cried to no one in particular. "Seize him!"

Tyrion froze, the incriminating goblet falling from his hands and hitting the floor with a dull clunk. Jaime moved in the background, armoured all in gold, even though he had not been at Joffrey's wedding. He moved around Tyrion and Cersei like a golden ghost.

"Valonqar," a voice in her head said. Both Tyrion and Jaime looked up as if the voice had spoken to them.

Sansa whipped around, finding herself back in the godswood. A small, squat woman with warts and large yellow eyes looked back at her from the undergrowth. She reminded Sansa of some sort of frog.

"Will I be Queen, though?" a small girl's voice asked.

The warty old woman replied: "Aye, queen you shall be until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear."

The old woman looked directly at Sansa, making her blood run cold. Was the prophecy directed at her, or the unseen girl? Even as she tried to fix the old woman in her line of sight, the crone changed and morphed before her very eyes. She stretched and grew taller, her hair turned to a lustrous auburn and Sansa realised she was looking at herself standing between two furious men, holding them apart. Her tearful pleas fell on deaf ears.

Jon shrugged her off first, suddenly circling his father like a caged lion. All three of them were standing in a room made of sandstone, bathed in warm sunlight. But that was where the cheeriness ended. Jon was in a towering rage, scowling and veins swelling in his temple as he berated his father.

"This realm once bled for your selfish desires, so you will do this thing and call it your penance!"

"You're punishing me for something I had no control over," Rhaegar retorted, wide-eyed and imploring. "You know not what you ask of me and, I beg of you, anything but this!"

Sansa had seen enough. Turning her back on the fight, she aimed for the light ahead that she assumed was the pool before the heart tree. She emerged there, breathless and dazed from all she had seen. But it wasn't over yet. Forcing herself to relax, she took hold of the heart tree's roots and closed her eyes, letting the visions come splitting through her head.

A huge black dragon flying over the city; a silver haired girl raining fire over the undead. She saw Jon on the prow of the boat again, eye to eye with the Night's King. The baby was back, wailing into the breast of his terrified mother. Joffrey choked his final breaths; Ramsay leered at her with his pack dogs growling ominously in the darkness. He burst into flames as Sonar swooped down from the skies. The flames kept burning, filling the air with thick and choking smoke. Summerhall blackened and charred, people fled in terror and Queen Rhaella's scream pierced the night. Blood magic merged with fire magic, tragedy and chaos ensued. The smoke cleared, revealing Jon naked and covered in soot, nursing an infant dragon. She turned from the desolation of Summerhall, looking north to where the Others gathered, starting their southward journey. "The baby…" the voices reminded her. "The baby."

It left her exhausted. Once it was over, she managed to make it back to the castle unaided, where she had barely the strength left to recount all she had seen to Marwyn and the Brotherhood. After that, she climbed the stairs to her chambers and fell onto the bed, sinking straight into a deep sleep. Even then her mind wouldn't switch off. She dreamed of spring. Snows melted and butterflies folded their wings of blue and red, shedding dull grey cocoons. She was sitting on a blanket spread in a field, with Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and Jon. Her father let her have a cup of wine – only the one – to herald the coming of summer.

She awoke to more good news, imparted by the Maester loitering in her doorway.

"Word from Seagard, my lady," he said. "Your reinforcements arrived safely and your cousin marches on Riverrun. Furthermore, your sister has been found safe and well. She will be home soon."

Sansa sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, allowing a touch of elation into her heart. If this wasn't real, just the after-effects of that blue poison, she would burn the House of the Undying all over again.

True to his word, Jon led from the front with Rhaegar on one side and Arya on the other. Behind them, Ser Brynden Tully, Ser Davos Seaworth and Lord Jason Mallister rode close by, mounted on destriers and ready for war. Behind them came the troops. Mallister's men, Sansa's reinforcements, the remnants of House Tully and even a few of the other lords had come out to support them. Every time they passed through a river lord's lands, their army got bigger, growing fat on the promise of revenge.

Soon, Jon knew, it would be time to deliver.

Once again reminded of how vast Westeros was, it took them over two weeks to travel from Seagard to Riverrun. And, to his dismay, it was more of the same. Land laid waste, crops burned and villages destroyed. Women had been mass raped, smallfolk put to the sword and those who remained continued to live in fear of their lives. Worse, what the Lannisters had begun would soon be finished off by the unforgiving winter heading their way. There was no telling how long it would last and there wasn't so much a grain of wheat to be had by way of food. With no grain to feed the livestock, the pigs and cows that survived the sacking and looting looked scrawny and sorry.

Jon feared the oncoming winter in more ways than one. If the war in the north was to be won, he needed men to fight. If men were to fight, they needed food to live. All he saw was desolation and a greater desolation to come.

"My lord," he said, turning to Brynden. "Now that the Tyrells have abandoned the Lannisters, is it worth sending emissaries to them to seek an alliance?"

"What would they get in return?" Brynden asked. "You can see we have nothing to give. Chances are even my nephew will not be spared once the Lannisters hear of what we've done. Otherwise, I'd annul that marriage to Roslyn Frey and promise his hand to old Olenna and make him bloody happy about it."

"He has a son, doesn't he?" Jon asked. He was a babe in arms, but he wouldn't stay that way forever. "Surely there's a Tyrell cousin he can be promised to. We can send him to foster at Highgarden until such time is right."

If there's a male cousin, then there's always Arya, he thought. He kept the thought to himself, seeing as she'd probably shove Needle up where the sun doesn't shine at the mere mention of her marriage. But times were desperate and he needed all the leverage he could get.

Meanwhile, Brynden shrugged. "It's a definite possibility, my lord."

A mischievous smile spread across his face as he added: "Besides, I'd have thought the Lady Olenna was more to your own liking, my lord."

Brynden almost choked, flushing red in the face. He was famed for having alienated his own brother by utterly refusing to marry anyone, no matter what the benefits. What Jon knew of Lady Olenna came from Sansa. The infamous Queen of Thorns and the famous Blackfish … it sounded like a marriage made in heaven, to him.

They reached the Red Fork, finding the river cutting them off from Riverrun. But the castle was tantalisingly close, Jon could see it clearly, barely a few miles over the water and down land. Rhaegar dismounted his destrier and called down the dragon. In a flash of silver blue and a burst of flame, he appeared and beat up a storm with the force of his wings. Jon was used to it by now, but some of the men behind him ducked for cover and the horses reared, skittish against the sudden commotion.

The dragon landed with a crash and Jon swore he felt the earth move. Rhaegar, meanwhile, approached the beast and soothed him quietly. Speaking in High Valyrian however, Jon couldn't make out a word of it. While all that was happening, he turned his attention to Riverrun, where the people were now fleeing within the castle walls. He noted the Lannister lions hanging on banners, suspended from the curtain walls. There were a few twin towers of House Frey, but it soon became clear to him who was really in charge of Riverrun.

"Father," Jon called to Rhaegar. "Fly him over there. Let them know we're on our way."

"I think they've got the message already," Brynden observed.

"Aye," he concurred. "But I think a demonstration is in order."

A small taste of dragon fire and they might just see sense and decide to negotiate, he thought to himself. Even if the chances of a peaceful handover were small, Jon knew he had to try for it.

"Who is in there?" he asked again.

"Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister," replied Ser Brynden. "Believe it or not, my lord, our best bet is her, rather than him. He's a fucking idiot, but Genna wasn't born yesterday. She knows what's good for her."

"How many men?" asked Ser Davos.

Brynden didn't sound certain, but Jon breathed a sigh of relief at his answer anyway.

"Two hundred. We can defeat them easily."

Overhead, Rhaegar circled the dragon, letting out another burst of flame that lit up the darkening skies over Riverrun. The Red Fork momentarily shone red and gold in the reflected firelight. Bells suddenly began to toll and voices raised in panic. It seemed the Lannisters and Freys really had gotten the message.

It had reached a point where even Cersei had to admit that Eddard Stark had been right. Winter was coming, and she was freezing to the bone. She sipped her hot, spiced wine and moved her chair closer to the fire. Close enough for the flames to reflect in her bright green eyes. Toward the back of the room Ser Robert Strong shifted in the shadows, the plates of his armour grinding together. The noise set her teeth on edge but, because it was him, she said nothing.

Outside, a cold wind whipped in from the Blackwater and rain pattered against her windows. Another sign of winter's relentless approach. Inwardly, she prayed for it to pour down and wash away the last smudges of the Sept of Baelor, the last greasy stains of Margaery Tyrell and her degenerate brother. Each one of those prickling roses had been a thorn in her side and picking them out one by one had given her more pleasure than she could say. Or, at least until she decided it would be best to blast them out all at once, for the final time.

A soft knock at her door intruded upon her inner-thoughts, drawing her attention back into the here and now. Ser Robert answered and stepped aside to admit the guests without saying a word. That was what she liked about him: he never uttered a word. All she had to do was forget what was under that visor, and she could pretend he was the perfect person.

"Your Grace, forgive our intrusion upon your precious spare time." Maester Qyburn bowed as best he could. "I bring more news from the North and the Riverlands."

She could have rolled her eyes, but resisted the temptation. "The North. My favourite."

Taking another sip of wine to brace herself for whatever was next, she gestured for Ser Robert to pull up a chair for the Maester. While he got settled, she remembered the last time they talked about the North. Sansa Stark had taken it back, killing Ramsay Bolton in the process. The killing had been surprising enough, but the manner of it had her laughing out loud. Her laughter soon died as more and more reports backed up the original account.

"While we initially believed House Stark was too demoralised to attack us anywhere else," Qyburn began, "it seems they have launched an invasion via the Riverlands."

Now Cersei did roll her eyes. "Only Sansa Stark could be stupid enough to repeat the same mistakes her brother made. She will fail, Qyburn. And if she does not…"

She glanced toward Robert Strong. The Mountain was now unassailable.

"There's more, your grace," Qyburn said. "The dragon people speak of… Varys' former little birds have seen it for themselves. There are simply too many reports of this beast to ignore any longer."

Cersei bridled at the suggestion she had been ignoring it. Truth was, they'd been hearing of reports of dragons across the Narrow Sea for years now. They still hadn't turned up in the flesh in Westeros. "I thought Viserys Targaryen was dead, anyway. His own sister killed him, from what I heard."

"Actually," Qyburn sounded regretful. "The name I am hearing is actually Rhaegar Targaryen. There are certain rumours he-"

What those rumours were she didn't hear over the sound of her own laughter. Once she had composed herself, she added: "You forget, Qyburn, that I was married to the man who killed Rhaegar Targaryen with his own hammer. Robert saw his body in the river, he smashed the rubies from his breastplate and watched them rushing down the Trident. The water was red with Valyrian blood."

Qyburn laughed, but it sounded forced and brittle. "Quite right, your grace. Quite right. But still, there is a large northern army heading our way, taking back the Riverlands and the Vale and growing stronger by the day."

Growing stronger… the words repeated in her head. At least she had nipped that rose in the bud.

"I will send Jaime back to the Riverlands with a force," she ceded. "I would have the truth of these rumours for myself."

Seemingly satisfied, he bowed out of the room and left her in peace. She sipped her wine, drawing what warmth she could from it.

Once, a long time ago, her father had promised her she would marry Rhaegar Targaryen. Elated at the news, she had drawn a picture of him riding a dragon with her behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. It was a childish fantasy. Jaime saw it and asked her what it was meant to be and she told him it was King Jaehaerys I and his sister-wife, Queen Alysanne. But childish fantasy or no, when she saw Rhaegar for the first time she thought him the most beautiful creature who ever walked the realm. Jaime was a green boy by comparison. Then Aerys had humiliated her and her father. Not long after that, the wrong king returned from the Trident and that picture was all she had left of the prince. She still had it, somewhere.

Shaking herself down, she sipped her wine and spoke aloud: "He is dead. Rhaegar is very, very dead."

Chapter Text

Silk Direwolves fluttered from a thousand tentpoles, spread out around the edge of the woods beyond the Riverrun. By night, the scene was lit up by as many campfires and the air hung heavy with the smell of cooking meat. When dawn broke, a mist of smoke lingered in spectral wisps, pale in the morning light by the time the early birds among their swelling ranks emerged from their tents. Out they stumbled, yawning and stretching, the cold air blowing away the cobwebs of sleep to be greeted by the sight of a fine new gallows pole.

Brynden Tully had erected it in full view of the castle. It stood now, stark and ominous against the rising sun. Its sinister geometry measured to perfection, the hempen rope slung around the neck of the one man who got no sleep at all these days. Edmure Tully had suffered the same humiliation, now it was Black Walder's turn. The Lord of the Crossing remained silent and stoic, defying his legendarily awful temper, in the face of his kinsman's relative indifference.

Rhaegar had his misgivings about the tactic and Jon had agreed. But Jon also agreed that the Riverlands were Brynden's domain now and it wasn't for them to dictate terms to a man who had suffered so much. Nevertheless, Rhaegar gave the scaffold a wide berth as he went to empty his bladder in the nearest latrine pit at the edge of the woods. They had only been there a week, but already the pit stank to high heavens and he tried to avoid breathing in as he answered the call of nature.

Just beyond the edge of the woods a clearing had been left by the Lannisters during their siege, not so long ago. It was marked by jagged tree-stumps that had been left behind when they made their siege engines and scorpions. Now it was a convenient, out of sight, resting place for Soñar who also took pleasure in using the tree stumps as scratching posts. He looked like a grotesque cat as he rubbed his scales up and down the stumps. He was still sleeping now, limned in pale light as his bulk rose and fell in time to his growling snores. For a moment, Rhaegar watched him. His wings stretched over his face, his neck coiled around his body. A small figure stood before him, causing him a moment's worry.

Hastily splashing some cool water over his hands, he wiped them dry again on his tunic before rushing over to the figure getting too close to Soñar for comfort. Increasing his anxiety, he was certain there was a vast wolf pack roaming these woods. He heard them every night and, not too long ago, he got up one night to piss and could have sworn he saw their eyes glinting from deep within the undergrowth. Right now, however, he was more concerned that the girl didn't get burned alive.

"Excuse me," he called. "Be careful. Don't get too close."

The dragon stirred, snorting a cloud of smoke and the girl leapt back in alarm. Up close, he finally recognised Arya.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she blurted out. "I only wanted to look properly; I wouldn't hurt him."

He caught a hold of her before she could run past, keeping hold of her to show everything was alright.

"Then come and look properly," he said, gently. "It's rather like Ghost really. Safe, so long as the owner is close by."

She looked at him for a moment, her grey eyes reflected the light and a small smile playing on her face. By now, their voices had awoken Soñar and he lifted his huge head to study them intently. He sniffed at the newcomer, measuring her up in his beady blue eyes. Over the last few months, he had been eating continuously and growing exponentially, so he towered over them both when he stood. Meanwhile, Arya was hesitant as she took a small step closer to Soñar.

"Years ago, when I was at King's Landing, I saw the skulls in the Dragon vault," she said, looking back at him. "I didn't know what they were; I thought they were monsters."

Rhaegar chuckled. "I suppose they are, in a way. As to the skulls you saw, I'm amazed the usurper Robert Baratheon kept them."

She reached out a hand, as if to touch the dragon's neck, but her nerve failed and she pulled away quickly. "They're hidden away, deep in a vault. But I saw them. I hid inside the biggest one."

"Balerion," he said. "There was none bigger than Balerion. Not even Soñar. Go on: touch him."

She glanced over to him and he replied with an encouraging nod. Emboldened enough, Arya gently placed her hand against Soñar's scales, running her palm down his long neck. She gasped, her eyes wide with wonder as she caressed him ever so softly. She repeated the motion, as if she was soothing a family pet dog.

"He's very hot."

"Fire made flesh," he replied.

Soñar noticed too, and quickly whipped his head up and nudged the girl roughly. Arya tumbled backwards, her feet kicking up as she landed. But she wasn't hurt and made no sound as she fell.

"It's alright, stay calm," Rhaegar said, rushing over to help her back to her feet. "Don't let him scare you."

To his surprise, Arya stood her ground stoically and looked the dragon in the eye without so much as blinking. She really was like her aunt, he thought to himself. Maybe a little cautious, but fearless when it came to the crunch. He backed off, letting the two of them get more acquainted.

"How big will he grow?" she asked.

"They never stop growing," he answered. "If they're left to fly free and given enough food, they just get bigger and bigger."

Now that Soñar was awake, Rhaegar deftly hopped up onto his wing joint and used a protruding scale to lever himself up onto the beast's back. Settled between two solid spines, he reached his hand down toward Arya.

"Come on," he said. "You're small and skinny enough."

Arya hesitated, but her expression was dumbstruck awe. "Me? On the dragon?"

Rhaegar stretched out his hand as far as he could. "Why not? Visenya Targaryen took the little King of the Vale for a ride on Vhagar in return for his surrender. As long as I'm with you, Soñar will not harm you."

With that assurance, Arya came scrambling up the wing joint just as he had. But the smooth scales made her slide back down again. Not to be deterred, she jumped higher and caught his hand, and he pulled her up and helped her get settled on the dragon's back. He was curious to see if Soñar was indeed strong enough to carry two now. He certainly had the size and his temperament was actually quite calm and friendly, for a dragon.

"Lady Sansa briefly flew on him," he said, hoping it would help her relax. "She wasn't in control so it was more like Soñar took her for a ride. But she managed to kill her ex-husband, which I think was all she was aiming for anyway."

Positioned behind him, Arya laughed nervously as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Moments later, she fell still and he could feel her pressed into his back as she clung for dear life, even before they'd left the ground.

"We're going now, just tell me if you want to land," he said, twisting his neck to try and get her in sight. He felt her nod, rather than seeing it. Turning back to the dragon, he uttered the Valyrian command to fly: "Sōvēs!"

Soñar's clawed feet pounded around the clearing, his talons churning up the earth as he ran in wide circles, gathering momentum. Arya's grip tightened like a vice as the dragon leapt into the air. Huge wings beat at the air, causing the branches to sway and the leaves to rustle as if a sudden storm had broken out around them. Half a heartbeat later and they were clear of even the trees. From behind him, a stream of expletives was lost among the beating of the wings. The swearing stopped abruptly, a moment's stunned silence, before a loud squeal of euphoria sounded as his passenger's fear was overtaken by the sheer exhilaration of soaring over the world.

"We're flying! We're really, really flying!" Arya cried into the rushing winds. "I can't believe we're flying!"

She was still gripping him, but she loosened her hold as she got used to the bizarre sensation. And now that the dragon was safely airborne, Rhaegar was able to turn and face her for a moment.

"We're going to fly over Riverrun, make sure you get a good look inside," he said.

Arya had her eyes fixed on the vanishing campsite below, but she tore herself away and met his gaze. "Alright. Are you going to attack them?"

"Only if they attack us," he said. "And that's entirely possible."

Soñar ceased beating his wings and they began to glide smoothly downwards again, swooping closer to Riverrun. From that height, they could see everything going on in the courtyards and grounds within the curtain walls. A dragon was hard to miss at the best of times, but Soñar's sheer size sent most of the castle's inhabitants scattering faster than usual. Inwardly, Rhaegar was relieved they didn't try to fight, but he could tell Arya was disappointed. She wanted to see his fires.

"I'm going to circle a few more times and I want you to memorise the layout of the castle," he informed her. "Can you do that?"

"Of course, but why?" she asked.

"Because I want you to change your face, get access to the castle and cut the drawbridge loose," he replied. "When you do that, I will use Soñar's fire power to attack the castle. Hopefully, the men will get one look at the fires and flee for their lives. They will flee straight into Jon's battle lines. Are you willing?"

"Yes," she said, without hesitation. "I am. I will."

They circled the castle, Soñar's great shadow sweeping across the turrets and the guard houses as they soared on by. One foolhardy guard attempted to fire an arrow at them but it fell far short. Some of his colleagues, emboldened by the move, all came rushing to do the same. None of the arrows even came close to the dragon. All the same…

"They're attacking us," Arya pointed out.

"Fair enough," he agreed. "Dracaris!"

Like the arrows, the jet of flames fell far short of the men at arms. But it was enough for them to get the message and they fled back inside their tower. There was nowhere else for them to flee to. But Rhaegar hoped, once Arya gave them a way out, they would take it and the Lannisters and Freys be damned. Driving the message home, he issued the command for fire again. Arya cried out, bouncing in her seat now at the sight of it.

"Look what's coming, murderers!" she screamed down at them. "Run! Run now, cravens!"

Circling done, he guided the dragon back to camp. Landing in open field next to the battle camp, he slid off first and held his arms open to catch Arya.

"How did you like it?" he asked.

She was breathless and flushed in the face from the wind. "That was the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Good," he replied, setting her back on her feet. "Because once this is over, I've promised Jon I'll take you back to Winterfell."

Arya beamed from ear to ear. "Then let's get it done. I want to go home."

Jon emerged from his tent, still sluggish from sleep, and looked to the skies. Shielding his eyes from the rising sun, he counted the two riders. However much he trusted his father's skills with the dragon, he couldn't help but worry about Arya. And he knew it was her, he had discussed it with Rhaegar already.

Tearing his gaze away, he left the woods and joined Ser Brynden on the gallows. That made him uneasy, too. He had no sympathy for Walder Frey, but he couldn't quite bring himself to support the humiliation all the same. The man was silent now. For the first few days, he had stood there swearing at everyone, imparted insults and decried all their mothers as whores they their whoresons. No one paid him much attention, which only made him more furious at first. But he gradually grew bored and quietened down. Now he seemed resigned to it, much as Edmure seemed to have done.

"My Lord," Jon greeted Ser Brynden. "What will we do with him when the attack begins?"

"Hang him, for all I care," Tully retorted. "But I suppose we still need him."

"I promised I'd save him for my sister," he said. "But I don't want him fleeing at the height of the battle. Better put him back in shackles, if you ask me."

Just then, a burst of flame lit the sky over Riverrun, quickly followed by another. None of it seemed to do any damage, but he heard screams and shouts coming from within.

"If your lizard roasts my family- "

"Fucking shut up!" Ser Brynden cut over Frey. Turning back to Jon, he continued: "That stoat Emmon Frey threatened to burn that castle to the ground before he left it. Or rather, his wife did. He wouldn't have conceived the idea himself. All the same, it will not do to have that dragon do the job for him."

Jon had already thought of that. "I know, my lord. It won't come to that. The men inside that castle will soon see sense and surrender. Come. Walk with me."

After setting a guard to watch over the prisoner, Brynden agreed. The pair of them walked through the camp, greeting the men who would all too soon be fighting for them.

"There's a whole lot of grain in storage at Riverrun," Brynden admitted. "You've seen the state of our farmlands, you know that's all we've got to survive on during the winter."

Jon saw the problem. Whatever Rhaegar didn't, he could not take the castle at the expense of that stored grain. There was little he could offer by way of assurances.

"Well, let's just hope it won't come to that," he said. "Besides, we're taking the castle by stealth as much as anything."

He wasn't sure how to feel about the plan to get Arya involved. It made him uneasy, nervous. Eddard Stark would be livid if he knew, more so if he knew Jon was the one encouraging it. But it was he who presented her with Needle, all those years ago. Now was the time for Arya to stick 'em with the pointy end.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, he saw his sister running full pelt towards him. Concerned, he excused himself from Ser Brynden and ran to meet her. However, as they drew together, he could see she was only running through sheer happiness. She almost looked like the child she still was. They met and she jumped up and threw her arms around his neck, just as she used to when they were both children. For a long moment, he held her tight.

"I went up on the dragon," she said, excitably. "You should have seen it, Jon. I went up on the dragon and it was amazing. We saw everything. We saw inside Riverrun and all the rivers looked like tiny threads."

Seeing her happy made him happy. "Father said he wanted you to get to know the dragon. Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed the ride. I suppose he also told you the plan?"

She nodded vigorously. "And I've agreed. I want to do it, Jon. I can use what I learned to take back Riverrun."

She had that stubborn look about her. The one no one could argue with, so he didn't waste time trying. "Just make sure you have a bucket of water handy."

She frowned, trying to work out why, before dissolving into laughter.

Ever since she took the potion, Sansa had been wondering about the things she had seen. She described the baby to the Maester and quickly got a reply back. Samwell Tarly had a met a wildling girl and brought her and her infant south of the wall. She knew the name, but only because of Jon. Summerhall she knew, only because she had seen it for herself. But it led further than Samwell's wildling girl's baby.

"It was that night, wasn't it," she said, as they ate in the common hall. "Something happened on the night of the fire that brought the Others back."

She was speaking to Maester Marwyn, but it was Thoros of Myr who answered. "My Lady, the Others never really went away."

"But, Summerhall was what brought their powers back into the open," Marwyn suggested. "That night ended in blood, fire and tragedy. And dragons. Magic re-entered the world in the most violent possible way, and these are things beyond the understanding of any fire-addled Targaryens."

Only vaguely did Sansa recall the deserter from the Night's Watch, executed by her father before they left Winterfell. He had talked of the Others, of seeing White Walkers migrating south. That was before Daenerys hatched her dragons, she knew. That only left Summerhall, which they had manipulated in time and played a role in. Had they inadvertently brought the Others back themselves by hatching Soñar? It made her head spin when she thought too much about it.

Soon after that, she sat in her chambers and composed a letter to Jon asking him to find the woods witch. She was another piece of the puzzle, she was certain of it. But the one she saw in the visions was a different one. That one had warts and big yellow eyes. Thinking about that made her head hurt, too. Valonqar. Little brother. A little brother would wrap his hands around a Queen's throat and kill her. That was what she had said.

Rather than tie herself in knots over what it all meant, she wrote it down as best as she recalled it and stashed the papers away for safe keeping. In the meantime, she returned to Jon's letter. Soon, she prayed, she would be returning to Jon in person.

Jon didn't even ask where Arya had gotten that Lannister livery from. Whether it was a lucky find in the woods, or whether she had clobbered a real Lannister messenger on the road and simply stolen it from him. The latter seemed far more likely. Either way, he was glad she had the livery, as well as a brand-new face to go with it. Even though that still unnerved him. It was like Arya wasn't Arya anymore, that she just morphed into other people at will. It reminded him of the barriers that now seemed to lie between them.

However, pushing all that aside, he watched from a Myrish far-eye as she approached Riverrun from several miles down the road, travelling from the direction of Casterly Rock. The horse she was mounted on was a sturdy little bow-legged garron, the type always used by messengers wherever they were coming from. All he could see was a red-gold blur as she trotted on by, using her new face.

After that, there was nothing to see until she reached Riverrun. Disguised as a harmless messenger, and definitely alone, she was admitted through a postern gate and ushered through the curtain walls.

"She's in," he said, lowering the far-eye. Turning to Rhaegar, he added: "Get Soñar ready. It's almost time."

But time passed interminably. Seconds ticked by in what felt like hours. Minutes dripped by in days. The sun began to set before a commotion could be heard coming from the castles. A window in a guard tower smashed and a body fell from an upper window, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The drawbridge wasn't lowered. Its ropes were cut and it crashed to earth in a cloud of dust and splinters.

Jon's heart leapt into his throat as the fight began in earnest. Rhaegar soared overhead on Soñar and he knew it was time to form up the cavalry charge. Seconds later, a burst of bright orange and deep red flames seared the sky over the castle, briefly lighting up everything. The screams and shouts from within Riverrun were now answered by the thundering of horse's hooves as Jon gave the command to charge.

They descended on Riverrun in a tide of steel armour, lances and swords drawn as they met the soldiers already fleeing the castle. For his part, Jon only struck at them if they struck at him. Otherwise, he let them retreat with what little dignity they could muster. Meanwhile, overhead, Rhaegar deployed Soñar all over again. A jet of flame split the sky, a burning man fell from the parapets and into the river, while his comrades fled through the newly opened drawbridge.

As the Lannisters and Freys fled, Jon and his men rode up to meet them. Many they cut down as they charged toward the castle, ready to take it back for House Tully. Others threw their swords down into the dust at the mere sight of them. The sensible ones, Jon thought to himself.

When the first of their numbers breached the walls of Riverrun, Rhaegar withdrew Soñar's fire and landed with an almighty crash in the castle's forecourt. Jon rushed up to meet him, his blade wet with blood, and clapped him firmly on the back.

"Have you seen Arya?" he asked.

Rhaegar shook his head. "No."

Fighting broke out all around them as Lannister and Frey loyalists tried to stick it out. Made bold by the fact that the dragon had been stood down, some of the deserters even tried to rejoin the fight. But it was too little too late, and the Stark and Riverlands forces soon chased them down, running them into the woods where a huge pack of wolves stalked the trees hungry for flesh.

Jon hacked at the legs of a huge destrier, bringing it crashing down on top of its owner. The Frey was crushed to death. An old balding man he had just assumed was a soldier. Either way, he was the enemy and Jon had no time to trouble his conscience. He jumped the horse and ran back out of the castle walls. Wolves were everywhere. More than he had ever seen. Many were howling, others were getting stuck into Lannisters and Freys. None troubled the Stark forces. Frowning, he looked along their lines to the huge she-wolf who seemed to lead them.

"Nymeria," he whispered. He didn't even know how he knew it was her.

The roar of the dragon pulled Jon back inside the castle. A spear had pierced his scales, but the damage was superficial. Even the man responsible was cut down as Rhaegar swung his sword at the man's head, taking it clean off his shoulders in a spray of vivid red blood. Jon ran to help his father as he took on three enemy soldiers at once. But Rhaegar smoothly kicked one of his assailants over a balustrade while elbowing another in the face with one arm, then sticking his sword down the throat of the other.

Impressed, Jon laughed and punched him on the shoulder as he dodged by, taking out a Lannister as he went. Up on the battlements, he swung at the remaining arches, getting blood in his eyes and temporarily blinding himself. He spun around, only to be kicked to the ground in a surprise attack he didn't see coming because of the blood in his eyes.

Floored, he lay there gasping for breath, watching as Black Walder Frey raised his sword high above his head. A glimmer of supreme satisfaction in his eyes as he braced himself for the kill. Jon barely had time to wonder how he managed to escape before the blow landed. He screwed his eyes shut, waiting to die before it all abruptly stopped. He felt hot liquid spray over his face, he heard the sound of Frey's sword hitting the stones at his side. Slowly, not daring to believe his lucky escape, Jon opened his eyes again.

There was Black Walder still above him, but with a long and skinny needle skewered right through the back of his neck, protruding through his apple. Blood bubbled and frothed at his mouth, slowly his stiffening corpse lurched forward and slid of the blade, revealing Arya once more wearing her real face. She smiled down at him, proud as punch.

"I stuck him with the pointy end!"

Jon laughed. Overwhelmed with his own emotions, he lay back and laughed out loud until Arya punched him on the shoulder, jolting him back into his right mind.

Come the morning and the castle was back under Tully control. With the castle, came the Riverlands themselves. Emmon Frey was the old bald man Jon had killed while he tried to escape, leaving his Lannister wife to yield the castle. Which she had with as much grace as she could muster in shackles. They had lost their valuable Frey prisoner, but a Lannister was worth a hundred Freys, Jon reckoned.

He smiled to himself and turned to face Arya. "Thank you, little sister."

She was taller now, he noticed. Or maybe she just looked that way. "Any time, brother."

They would get some sleep and then they would go their separate ways. Jon would remain at Riverrun, while Rhaegar would take Arya back to Winterfell before he himself flew for Dragonstone. Ser Davos was leaving already. Jon found the old sailor packing up his tent back at the old camp.

"You're going already?" he asked, sorry to see him leave.

Ser Davos nodded. "You've not seen the last of me, Jon Snow." He paused, looking up at the sky now a clear blue. "By the time I make it to Dragonstone on land, your father should have had time to deliver your sister and head down to meet me. Seriously, if you think I'm going up on that beast you can think again."

Jon laughed. He knew the offer had been made, but Ser Davos' answer had been beyond emphatic. But now that the moment of separation had come, no matter how briefly, Jon felt only sorrow.

"I thank you, Ser Davos, for never giving up on me after the stabbing," he said. "And tell your wife I send her my warmest regards. I hope one day we will all meet again to dine and toast our victory."

Ser Davos met his eye. "I don't doubt it, Lord Snow. I don't doubt it for a second."

Chapter Text

It had been weeks since Jon last wrote. A full turn of the moon. Rumours circulated, but until Sansa heard it, read it, in his own hand, she would not believe it. Others tried to sooth her worries with quiet talk, gentle words spoken in hushed voices. It felt so forced that it only began to irritate her. As always, in times of crisis, she found solace in needlework stitching banners for her men and even a few for her bannermen from other houses. Plenty of materials were being brought in via White Harbour now, so there was no great lack of anything anymore. But even that small comfort was deprived her as she found her mind always wandering back to Jon and what he might be doing.

The last she heard, they had left Seagard and Arya had been found. Surely, by now, they must have reached Riverrun. For all she knew, they could both be dead and their armies too. That was what it was like with Robb: initial success despite the odds, followed by a shock defeat that cost them everything. She tried not to dwell on it, visited the godswood daily and often twice come evenfall.

Meanwhile, the Brotherhood remained at Winterfell. However, they earned their keep in whatever ways they could. Tom O'Seven Strings regaled them with bawdy songs of an evening, and even threw a few romantic numbers in to make Sansa wistful for the girl she once was. Beric helped see to her restless smallfolk, while Gendry laboured in the armoury. He toiled day and night, in Mikken's old forge, fixing battered breastplate, gauntlets, helms and shields. He even took sheet metal and forged new ones for her rapidly expanding bannermen. At the same time, he set younger lads to work refining and reforging swords and weapons. He accepted no great payment beyond food and lodgings.

She walked past the forge one afternoon, breathing in the familiar smoke and steam pluming from the open door of the forge. Gendry was hard at it, as he always was. But at sight of her, the hammering abruptly ceased.

"She'll be all right," he said. Hastily, he added: "Milady."

Normally, he never spoke to her at all and that was why she hesitated before answering. She didn't even know if it was her he was addressing.

"Your sister," he continued, looking at the floor. "Lady Arya. She'll be all right."

Sansa glanced around, as if he still might be talking to someone else. But she found the reassurance strangely touching.

"Er, thank you," she replied. "I pray you're right."

Finally, he dared look at her. Meeting her gaze with those bright, Baratheon blue eyes. He was truly Robert's son, he even had Robert's build.

"I knew your father," she said. "He was …"

While she struggled to find suitably delicate words, he finished for her:

"A fat, womanising, drunken sot," he answered, just the hint of a smile on his face. "I met your father once; came to the forge in King's Landing. He seemed like a good man."

The conversation had ended there and she returned indoors to where her mother sat by the fire. Later that night, she found herself wondering why Ned Stark was visiting Robert's bastards in their workplaces. But, she supposed it no longer mattered.

Come the morning, she was awoken by the guards sounding the horns again. Two long blasts tore her from sleep and she stumbled to the windows to see what was going on. She was up high enough to see over the curtain walls, but there was no one approaching on land. The horizon was clear, but for a large black shadow sweeping over the virgin white snows that carpeted the countryside. The shadow spread its wings and soared, growing smaller as the real thing neared the ground.

Rhaegar… She dressed hurriedly, not waiting for her maids to come. She pulled a tunic over her head and struggled into her petticoats. Grabbing the first gown that came to hand, she pulled it on herself and laced from the front. Still barefoot, she ran out of the chamber and down the turnpike stairs into the main keep. By the time she made it outside, Rhaegar was sliding down from the dragon's back. Instead of coming over to her, he remained at Sonar's side and held his arms open. When Sansa came closer, she saw the second person. Smaller, with chestnut brown hair knotted into a bun, the girl landed in the prince's arms.

"Arya!"

Sansa hadn't meant to scream her sister's name, but she had and now it echoed back at her from around the empty yards. Not caring anyway, she hitched the hems of her skirts and ran barefoot through the snow. Arya took a running jump into her arms, both of them catching each other, falling into the snow and refusing to let each other go.

Without Arya, Rhaegar and Ser Davos by his side, Jon felt surprisingly alone at Riverrun. He dined with Brynden at the high table every mealtime, but he was busy righting the Frey wrongs and dealing with his smallfolk the rest of the time. Occasionally, he made attempts to talk to Brienne of Tarth, only that was like drawing blood from a stone. An unexpected highlight came when she offered to spar with him in the yard. Having seen her in action, he knew she was no pushover. And when he readily agreed, he retired to bed that evening covered in cuts and bruises, aching all over in the best possible way.

Over the following weeks, their sparring matches became a regular fixture that had begun to draw a crowd. It even led to her talking a little more.

"They say a Lannister party has been seen approaching," she said, helping him tidy up after one of their sessions. "You know she'll send Ser Jaime."

Jon had already guessed as much. "If he's here under a peace banner, then it's our duty to give him a fair hearing. The same applies to anyone."

She paused before speaking, frowning as if fighting some internal struggle. "He's a good man, my lord. He's not like the others."

"Well," he replied. "We'll soon find out, won't we?"

And he wasn't kept waiting for long. A few days later, the Tully scouts were proved right and silk lions were soon appearing over the crest of the hills rolling southwards. Jon watched them approaching alongside Ser Brynden, up on the battlements. From his vantage point, he could only count six of them and a white flag was prominent among the scarlet and golden lions. Still, neither he nor Ser Brynden let down their guard. For all they knew, the entire Lannister army was hidden just beyond view in the woods and down the hills, ready to spring a surprise attack. Despite Brienne's assurances, Jon would only talk to the man if he agreed to enter Riverrun alone. Or with one guard, at most.

He had met Ser Jaime, once. It was when King Robert visited Winterfell, bringing three Kingsguard with him. The others were Meryn Trant and Ser Boros Blount. Despite the white cloak he wore, Jon thought Jaime was the King. Only for a split second, but he remained the very image of a King as Jon imagined them. His hair was as golden as his armour, he was mounted on a fine destrier and he was young, fit and strong. The absolute antithesis of everything Robert was.

Using the far-eye, Jon tried to pick him out again from among his companions. However, it was impossible and the features of all the approaching men remained fuzzy, at best. Still he watched as they drew closer and closer, until they were near enough to declare their business. This part of the business he was happy to let Ser Brynden deal with, while Jon joined Brienne in the outer hallway, ready to greet the newcomer. If he agreed to enter alone.

Barely an hour later, the drawbridge lowered and the portcullis raised. Jon found himself face to face with a mere shadow of the man he remembered from Winterfell. His right hand was gone, replaced by a useless looking golden model. All that golden hair had been shorn off and he was barefaced to boot. Even his face looked sunken in and his eyes hollow from lack of sleep. Those same hollow eyes briefly raked over Jon, before turning to Brienne where the gaze lingered.

"Lady Brienne," he greeted her first, before turning to Jon. "Lord Commander."

"Be welcome, ser Jaime," Jon replied.

Brienne held her customary silence, watching as Jaime struggled to unbuckle his sword belt. As a customary gesture of good will, he left it propped against the wall to show he meant no harm. Following suit, Jon did likewise with Longclaw and Brienne with Oathkeeper. Oathkeeper, that had once been Ice, Jon reminded himself.

But, when he and Jaime repaired to talk, Brienne remained outside guarding the door to the solar they had commandeered. Inside, the sigils and words of House Lanniser were still emblazoned on every surface, making Jon ill at ease. Suddenly, he felt like he was the one on enemy territory. Once Jaime sat down, Jon handed him bread and salt.

"While you're within these walls, we extend guest right," he informed the knight. "As you well know, we take our guest rights seriously in the North."

"A pity we're not in the North, then," Jaime replied. "All the same, I give my thanks."

All the same, he took the bread and salt while a servant poured them wine. Jon turned toward the door, wondering where Ser Brynden had gotten to. It really should have been him leading these negotiations within Riverrun, not Jon. But, there was no sign of the man and Jon stepped up to the challenge.

They sat facing each other from across an ornate table carved with the insignia of house Tully, seemingly one of the few items Emmon Frey kept. Between them, a solitary candle guttered erratically, lighting up the dark stubble lining Lannister's jawline. The only part of him that remained unchanged from Jon's memory was the bright green of his eyes. They caught the light now, glittering like wildfire.

"I want you to know, Ser Jaime, I am not here to threaten your sister's crown," he began. "At this stage, my intention is to restore order to the Riverlands, return Riverrun to its rightful owners and raise an army to take back to the North."

"You say you aren't threatening Queen Cersei, yet you're usurping her authority – by your own admission – by undoing all the work she's done in the Riverlands. It wasn't for you to 'restore order', not that it needed restoring in the first place. The Lannister run the Riverlands, not the Freys."

"It was the Lannisters," Jon corrected him. "It is now back in the hands of the Tullys, as it was in the hands of the Tullys since the Ironborn were driven out all those centuries ago. Do you think Cersei will be any safer on the iron throne with the Riverlands in the hands of the Freys and the North in the hands of the Boltons? The truth is, Jaime, that not a single noble house in this realm supports your sister."

Jaime drew back from the light of the candle, flinching under the weight of the truth. He was no fool, Jon knew. Like Tyrion, he would not deny a hard truth only for it to creep up in the night and snip away his one remaining hand.

"We have the Lannister army-"

"And no one else," Jon cut in. "The Tyrells have gone to Daenerys Targaryen and brought the Martells with them. The Vale is allied with House Stark, as is the Riverlands. Whatever's left of the Stormlords will rally to House Stark just as they always have. You are surrounded and you have no escape but the Iron Islands and they only fight for themselves. In fact, even half of them have joined Daenerys Targaryen. But if you would listen to me, and support me, I will use what influence I can to keep all of them away from the capital and your sister."

Jaime frowned. "Ned Stark's bastard. What influence do you have?"

"I am Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," he pointed out. "And I know what's marching on the wall. There's a war coming made from an army far greater, far more powerful than all the seven combined. If we don't unite to fight them, we will all die-"

"What are you talking about?" Jaime cut in.

Jon was about to answer, when another voice sounded.

"I've seen it, too. I've seen what's coming."

Jon turned to where Brienne had entered the solar and now stood in the doorway. She was fixing ser Jaime with a hard look, unflinching and unblinking.

"I took Lady Sansa north of the wall to be reunited with her brother," she continued, entering the room properly. "I saw the Others, White Walkers, with my own eyes. I saw them raise the dead, using them to attack the living. Death only feeds their armies; the more they kill the greater they become. Listen to him, Jaime, he speaks truly. The war against winter is coming and there will be nowhere to hide when it arrives."

Jaime shook his head, disbelieving. "This is madness-"

"It's the truth and your sister should be bloody grateful for it," Jon interjected. "If it hadn't been for this war coming, we'd all join together and smash House Lannister to the dust. But if we ignore what's coming, we'll all be equally dead together. If you have half the wits you were born with, you would earn the good will of the people and join us in the coming war, iron throne be damned."

"And this army of the dead," said Jaime. "How will it get past the wall?"

"There are less than one thousand men holding that wall and it stretches from coast to coast. How long do you think they'll hold out? They've no men, no money, no equipment and no support." Jon paused again, hoping that what he had said sunk in. "If House Lannister refuses to acknowledge the coming threat, I will have no choice but turn my armies on you. You can tell your sister that. She can support us, or we will overthrow her and take back this realm for the sake of the wars to come."

Brienne stepped around the table to join Jaime. She knelt, making one final appeal. "Daenerys Targaryen is coming with a vast fleet, a huge army and three adult dragons. Lord Commander Snow has the rest of the realm behind him, and another adult dragon. Join us and live, or bury your head up your sister's arse pretending none of this is happening. Do that and you'll die alongside her on that stupid iron chair."

Jon's eyes widened as he turned to look at her. Not only had she said more in the last few minutes than in the whole time he had known her, she spoke with conviction. Moreover, she wasn't done yet.

"Jaime, do you remember what you told me at Harrenhal, that day in the baths?" she asked. "Do you remember how you sacrificed your honour to save a city full of innocent people? Listen to Lord Commander Snow and win your honour back by helping us save humanity."

Jon had no idea what she was talking about, but Jaime clearly did. His expression was anguished as he leaned in to take her hand, but he couldn't seem to speak. He wet his lips, turning to meet Jon's gaze.

"This is really happening," he said, more of a statement than a question. "I'll talk to her. I'll talk to Cersei and tell her what's happening. But, if she won't listen, what will you do?"

Jon was unequivocal. "We'll overthrow her and take the realm. My only hope is that we'll have time to do that before the Others come."

Jaime nodded. "And who do you propose to name King in her place?"

"There's three contenders," Jon replied. "Three strong contenders, all descended from House Targaryen. Tell her that and make her understand. As soon as the rest of my army gets here, I will make for Dragonstone. If you wish to parlay again, you can find me there."

He was about to walk out of the door, before stopping and looking back. "One more thing: your aunt Genna is being housed in private apartments here at Riverrun. Ser Brynden would be more than willing to trade her for Lord Edmure. Let us stop this ridiculous upheaval and restore everything to the way it should be."

With that, he left. The talks had left him more tired than he realised, weary already and the fight hadn't even begun. As for whether Jaime succeeded in convincing Cersei, he couldn't say whether he wanted it or not. If she agreed, it would mean leaving her as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Something nobody wanted, least of all him.

Arya's face was expressionless as she looked at her mother. She almost shied, reaching for Sansa's hand. However, Sansa was used to it now and gave her sister time to take it all in. All in all, things hadn't gone as well as she had hoped. Arya had been frosty with Gendry, who she felt had abandoned her. She bristled at the sight of the Hound, whom it seemed she had no wish to ever see again. And now she feared to approach her own mother.

"Mother," said Sansa. "Look who's come home."

Catelyn lowered her hood, revealing her brittle white hair and ravaged face. It had been Arya who pulled her out of the river, while warging into Nymeria. But Sansa suspected she thought it was nothing more than a dream until this moment, when the irrefutable evidence was right in front of her. For her part, Sansa was quick to explain that it wasn't her who had turned their mother into … this. That was the wonder of R'hllor alone.

As ever, Catelyn was a woman of few words. She reached for her throat and plugged the slash wound as best she could.

"Ar," she said, pausing for a rattling breath before tackling the second syllable: "ya."

Her whole body shook as she held her arms open to her youngest daughter. Steeling herself, Arya approached hesitantly before embracing her mother. Sansa left them to it for a while, taking up a seat beside the fire while Arya explained how they had taken back Riverrun. Half-dead as she was, it could still only be the best possible news to their mother. Meanwhile, Arya spoke in a hushed voice, as if she were addressing an ancient lackwit.

When she rejoined the conversation, Sansa turned to find her mother still holding Arya, cradling her face and looking deep into her eyes. It was as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"I told you Jon would find her and have her brought home," she said. "And now I can bring you home, too. Home, to Riverrun."

"Yes," Arya agreed, squeezing her mother's hands. "Home, where you belong. And when this is all over, me and Bran will come to visit you. We can all be together again."

It was hard to tell what Catelyn thought of that. Her mangled face, despite its bloody ruin, remained oddly expressionless.

"Come morning, I will be leaving and Arya will be holding Winterfell for House Stark," she explained. "I think she'll be a good Lady of Winterfell, don't you?"

Catelyn nodded, placing one hand gently on Arya's head, muttering some soundless blessing. "King… Queen."

She rose to her feet, unsteadily, and moved to a cabinet at the back of her chambers. Once, in a different lifetime, this had been Sansa's bedroom. It felt oddly fitting that they had swapped places. When she returned, she had Robb's old bronze crown in her hands. Sansa could see the little swords jutting upwards, catching the light and turning coppery.

"King," she said again, pressing it into Sansa's hands.

"You want me to take this?" she asked.

Catelyn nodded.

Although she didn't think Jon would want such an ill-fated crown, she took it all the same. If only to spare her mother's feelings.

That evening, she and Arya dined together in her private solar away from the crowds gathered in the common hall. Together they talked, recalling the past and the days when they fought like wildcats in heat. They had been as bad as each other and now, years later, they were as emphatic as each other in their apologies. Still, it wasn't all bad. Sansa remembered the time they had a snowball fight and she had no snowballs of her own to throw. So Arya made her some, before chasing her round the castle grounds until they were both blue in the face.

She wished they had stayed that way. She wished they had never left.

"I've called our banners," she said. "We're going to be back at war. Just like before."

"You're doing the right thing," Arya assured her. "House Lannister must be destroyed."

"But how can I do it without sacrificing the lives of Northmen?" she wondered aloud. "Without sacrificing any lives unnecessarily. This realm has bled enough, and I will not make enemies of the people by making it bleed again."

Arya paused, setting down her fork for a second. "I don't know. But, these days, you seem to be quite clever. You'll think of something."

Sansa thought about what she had said for a moment, trying to decide whether it was a compliment or not. Frowning, she said: "You mean, I wasn't clever before?"

Arya shrugged. "Said it yourself, didn't you?"

Her jaw dropped. "You don't have to agree!"

She picked up a green bean and slung it at Arya's head, laughing. Arya gasped, quickly returning fire with a spoonful of mashed turnips. Before long, both of them were laughing, chasing each other around their father's old solar. For one precious moment, it was as if nothing had ever changed.

Rhaegar jolted as the dragon hit the ground, buckling his knees to absorb the impact. He slid down off the beast's back, letting his feet sink into the wet sand. Behind him, the sea lapped the shore and above him Dragonstone towered over him.

"Home," he said, patting Sonar's flanks. "We're home, at last."

The tide caught him, a wave washing over his boots. Taking nature's hint, he led the dragon over the sand, toward the curtain walls of the castle. Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, he looked up into the guard tower. At first, no one appeared. But, minutes later, a welcome and familiar face peered down at him. The face bobbed out of view, appearing again moments later with something in his hands. He shook out the Targaryen standard, hanging it proudly from the top of the watch tower. The three-headed dragon advertised the return of their masters.

Chapter Text

Eighteen years had passed since Rhaegar had last set foot in Dragonstone. It was a hard fact he kept forgetting, since it felt like only months. However, all around him lay reminders of the House that had unseated his own, proving the truth if ever he sought to try and ignore the passing of time. The fiery heart and crowned stag was dotted all around him. It was engraved in the silverware and carved into the wooden beams of what had been his bedchamber. There was even a new stained-glass window bearing Stannis' sigil where once the three-headed dragon had stood proud. To block it out, he closed the shutters and laughed at the Targaryen sigil still carved in the old weirwood.

The rest was not so easy to ignore, but he did his best. His banners once more hung from the battlements and a flag flew from the tops of the towers and the stone drum keep. A stream of curious smallfolk trickled down from the slopes of the Dragonmont, timidly trying to find out what was happening. Some of them asked after Princess Shireen. Where was she? Had she returned to claim her inheritance? Ser Davos broke the news gently, seeming to cause genuine grief. Poor old Stannis barely warranted a mention.

"Stannis wasn't what you would call a people person, your grace," Ser Davos said to him, not long after his return. "But he was a good lord to those smallfolk. He would have no undue hardship befall his people."

Rhaegar tried to be magnanimous. "There's no harm in being respected rather than liked, Ser Davos. In fact, being liked is quite useless without also being respected."

However, if there was anyone who commanded neither respect for fealty, it was the red woman. He soon learned that the smallfolk feared her and he was quick to reassure them she was staying in the North. That alone seemed to endear him back to his own people. None of whom remembered him. But it had been eighteen years and life on Dragonstone was as harsh and short as anywhere else for the smallfolk. The few elders who did survive took for him Viserys, if they took him for anyone at all.

"As long as they have work and food in their children's bellies, they don't much care whose banners fly from the battlements," said Ser Davos, after one of their walkabouts. "Not that I mean to give offence, your grace."

"You don't give offence," Rhaegar assured him. "You speak only the truth. And I have a job in mind for these people already."

Paying them in Stannis' engraved silverware and remaining gold, he set the able-bodied men to work mining obsidian from within Dragonmont. The women and children he paid in old gold reserves to fill sacks with obsidian they found scattered all through the island, rather than sending them into dark and dangerous mines. The gold was no longer legal tender, but it could still be melted down to fetch a sum from dealers on the mainland.

Before long, he had his own little system going with assistance from the Lords of the Vale. Obsidian was harvested from Dragonstone and sent on to Gulltown. From Gulltown it was then transported to Eastwatch by the Sea, where the Night's Watch could fashion it into whatever weapons they needed to fend off the Others. For now, it was all he could do to plug the gap in the watch's defences until the dragons were united.

Meanwhile, Ser Davos stayed at his side, briefing him and keeping him up to date on the outside world.

"Your son, Prince Jon, has left Riverrun to meet with Lady Sansa at the Crossroads," he said. "Lady Stark and her host were last seen overrunning Harrenhal, where it looks like she'll be leaving the bulk of her army."

That made sense; it saved them both an unnecessarily long journey by meeting at Riverrun. Meanwhile, he pointed to a spot on the map where Sansa and Jon would meet. It was where the Kingsroad branched off in four different directions, opposite the Inn at the Crossroads.

"Also," Ser Davos continued. "An unknown fleet has been spotted approaching from the east. We think it might be your sister."

Rhaegar's nerves twisted uncomfortably. Now that the moment was almost at hand, he realised he hadn't the faintest idea of what he would say to her. "She's coming here expecting to conquer and be Queen. Now I must turn around and say to her: 'oh, sorry, there's been a mistake, I'm alive and my son's alive. But feel free to sacrifice your men so we can defeat the unstoppable ice-monsters.'"

Ser Davos sat beside him at the painted table, looking out over the wooden seas painted in vivid blues. "I have no reports on what sort of a person Daenerys Targaryen is. Either way, I cannot say I envy you."

There was no delaying it, either. As soon as he saw the approaching fleet for himself, he sent out one of Stannis' old ships, now resplendent in Targaryen sails, to greet the advance party. From the top of the Windwyrm Tower, looking through a Myrish Far-eye, he caught sight of the dragons before he caught sight of his sister. Two were roughly the size of Sonar, but the third was monstrously huge.

"Gods, Ser Davos, that black one is Balerion reborn," he said, voice barely above a whisper. A brisk wind swept in off the sea, tugging their hair and clothes, momentarily blocking the far-eye. When the lens cleared again, he saw the tiny figure crouched low against the dragon's back, white-gold hair streaming behind her. "Gods be good, she's bonded with that monster."

Beyond the distinctive colour of her hair, it was impossible to discern her features from that distance. It stuck out against the grey sky and the black scales of her mount. And, frankly, even the Mountain would look small on the back of that dragon. The other two flew in formation behind her, riderless but perfectly in time with the other. Together, they circled over the ships, drawing ever closer.

Just land, he inwardly urged her. The waiting was excruciating. To distract himself from what was happening – and how long it was taking – he ran down the steps of the Tower and out into the yard below. The gates were already open, the banners of House Targaryen already flying, so he gathered up what few household staff he could muster to form a reception on the shoreline.

Ser Davos had joined him, fidgeting relentlessly with a loose thread in his doublet. "Here she comes, your grace. I hope you've got your explanations ready."

There was an uncomfortable squirming in his belly. "I don't think I'll ever be ready, Davos. But the moment is here. Go to port and help guide the ships in."

Ser Davos gave him a reassuring clap on the back before carrying out the order. And for the first time, Rhaegar noted the size of the fleet. So, close to shore, he could see the Martells and the Tyrells, even the krakens of House Greyjoy. Leading the way were his own, House Targaryen. In the end, he was so busy watching the ships it was only something vast and black as onyx dropping before his line of sight that jolted him out of it.

A cloud of dry sand plumed as the dragon hit the ground, but the girl didn't hesitate as she disembarked. She stood alone, looking at them in slight puzzlement. Her bare feet were sinking in the sand, but she didn't seem to notice.

This is it, he told himself. "Daenerys Targaryen, Dragonstone is yours."

Her hair was in a plat that reached her hips, offset by the black velvet gown she wore. A scarlet dragon stood out against the laced bodice. She looked like his mother. Their mother. Behind her, the first of the great galleys was docking in the nearby port. Others, the Martells' among them, were sailing on already.

"I see you were expecting me," she replied, stepping closer. "May I ask who you are?"

He couldn't decide whether it would be best to break it gently, or just spit it out.

"They told you I was dead," he began, uncertainly. "But I am your brother, Prince Rhaegar."

She was silent for a moment, the shock registering in her lilac eyes. "You mock me, ser. Dishonour my brother's name again and I'll have my Drogon deal with you."

The dragon lifted its head at the sound of his mistress's voice, turning its beady eye in Rhaegar's direction. The dragon was bound to her heart and soul; just one word and he'd be burned to a cinder.

"I'm not mocking you," he persisted, keeping an eye on the dragon. The other two landing farther down the beach, seeking shelter beneath a natural archway formed from the rock. "And if you're surprised to see me here, I was quite surprised to find myself here too."

Daenerys ventured closer, her eyes narrowed now. It was impossible to even guess at what she was thinking, but he could see the disbelief in her eyes. "My father had two sons and a bastard, for all I know."

"I am no bastard," he pointed out, curtly. "I am- "

"Rhaegar!"

An old man choked on his name as if it were a chicken bone lodged in his throat. Rhaegar turned to look at him properly, studying his features closely. It took only a second, but even that delay shamed him. He should have known right away.

"Ser Barristan," he greeted his old friend, silently praying he would not flee in fear. But he was the one who was scared. "Ser Barristan, please … tell her."

From the tail of his eye he could see Daenerys looking from him to Barristan and back again, looking increasingly angry.

"Ser Barristan, who is this man?" she demanded, sharply. "Is he who he says he is? What madness is this?"

Ser Barristan stepped around her, closing the gap between himself and Rhaegar in one stride. He took Rhaegar's throat in one gauntleted hand, tilting his chin up with some force, turning his face aside to look from both sides. For a moment, Rhaegar wished he could be swallowed by the sea.

"What…" he began, before trailing off as words failed him. His blue eyes flashed with anger and disbelief. "How? I saw you die. I saw you fall into the waters, I heard you say her name as you died."

Rhaegar squirmed, trying to escape his old friend's grasp. When Barristan released his hold, it was so sudden he almost fell down. He met the older man's gaze, seeing the tears in his eyes for the first time. Turning away, he whispered in Daenerys' ear something he could not hear.

"How did you survive?" asked Barristan, turning back to Rhaegar.

"I didn't," he answered. "I was brought back by a priestess of R'hllor."

"It can be done," Daenerys said, stepping closer to him. "Is it true? Are you my brother?"

"That's Rhaegar all right," Ser Barristan stated. "I'd know him from a hundred feet away."

He unfastened the jacket he was wearing, tossing it into the sand. He then unbuttoned his shirt to expose his belly. Although the worst of the damage Robert had done had been mended by the fires, there was still a pale pink scar running from his breast to his hip, complete with a large dent where the hammer had crashed into his ribs.

"Here, is where the usurper hit me," he said. "But she brought me back, that priestess. She said it was the will of R'hllor. And I don't know why. All I know is I'm back and it's been almost twenty years."

Ser Barristan choked again, seemingly torn, burying his face in his hands for a second. He looked up again and drew a deep breath. "I don't know why, either. What I do know is that seeing you again has filled a hole in my life I'd almost forgotten was there."

As quick as Rhaegar thought his old friend might punch him in the face, he had his arms around and was gripping him in a rough bearhug. Relief washed over him as he returned the hug, feeling only the cold steel.

With little to no point at all in having Sansa leave the Kingsroad, diverting across the Riverlands, only to return that same way later, Jon travelled to meet her at the Crossroads. He left Ser Brynden holding Riverrun with his forces, waiting to see if Ser Jaime honoured his promise to swap Lady Genna for Lord Edmure. He brought a skeleton force with him to add to the army raised by Sansa, drawn up from Houses Mallister and Tully mainly. Enough to bulk his retinue without slowing him down needlessly.

Only once did he divert. South of Harrenhal, down a beaten path he remembered from the past and up a steep hill. It was the dead of night by the time he reached the top of that seemingly endless hill. He waited for her there, in the same spot the children were massacred and the sacred trees had been cut to little more than jagged stumps. Knowing what he knew now, he could survey the scene around him only with sadness.

Even when the little dwarf women appeared seemingly from thin air, Jon was not startled. He had been expecting her from the first moment he set foot on the hill that morning.

"Do you remember me?" he asked.

"Death comes marching on the wall," she grumbled. "So, you come marching on my hill."

He watched her enter the circle of weirwood stumps, impervious to the cold wind now blowing all around them. Her flew all about her face, often hiding her shining red eyes, still wearing those rags he had seen her in all those years ago. Unless he were much mistaken, snow would be imminent and she would freeze. Snow, in the southern Riverlands. Winter is coming and it's coming for them all.

"I seek your help," he admitted. "This time, I remembered to bring wine."

He tugged the wine skein off his hip, handing it straight to her. She accepted it without a word, pulling the cork out with her few remaining teeth before drinking deep. By the time she stopped, she had wine trickling down her chin.

"You brought me to Summerhall, do you remember?" he asked. To be even with her, he had to kneel in the soft earth. "I asked you why I had to be the one to save Rhaegar and you laughed. You told me I had to find out for myself-"

"And now you know," she cut in, abruptly. "Nothing you do is news to me. The Old Gods give me no peace. On and on and on, they talk all night."

Jon hesitated, wondering what the gods were telling her. For years he had prayed before the heart tree and not hears so much as a whisper. Suddenly, he was the centre of their attention. He couldn't escape the feeling he was being used.

"How do we defeat the Others?" He hoped a straightforward question would bring a straightforward answer.

"The same way they were created," she answered. "With fire and blood."

"Dragon fire," he said. "Is that it? We just roast them with dragon fire?"

"You forget the blood."

"Their blood, surely?" he said.

The old crone laughed a laugh that suggested he had missed some secret jest. After composing herself she drank the rest of his wine.

"Aye, their blood," she repeated. "You have their brother. You know what you must do already, Jon Targaryen, you just don't want to admit it to yourself. Such a dishonour, but what is the life of one babe against the fate of humanity?"

"They were Craster's sons," he remembered. "I saw them leave the boys out as an offering to the gods."

"All but one," she said.

Gilly's baby, the Other that got away.

"Am I supposed to sacrifice this child?" The thought of it turned his stomach. "Because I won't. There must be some other way."

"They're coming for him," she said. "Use his blood. Use your head, first."

With the whole of humanity at stake, he thought she might stop talking in riddles. Alas, he was not in luck. Deciding he would wring no more sense from this one, he got up to leave, only to be stopped by the sound of her voice.

"I knew you were coming, the Old Gods showed you to me. I saw you at a wedding feast, at your side was the one younger and more beautiful. The groom I saw cloaked his bride in betrayal and I saw the little brother, moving through the walls. You came a guest; you left a King."

He paused, looking back at her over his shoulder. "You're mad."

He had told her that once before.

They sat facing each other from across a small table. Between them sat a bottle of wine and a single, guttering candle. The windows were shuttered, showing them the rearing stag of House Baratheon, encased in a fiery heart. Rhaegar had already given away the silver cups in exchange for the smallfolk's bags of obsidian, leaving them with earthenware vessels. At least they didn't have that stag on them.

"Where is your son now?" she asked. "I suppose I am expected to kneel to him."

"He expects nothing of the sort," he answered. "I know this must be difficult for you … to come all this way and find two others in your place. One you thought dead; the other you never knew existed."

She laughed mirthlessly, she didn't need to say anything.

He had listened to her story, of growing up in exile. A lifetime of poverty and fear, running from assassins and fleeing from city to city. All with Viserys spiralling into madness. Often, Rhaegar had wondered what happened to him, no one seemed to know. His death at the hands of the Dothraki was only surprising in that Viserys was riding with a horde at all. Still, she had built herself up from nothing, living on only her wits.

"I thought of you often," she admitted. "Viserys talked about you all the time."

"I only found out mother was pregnant shortly before the Trident," he explained. "Father … Jaime Lannister told me-"

"What?" she cut in. "What about our father and Jaime Lannister?"

Rhaegar hesitated, not sure whether he should say anything. But after the everything she had been through, she deserved the truth.

"Toward the end, when father was burning practically everyone, he was getting aroused by it," he explained. "Afterwards … he would rape her. Jaime told me he wanted to protect her, but the other Kingsguard stopped him. It was his duty to protect her, but not from him."

Daenerys stiffened, fortifying herself with a good gulp of wine. "Is that why Lannister killed him?"

"Mother was gone by then, Father had Elia and the older children as hostages," he recalled. "But even if things had been different, father would have had to die." Pausing for breath, he sipped at his wine and marshalled his thoughts. "I would have ordered someone to do it myself."

If his words had shocked her, she showed no reaction. Nor did she speak for a long moment, as she gazed into the depths of her cup. "Is Lyanna back?"

"No," he answered. "I don't think she was part of R'hllor's masterplan."

"Masterplan?" she asked, head cocked to one side.

"It is us three," he replied. "You, me and Jon. The three of us working together … It's a long story."

"The dragon has three heads," she said. "After the dragons were born, I stayed in Qarth and visited the House of the Undying. I saw visions and you were there. You said: the dragon has three heads. Even though you weren't really there, it still felt you were talking directly to me."

Rhaegar chuckled. "After everything I've learned these past months, I could well have been talking right at you even if I wasn't real."

Daenerys rose abruptly to her feet, walking over to the shuttered windows. It was dark outside, so she didn't bother opening them. She seemed quite content to just stare, chewing on a nail as she thought. He watched her, wondering what was going on in her head. When she looked back at him, a tear had leaked down her face.

"Dragons don't cry…" she began.

Rhaegar went to her, holding her for the first time. "Dragons may not, but people do."

He had been worried that she would fight him off. Initially, she hardened, but soon sagged and held him back. She was shaking like a dying leaf.

"You've destroyed every plan I had," she confessed. "But now you're here and you're my family and I've never had a family before. Only Viserys and he was…"

"Mad," he finished for her. "He was the mad one, and I saw that coming even when he was little."

She extricated herself from him, looking into his eyes so intensely it was as if she was trying to study his very soul. "You're not like him, are you?"

He shook his head. "I am nothing like him. Neither of us are."

Nodding agreement, she began pacing again. The heels of her boots rang against the stone floor.

"The dragon has three heads, but now there are four," she said. He had introduced her to Sonar earlier. "The more the merrier, I suppose."

"I think it only refers to dragon riders," he clarified. "There are three of us now, and we must work together as one. All those things I told you about the North are true, sister. We can take the realm now and set ourselves up as Kings and Queens, but it won't matter when the winter brings the long night and death comes marching on the wall. We are more important than any throne."

She perched on the edge of the table, still looking downcast. "I need time to think; it's so much to take in."

"I know," he replied. "But you know I want no crown. Even after all this is over, if I'm still around, I want nothing from either of you."

"If you're still around?" she asked, looking worried.

"Prophecy doesn't make us immortal," he pointed out. "The coming war is going to be the most violent we've ever known."

Four dragons deployed in the North didn't seem enough. Even if Jon did learn to ride before then, they would be spread too far over too great a distance. And Daenerys hadn't even committed to the cause.

"So, will you join us?" he asked. "What comes next, who sits the iron throne, just doesn't matter."

There was a long pause and the expression on her face said: I love you already, but I hate your guts. Eventually, she nodded. "I'm with you. But I don't know what to do."

"If it helps, I'll give you some time to think," he replied.

Daenerys' lip trembled. "I don't want you to go. Stay, and wait for your son. My nephew. I never dreamed I would have a brother and a nephew waiting for me here."

But Rhaegar had made up his mind. He had made it up long ago, before he even left Winterfell. He'd spent the last few months watching this moment draw closer on the horizon.

"No matter what happens, Dragonstone is yours," he replied. "Use the time to settle in and meet your new smallfolk. They'll need you."

"But where are you going? When will you be back?"

"I'm going to see an old friend, that's all," he assured her.

She was still curious. "Who?"

Rhaegar smiled, ruefully. "Cersei Lannister."

It was evenfall by the time Sansa reached the Crossroads. Many moons ago, she had lost Lady here. Arya had thrown Joffrey's sword in the river and Nymeria had been forced to flee. If she looked, on a clearer and lighter day, she might even have been able to see Castle Darry, where it had all happened. This evening, however, there was to be no parting of the ways. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

She spurred her courser into a gallop, separating from the rest of her host for the last mile or two of the journey. Her heartbeat raced as they charged through the countryside, the wind whistling in her ears as she went. Only when the crossroads came into view did she slow to a trot and then a walk as she drew closer.

Just as he had promised in his last letter, Jon was waiting for her there. He was reclining against the roadside verge, his horse loose but close by, cropping at the grass. His eyes were closed, arms folded behind his head.

Dismounting her horse in one smooth motion, she landed softly on her feet. Just enough noise to stir him from his doze. He looked exhausted, but in that moment and after so long apart, he may as well have been Florian made flesh. They held each other's gaze for a moment, before falling into each other's arms. And when they kissed, she never wanted it to end.

Chapter Text

At the insistence of Ser Davos, Rhaegar waited until the moon had turned and they sailed in darkness. All around their little fishing boat, the waters of the Blackwater Bay rolled in inky-blackness. Even their oars were covered in velvet and their sail was black and they hugged the coastline as close as they dared as they entered Blackwater Rush. Above them, the Red Keep loomed, black and solid and blotting out the stars. Rhaegar tried to pick out the rooms he knew, but it was too dark to see. As luck would have it, the passage he sought he knew like the back of his hand. He could find his way through it blindfolded, even on a night as dark as this.

In a different life time, he had tried to smuggle Elia and the children out via the same route. More recently, Sansa Stark had made use of it when she needed a quick getaway. But that gave him pause for thought. If she had used it, how many others knew of it? Given how easily she had gotten away, the answer was probably not many. Still, a shadow of doubt darkened his sense of certainty.

Doubt didn't have much time to test his nerve, before they bumped against the small harbour wall. Or rather, the rocky outcrop that passed for a harbour. Ser Davos pressed his finger to his lips, signalling for them to remain silent until they disembarked. As he had mentioned a hundred times, sound carried on water and even a whisper could betray their whereabouts. However, once they were ashore, the rock face was there to absorb the sound of their voices.

"Davos, if you see anything suspicious head for cover," said Rhaegar. "Ser Barristan and I can hide until it's safe for you to come back for us."

They had both disguised themselves as fishermen, wearing roughspun that made their skin itch. In case things turned rough, they both had swords concealed beneath the folds of their tunics. Before setting off up the steps in the rock face, they exchanged an encouraging look.

"Are you sure you can manage it, old man?" asked the prince.

"Make it, with enough stamina left over to beat your arse into the dirt," came the dry reply.

Rhaegar grinned into the darkness as he set off. Making this climb by day was one thing, but at night it was altogether different. They could barely see where they were placing their feet and the ledge was perilously narrow. But make it they did, emerging at the base of the keep's curtain walls barely ten minutes later, breathless and sweating. Carefully, they picked their way across the rocks, grateful that the weather had been dry and they weren't slippery. Still, they gripped each other's wrists as they navigated the rough terrain.

When they reached the opening to the hidden entrance, Rhaegar sent up a silent prayer of thanks to Maegor the Cruel. Had it not been for his madness, what they were about to do would have been impossible.

"You served Robert," said Rhaegar. It wasn't a question.

Ser Barristan ducked low and made his way inside. "I was sworn to serve the King- "

"But Robert," Rhaegar repeated, distastefully. "He wasn't the king, he was the usurper."

"Rhaegar, stop that." There was a note of admonition in Ser Barristan's tone. "Your sister's forgiven me. Even if you can't, I wouldn't have thought a little understand would be beyond you."

Rhaegar sighed heavily enough for it to echo through the tunnel they had entered. If the place was guarded, it would have been enough to bring the Lannister pikemen out. But, it remained deserted and he and Barristan rattled along like two old ghosts.

"Forgive me," he said, eventually. "It's just the thought of that man taking my place. Our place. Mine and Dany's and Jon's."

"Speaking of which, you never did trust me enough to tell me Lyanna was pregnant," said Barristan. "I'm not faulting you, your grace."

"I was going to tell you after the Trident," he replied, quickly. He drew another deep breath, momentarily coming to a halt. "I should have told you right away. I'm sorry."

A hand reached out and turned him around, so they were standing face to face. Even when their eyes had adjusted to the darkness, they still couldn't see much. But Rhaegar could still make out the outline of his old friend. However, he didn't need to see the disappointment in the other man's eyes. He could feel it emanating through the very air, clinging to the dust motes he inhaled with every breath.

"Had I known you had a son," Ser Barristan said. "Had I known my rightful King was hidden away in the North, passed off as Ned Stark's bastard get- "

"Ned Stark gave that boy something you or I could never have given him," Rhaegar cut in. "A happy and stable childhood in which he got to enjoy being a simple child. Even if things had gone right for us at the Trident he wouldn't have had that. As it happens, it was Dany who needed you more."

"Old Darry was looking after her," Barristan stated. "And even though Ned Stark wasn't Hand for long, he fought tooth and nail to keep that girl safe. I wondered why at the time- "he paused, laughing drily, "- well, now I know. Gods, I knew Ned Stark had a bastard. I just never gave it a second's thought."

"Lots of people have bastards," said Rhaegar. "You can't look at them all and think: "hidden Targaryen."

Ser Barristan laughed again. "No, I suppose not."

Their journey through the secret passageway continued until they reached an iron rung ladder built into the wall. They paused before it, craning their necks to look up and up. Unable to see two feet in front of their own noses, they certainly couldn't see where the ladder ended. It was a journey into the unknown in more ways than one.

"Well, here I go," said Rhaegar, setting his foot on the bottom rung. "You stand guard here and wait for me. Unless you want to say 'hello' to Cersei, too? It's been a while for you two, hasn't it?"

Ser Barristan's reply was terse. "I'd sooner stick a tourney sword through my eye. And there's still time for you to come to your senses, too."

"Oh no, I've been looking forward to this for too long now," replied Rhaegar, already climbing. "Wish me luck, old friend."

After a climb that seemed to last forever, he emerged to a fissure in the wall he had to bellycrawl his way through. Then another ladder and another bellycrawl, until he reached the chamber in Maegor's Holdfast that Cersei used for her chambers. He just assumed, correctly, that she was using the same Queen's chambers his mother once used. Through the air vent grid of her ceiling, he could see her sleeping alone. An oil lamp nearby made her skin was pale as milkglass. Like a cadaver in a pale ivory nightrail.

Wasting no time, he removed the grid as quietly as possible and propped it against the wall of the crawl space. There was barely enough space for it to stand on end. After that, he eased himself head first out of the air vent, sort of curling himself out of it before landing softly on his feet. The sound of his hitting the ground, even smothered by a thick Myrish rug, was still enough to cause her to stir in her sleep. To his relief, she did not awaken.

He tip-toed over to her bed, drawing back the fine muslin drapes that shrouded her partially from view. This close up, he could see all her hair had been cut off, almost to the scalp. When he last saw her, her hair was a cascade of thick golden curls that fell to her hips. He wondered why she had cut it all off like a boy's, until he remembered the walk of shame that Sansa had mentioned.

"Cersei," he whispered in her ear. To prevent her screaming at the sight of him, he pressed his hand to her mouth. "Cersei."

Her eyelids fluttered, an indistinct noise emanated from the back of her throat as she slowly came too.

"Wakey wakey, your grace," he said, sing-song. "It's the ghosts of Dragonstone risen from the dead. I thought you might like a catch up, after all these years."

Finally, her eyes jerked open, emerald flashing in the darkness. She jerked upwards, her scream of terror stifled by the hand he continued to hold over her mouth. With his free hand, he pressed a finger to his lips.

"Ssh!" he said. "I mean you know harm."

Her breathing was heavy and shallow, rapid as someone hyperventilating. In the light of the nearby oil lamp, her eyes shone with terror. He drew a deep breath just at the wrong moment. Her hand lashed out, smacking him around the face with such force he went reeling backwards into a nightstand, a vase falling off it and hitting him on the head. In which time, Cersei bolted for the door, screaming shrilly as she went.

Realising the Kingsguard would be moments away, he bolted for the nearest ante-chamber and hid inside it. Swiftly, he scrambled to the top of the shelves inside, wedging himself between the top of a cupboard and the ceiling. Once up there, he held his breath.

"Rhaegar Targaryen, I saw him, Jaime. I saw him with my own eyes," Cersei was raging at her brother. He couldn't see them, only hear them.

"Cersei, this is madness," Jaime replied. "Rhaegar is dead."

"I saw him!" she was insisting. "He was right there, by the bed. Look. Look at my night stand. He knocked it over when I smacked him, Jaime. Can't you see?"

Jaime hesitated. "You were dreaming, you knocked the stand over when you fell out of bed. Cersei, please, go back to bed. You haven't slept properly since Tommen died and you need to rest."

"Rhaegar- "

"Then, where is he?" Jaime butted in over her. "Fine, I'll search."

He sounded angry. Had it been his sister who was terrified in the middle of the night, he'd show a little patience. He wondered what it was that had Jaime giving Cersei such short shrift. The room beyond the antechamber was being searched, then his door opened and the beam of an oil lamp shone inside. All Jaime had to do was look up, shine his oil lamp, and he would see Rhaegar looking down at him from the top of the cupboard. But he was so annoyed with Cersei he didn't look properly and vanished after barely a glance around.

"Nothing," Jaime's muffled voice said. "At least Rhaegar Targaryen makes a change from Tyrion. But seriously, Sister, this exhaustion is making you mad. You need to sleep."

"I. Am. Not. Mad," she hissed. "But go! Go! Get out of my sight."

Jaime left, but Rhaegar knew he would go no further than the door. The outer-chamber, if he was really annoyed with his sister. In the meantime, the silence was broken by Cersei sobbing into her pillow. Rhaegar left it for a moment, giving her time to calm down and, if he was lucky, to absorb the shock of seeing him again.

In the end, it was his own body that decided for him. Cramped on top of a cupboard, his legs grew stiff and then pins and needles set in. Before he ended up frozen there forever, he eased himself down from his hiding place as quietly as possible. On the other side of the door, the sobbing ceased.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," a soft voice said. "I know you're in there."

Rhaegar inched the door open. "You're not going to hit me again, are you?"

Cersei gasped and leapt back from the door, clutching a loose robe around her chest. "Begone, you night tripping shade!"

"I'm no ghost," he assured her, stepping away from the antechamber door. "You can touch me, if you want. Although, you already have. Strictly speaking."

He was teasing her, leaning nonchalantly against the wall of her chamber. Meanwhile, she looked back at him, torn between horror and … something else. Curiosity, he thought. But that wasn't it, either. She had brought a hand to her mouth, chewing on the tip of her index finger. The hardness, the fear, had gone from her eyes, and they met his own. Emerald on indigo, unflinching now.

"What are you?" she asked, sotto voce.

"Cersei, you know," he replied. "You said it to Jaime."

"He thinks me mad," she answered. She ceased chewing on her fingertip and brought her hand to his face, brushing against his cheek so softly where, moments before, she had whacked him. "You're warm. I can feel you. You are Rhaegar. I know you. I knew you. You died. Robert came back from the Trident, and I wept for weeks."

Her voice was weak, tremulous. For the first time, he noticed she was shaking.

"Cersei, I am not going to hurt you," he said back. "I only want to talk to you. Privately."

For a long moment, nothing happened. She stared at him in silence, before stepping away abruptly. He feared she would call the guards again.

"Wait there," she bid him. "Don't move. Don't hide. Stay right there."

She whipped away in a swirl of silk nightrail and robes. Wrenching open the door of her bedchamber, she commanded the guards to leave her. Through the crack of the door, he caught sight of one of them. Not Jaime. This one was huge. Inhumanly huge.

"Gregor Clegane," he whispered beneath his breath. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Elia screamed as Rhaenys was put to the sword. He saw his daughter, skewered like a stuck pig to be roasted for the Usurper's coronation banquet. His infant son's brains dashed against the wall. Wait … his inner voice urged… just wait. He felt the sword beneath his tunic, but knew he wouldn't get a chance to use it tonight. But Gregor could wait. His moment was yet to come.

Cersei returned, locking the chamber door behind her. She also had a piece of old parchment in her hands, but he couldn't see what was written on it. "We're alone now. But lay a finger on me and I'll kill you all over again with my own bare hands."

"You're too kind," he answered.

Cersei motioned for him to sit at a table near her bed, while she lit more candles from a taper in her hands. Before long, the room was bathed in warm light. Finally, she sat facing him. Although a little early in the day, she had a wine glass in her hands, full to the brim. He politely declined the offer of some himself.

"You're actually not the first person I know to come back from the dead, I should be getting used to it by now," she informed him, glancing toward the door. Regardless, she still looked pale and shaky. "And as long as that fat, drunken sot Robert Baratheon stays dead, you'll not hear me complaining."

"You did not like Robert?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"I couldn't have liked Robert any less if he was nothing more than a shit stain on my coronation robes," she answered. "Is the dragon yours?"

Rhaegar nodded, aware that she was purposely changing the subject. "I have one. My sister, Daenerys, has three. Just so you know, we've taken back Dragonstone."

He didn't mind admitting it to her, seeing as she hadn't the means to seize it back from them. She had zero support. They had four adult dragons and a vast army.

"I heard about your sister's dragons," she said, quietly. "Thought they were fanciful stories, at first. Then Jaime came back from the Riverlands talking about them, and dead men marching on the wall. Saying if we don't join our forces to those of Ned Stark's bastard, then we'll all die. And then he has the nerve to call me mad."

"He's not mad," Rhaegar replied. For now, he resolved to say nothing about Jon. She didn't need to know who he really was. "The Others are back and marching south, leading armies of the dead. They're not alive. They're just meat puppets, doing the Others' bidding. And that wall won't stop them for long, Cersei. Ignore this threat and soon we'll all just be meat puppets, doing the Others' bidding."

He couldn't tell if she was taking him seriously or not. But she was watching him over the top of her wine glass as she drank deeply and topped up again. "Is that why you're back now? To fight these Others?"

Rhaegar nodded. "I think so. Maybe. Who knows. What I do know is, this is really happening. We all have to fight to save this realm. Even you."

"And that's why you're here now?" she asked. "Is that all."

"No," he answered, truthfully. "I wanted to see you. I was curious. That's all. They tell me you're mad. That there's no reasoning with you. But I remember you. We were children together. Your father would have had us more than just friends. And I suppose I could not believe you had changed that much."

She paused, toying with the parchment she had brought with her. He could see now that there was nothing written on it. It was a drawing. Looked like a child's drawing. He remembered then that all her children had died. Was it any wonder she had lost her wits?

"Cersei," he said, softly. "I am truly sorry to hear about your children. I know all too well how that feels."

Her brow creased. "Have they not come back too?"

Rhaegar shook his head. "Only me."

"My father never gave the orders," she said. "Amory Lorch acted alone and we took his head for it, later."

Much later, from what he had heard. But now was not the time to dwell on it. "And Gregor Clegane- "

"Dead," she cut in. "Oberyn Martell killed him in one on one combat."

He frowned, recalling the man he saw outside her chambers. True, he didn't see the man's face. But he'd only ever met one man as large as that before.

Rhaegar forced himself to reply: "That's a relief." He paused for a moment, taking time to remember Jon's last letter, containing the new official line on their exact intentions. Whether they meant it or not was another matter. "Look, we're not interested in taking the Iron Throne. Like I said, if we waste too much time down here, the wall will fall and we'll be overrun by these walking dead men. Join us, Cersei, and win yourself some respect by saving the whole realm."

She drained her glass and topped it up again, thoughtful in the silence. For a long time, she didn't speak at all. She kept folding and re-folding the faded old parchment in her hands, running her nails along the creases. After another moment, she laid it out flat and displayed a crudely drawn image of two people sitting on what looked like a winged horse. The 'horse' had something pouring out of its mouth.

"I know why you're back," she said, knocking back half her glass. "Oh, I've no doubt you're telling the truth about the North. Queer sort of a place, I've been there once before. But I know why you're back. It all fits."

Rhaegar changed his mind about the wine and helped himself to a hearty measure. He had a feeling he would be needing it. "Do tell, your grace," he bid her.

With a jolt to the heart, Jon remembered that this was where he awoke after being stabbed by the Night's Watch. In the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon, where the air was thin and cool and all around him lay narrow roads made treacherous by loose stones and rocky outcrops. Back then, he had been naked and afraid, and so completely alone. He had no idea of where he was, or when he was. Now he had an army at his back and a host drawn up of Knights of the Vale, escorting him and Sansa to Gulltown.

As the journey progressed, he found himself searching for the exact spot he had awoken. But every track and every narrow path all looked the same. He recalled, with precision, the moment he first laid eyes on Lyanna and Brandon. He had feared they were brigands until he heard a girl's voice and decided to chance his arm. As the journey progressed, and he searched every bend in the road looking for the place, he realised he was really searching for her. As though some trace of her still lingered, an echo of his mother fading in the mountaintops.

Looking back on his time with her now, he felt he only learned the truth at the last minute. When it was all too late and he had to come home. He could look back and pick out a hundred little clues that he should have picked up on at the time, but it all only seemed to make sense when armed with the wonderful gift of hindsight. And since he returned, he had barely had a moment to remember her, to feel her loss and mourn her passing. Back in this place, where he met her first, it all returned in a cascade of memories.

Sansa noted his silence, but didn't intrude upon it. Occasionally, it seemed she had guessed at what he was thinking, at what was going on in his head. At night, when the camp fell silent, she would reach out to him and squeeze his hand for comfort. A small act that kept him anchored to the right side of his own morbidity.

"We'll be at Gulltown soon," she said, one night. "On the morrow, perhaps."

"If we're lucky," he had replied.

But it wasn't until the day after next that they were sailing out of Gulltown, on towards Dragonstone. He watched from the rear of the ship, letting the mountains recede into sea mists, bearing him far away from the ghost of Lyanna Stark. But he couldn't turn away until they were gone completely, replaced only by the sea. Iron grey and as flat and wrinkled as an old man's memories.

"She's not there anymore."

Sansa's voice drew him gently back into the presence. He had known she was there. She had never left his side.

"But you are," he replied, turning to face her. "And you're all I need."

They leaned into the kiss, a sea breeze whipping at their hair.

That night, she came to him in his bunk. Dressed in an ivory silk nightrail, bearing a single guttering candle and steadying herself against the swaying ship. Her auburn hair braided, the plait falling almost to her hips. Jon pulled back the blankets covering him, getting up to help guide her inside.

Sansa blew out the candle, plunging them into darkness, before climbing in beside him. They lay together, their limbs entwined as the ship rolled gently on the tide. Slowly, their eyes adjusted to the darkness and he found himself teasing the strings at the front of her nightrail, loosening the garment at her throat to expose the pale, white skin of her bosom. He kissed her there and was met by a sharp intake of breath. Her face was turned toward the side of the bunk, her hands gripping the straw mattress hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

Jon lay beside her again, wrapping his arms around her waist. Her body was as taught as a bowstring. He knew she had not been so intimate with a man since her sham of a marriage.

"I'll never hurt you."

"I know," she whispered back.

All the same, she needed to fight her own ghosts now. The ghost of Ramsay Bolton, clawing at her thighs, ripping her insides as he forced her again and again.

"But I'm still afraid," she added. "Not you. Never you. Just … it."

He could guess what it was, but he never had any intention of making her go that far. The fact that she had come to his bed had been enough, that she had trusted him even as far as that.

"I'll never do anything you don't wish me to do," he assured her, caressing her neck. "I swear. Tell me to stop, at any minute, and I will do so without hesitation."

This time, she kissed him. She brought her hands to his face and pressed her lips against his own, letting it linger for a long time. All the while, he touched her as carefully as he could. Fingertips brushing over bare breast and thigh. Every time she gasped or shivered he stopped, fearful that he had gone too far.

"Now," she whispered in his ear.

Jon was reluctant. "Are you sure?"

She said nothing, but nodded her head. She circled her arms around his waist and together they exorcised the last demon that stood between them.

They awoke the next morning, purged of the past and facing the future hand-in-hand together. Dragonstone loomed above them, the Dragonmont smoking away into the blue skies. Jon smiled, almost amused, by the small figure with long silver-gold hair waving madly at them from the edge of the harbour. Rather shyly, he waved back, nudging Sansa to do the same.

"That's not Rhaegar," she said, returning the gesture.

"Nope," he replied. "I think that's Aunt Daenerys."

He looked to the skies again, as four adult dragons emerged from the mists of the Dragonmont, their filled with their roars. He gripped Sansa's hand, watching them wheeling high above them, drawing a deep breath as he realised they were all teetering on the brink of something huge.

Chapter Text

Although Jon knew before hand, he still managed to be surprised that his aunt was younger than himself. Younger, and shorter. She barely reached his shoulder and was as slender as a reed. With her silver blonde hair, lilac eyes and skin as pale as milkglass, she looked half a child. It was another fact that had surprised him, given the life she had led. On the run from city to city, fleeing assassins and being married to a Dothraki horselord, to hatching and raising dragons. From lethal poverty to conquering Queen of Mereen, and barely a wrinkle to show for it.

She was equally curious about him, peppering him with questions as they walked along the beach. She wanted to know about his mother, his uncle, his castle in the North and his time beyond the wall. All the while, she walked barefoot and splashed among the lapping waves as the tide crept slowly inwards. Her black-eyed, impeccably clean-shaven guards watched from a discreet distance as they walked and talked, and learned all about each other. Unsullied, or so he thought as he caught sight of one stationed beside a sally port.

Meanwhile, overhead, the dragons wheeled through the air. Every so often, one of them dived down and snatched up a large fish that had ventured too close to the surface of the seas. Jon watched, transfixed, as they tossed the still living fish into the air, roasted it and gobbled it down in one fluid movement.

"Soñar is very beautiful, isn't he?" Daenerys said. "You can have a closer look at my three, if you like."

Without waiting for an answer, she called Drogon's name. Jon had no other words to describe the dragon other than a winged shadow. He landed heavily on the beach, sending up thick plumes of sand with the beating of his vast wings. Up close, Jon could see the scales shining black as onyx and shining like steel plate in the light of the afternoon sun. Heat radiated from the beast's giant body; even his eyes were red and reminded Jon of smouldering coals. By his estimation, Drogon was as big as his two brothers combined.

"Now that's a dragon," Jon remarked, approaching with extreme caution. "Father's dragon was raised beneath Winterfell. Had he been out in the open, he might have been as large as this one."

"My other two were confined," she admitted, sadly. "But Drogon was too stubborn."

Drogon regarded Jon with utmost indifference, before swinging his vast head around to nuzzle his 'mother'. Meanwhile, the other two landed close by while Soñar continued to stretch his wings above the clouds. Viserion curled up in the sand and closed his eyes. But Rhaegal was more curious. He came stomping through the sand to get a look at the newcomer in his life. Two large bronze eyes met Jon's, regarding him intently.

"This one's up to something," he said.

Rhaegal was nowhere near as intimidating as Drogon. His scales were moss-green, with copper scales lining his belly and the horns and wing tips were an orange-red, like the fires he breathed. Carefully, Jon reached out and pressed the flat of his hand against the dragon's neck, letting the gentle heat warm him through.

"He likes you," Daenerys remarked. "Go closer, he won't hurt you."

Feeling a little more emboldened by his aunt's encouragement, Jon took the risk. Although Rhaegal was passive, he could still swallow him in one gulp. However, Jon showed no fear. He didn't even blink. After a full disconcerting minute, the dragon turned and flew away, vanishing quickly behind the clouds.

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "Do you really think he liked me?"

"You'd know if he didn't," she retorted. "Oh, gods. Viserion actually is asleep."

The smallest of the dragons, he still managed to blast sand at them every time he snored. A plume of it hit Jon in the face, making him choke while Daenerys laughed uproariously.

"Not funny," he protested, rubbing his eyes. "Anyway, I suggest we go back. We've been gone for hours and father ought to be back soon."

Daenerys had told him earlier that Rhaegar had gone to King's Landing to speak with the Queen. Jon had not stopped worrying about him since. Although they kept their distance, Jon was still aware of the blank-eyed Unsullied following. It used to irritate him, how Lords and Ladies were followed by an entourage, like a flock of ducklings flapping around their mother.

They returned to the Drum Keep, where the servants had laid out a light luncheon for them in the common hall, along with some wine Daenerys had brought from the Free Cities. It was there that their talk turned to business. A subject Jon was reminded of as Varys swept through the hall, exchanging a few quiet words with Dany as he passed.

"Father hates him," he said, inwardly cringing against the Eunuch's lingering perfume scent. "Blames him for driving the old king insane."

"Why? It's well known that there's a streak of madness in our family," she pointed out.

Jon shrugged, helping himself to some cheese and hard bread. "Varys was constantly whispering in Aerys' ear, making him suspect everyone and encouraging the burnings. Rhaegar left court because of it, setting up a rival court here on Dragonstone. With all that history, I really can't see them forgiving each other."

"They don't have to forgive each other," she answered. "They just have to work together."

"True enough," he conceded. "There will be more than one enemy fighting alongside each other in the coming wars."

He may have united the three heads of the dragon, but uniting the realm would be altogether trickier. Over the coming months, he would have to find a way of uniting Lannister with Stark, Blackwood with Bracken and a myriad of petty feudal rivalries harboured and nurtured down centuries of ceaseless power struggles. Free folk were one thing, but warring Riverlords were quite another.

"For what it's worth, nephew, Theon Greyjoy thinks you're going to cut his head off before he can get a word in edgeways," she said. "I must say, I'd appreciate it if you didn't."

Jon sighed heavily. "He saved Sansa's life. For that reason alone, I am sure I can resist temptation. But he's still a cunt."

She laughed, almost choking on her wine. Before she could form her reply, however, the double doors opened and Rhaegar stood there framed by the doorway. Although tired and dishevelled, he beamed brightly at the sight of them both.

"Jon," he said, entering the common hall. "Come here, I missed you son. And you've met your aunt. Good, I'm glad."

"Welcome back, father. I'm relieved to see Lady Lannister hasn't served you up for a royal banquet."

They met in a firm embrace, briefly just the two of them before Rhaegar called Daenerys over, too. She came up to join them, the three heads of the dragon with their arms linked around their shoulders. The three of them together, sending a shiver of anticipation down Jon's spine as he realised this was the first time they had all come together as one. The prophecy fulfilled. The dragons prowling nearby. The long night settling all around them. It felt like destiny.

Despite being tired and hungry, Rhaegar joined them at the table for some food. Jon was burning with curiosity about the outcome of his father's talks with the Lannisters, but gave him time to eat first. He must have been aware of both Jon and Daenerys watching him, because he paused with a mouthful of oatcake and honey, glancing up nervously and gulping his food down.

"What?" he asked.

"What do you mean 'what'?" Jon replied. "What in seven hells were you doing with Cersei Lannister?"

"Oh, that," replied Rhaegar. "You simply would not believe what she said to me."

"Well, don't leave us in suspense," said Dany, leaning forwards to get some more wine. "She must realise she has no chance of clinging on to power now. Not with the realm against her and an army consisting of four grown dragons."

Thinking of the Unsullied and the Dothraki Dany had brought with her, Jon couldn't help but laugh. "She has more than the realm against her now. She'll be faced with troops from the Free Cities, as well as her own."

Rhaegar took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Well, that's just it. Cersei has her own theory about my miraculous return to the realms of the living."

Jon had a feeling that, whatever it was, it would be interesting to say the least.

"Do tell," Daenerys prompted her brother.

"By Cersei's reckoning, I came back at around the same time she took the throne," Rhaegar explained. "Clearly, her father has told the Seven above about his grand plans for her and myself to marry when we were children, only for their divine plan to be thwarted by the madness of the apostate King Aerys. So, in their infinite wisdom, the Seven have interceded by bringing me back just as all her children died around her, so we could fucking marry and rule together as a legitimate royal dynasty. Here, she even wrote out some terms under which she would graciously accept me as her co-ruling consort. Call it, a second chance to carry out the will of the gods just as all seemed lost."

Rhaegar reached into the pocket of the jerkin he wore, pulling out a roll of parchment and handed it to Jon. The royal seal was attached, but already broken. So, Jon unrolled it and tilted it towards the light of a nearby candelabra. He found the Queen's terms written in a hasty but legible hand. Meanwhile, Daenerys had been struck dumb by the mad Queen's audacity.

"She's offering to join her forces to ours, though," he said. "She's agreed to acknowledge Sansa as Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, including a royal pardon for her role in the murder of King Joffrey, first of his name. She's agreed to stand her forces down in the south, where they were set to sack Highgarden. She's agreed to send her army North to carry out an expedition north of the wall…." Jon broke off, looking up at his father. "Father, she's giving us what we need. This is worth looking at."

For a moment, Rhaegar looked stunned. "Don't be ridiculous, Jon. Have you seen what she's asking for in return?"

Jon looked again at the document. "The hand of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, in marriage. Tyrion Lannister brought before her in chains to await execution. A show of submission from all Lords and Lords Paramount who rose against her in rebellion since the death of King Robert. All lords to swear fealty again, just as soon as the marriage ceremony takes place, so the new royal couple will be formally acknowledged by all, in a timely manner. Foreign troops to be sent home and dragons to be confined to the dragon pit, after the cessation of hostilities in the North." He paused to draw breath. "That submission will be seen as a humiliation by the Northern lords. We cannot hand over Lord Tyrion. But we could still renegotiate terms, father."

Both Daenerys and Rhaegar looked back at him as if he had lost his wits.

While Jon talked with Daenerys, Sansa had explored. Not since the Eyrie had she seen such a castle. Its towers were built into the rock that formed the island itself, so the they looked like they'd grown organically from the ground. Parts of it were actually shaped like a dragon. She climbed the turrets and walked the arching bridges that were the stone dragon's tail. The air here was clean and brisk, carrying a sharp salt tang and she could pause on said bridges to look out over the white-capped waves endlessly rolling over the shingle shores below. It was rare chance to forget the chaos all around her and look out over another horizon, to another place on another continent.

Rosy-cheeked and bright eyed, she returned to her and Jon's chambers at the top of the Windwyrm Tower. A steep climb up steps shining like obsidian, but it was only the all-pervading damp that seeped through the walls as if they were made of paper. Watching her step lest she take a tumble, she arrived at her chamber door only to find it ajar where she had left it locked.

Apprehensive now, she stepped back and watched the aperture as if some unknown monster could come charging through it an any moment. After taking a moment to gather herself, she pushed the door open fully. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen, at first. The windows had been left open and the net curtains billowed on the strong sea breeze. Her bed had been made and the fire was lit, but rendered ineffective by the open windows. It was there that she saw him, standing by an occasional table topped with a vase of fresh flowers. He was barely taller than the table, his hunched back distorting the shadow he cast. But still she recognised him instantly.

"My Lord," she addressed her former husband. "I thought that you were dead. Although, it pleases me that you are not."

Tyrion turned from the window to face her, meeting her gaze with his mismatched eyes. "Pleases you or surprises you?"

"Both, if I am honest," she replied. "How do you do?"

She closed the gap between them and closed the windows to retain some warmth from the fire. He looked much as she remembered him, but thinner now. More careworn and he had lost some of the supreme confidence that spoke of his proud birth. It made his scar was more pronounced now, somehow.

"I'm on top of the world," he answered her. "I thought I was to be hand of the Queen, only to find out my Queen has no legitimate claim to the throne. I thought I would be given back Casterly Rock, only to find my insane sister has a stronger grip on power than she ever did before. So, my lady, what am I to do?"

Sansa pulled up two chairs while she weighed up what he had said. "I know you didn't kill Joffrey, although I wish that you had. Olenna Tyrell did it, with Petyr Baelish's connivance. Unless you knew of it, too?"

He looked at her again, holding her gaze unblinkingly. "Do you have proof of that? Where is Baelish now?"

Sansa couldn't help but feel a flicker of dismay. "Dead, I saw to it myself. But Lady Olenna has nothing to lose by admitting what she did. The poison was carried in my hairnet. Do you remember when she made a fuss of me, straightening it out. While she was doing that, she pulled a poisoned amethyst from one of the joins."

Tyrion didn't look hopeful, but he thanked her all the same. "So, did you miss me?"

"Not really, no," she answered, honestly. "You were never one to deny a hard truth, so I hope you'll forgive me for being honest now."

Tyrion chuckled, giving a shrug of his uneven shoulders. "Well, I walked into that one, didn't I? I must admit, I wanted to kill you at first. You just ran off and left me to take all the fall for that obnoxious shit's murder. But it would have been worse, had you stayed. You would have died in my place and I would never have had the pleasure of hearing how you brought about the demise of that insidious worm, Petyr Baelish."

Sansa smiled, suppressing a giggle as she realised he was asking her to tell all. So, she did. Starting with the day Joffrey was murdered, to her escape orchestrated by Baelish through hapless Ser Dontos. She paused only to pour them both some wine, just as she reached the bit about being sold to the Boltons. Tyrion's wonky smile died, replaced by a grave concentration that turned the air around them chilly.

"Afterwards, when we had taken back Winterfell," she said. "Lord Royce told me that Baelish told him I'd been kidnapped by the Boltons, not that he sold me to them. So, I went along with it and had Lord Royce arrested for his part in this ridiculous, fake, conspiracy. I told Baelish I was clearing the way for him to take the Vale for himself and that I agreed to marry him. He confessed everything to me before the heart tree, while the guests were listing in from the shadows. Lord Royce himself was there; he heard everything. But I let Rhaegar cut off Petyr's head. He was the one most affected by Baelish's interference."

Recalling Baelish's downfall made her feel alive, again. Even Tyrion looked impressed.

"Someone once told me you were nothing more than a frightened little girl," Tyrion recalled. "I told that person that you might just outlive us all. See, my lady … I am never wrong." He paused a ponderous pause. "Petyr Baelish, stricken on his own staff. How I wish I could have seen it."

Sansa smiled, recalling their wedding day. It was a humiliating day for both of them, and she hadn't exactly helped. Something that, at that moment, brought with it a pang of regret.

"I'm sorry I didn't kneel for you," she said, quietly.

Tyrion shrugged again. "You could have bent those stiff Stark knees, but it only would have been an act of pity. Anyway, enough of this wallowing in the past. I say we join the family reunion happening below."

Sansa agreed readily, setting down her wine glass and holding her hand out to Tyrion. They escorted each other back down the stairwell, chatting more easily as they went. But they cut off into a silence as they met Daenerys on the stairs, coming up as they were headed downwards. She looked worried and the colour in her face betrayed her haste.

"A huge row has broken out," she said. "Come quick and see if you can't talk some sense into these two."

She grabbed Sansa's wrist and began running back down the stone steps, their footsteps echoing all the way down. Tyrion, on shorter legs and a worse back, struggled to keep up but was soon left behind. Sansa wanted to wait for him, but every time she stalled Daenerys hurried her along. And by the time they reached the Drum Keep, Sansa could understand the haste.

She burst through the doors to find Jon and Rhaegar engaged in a row so fierce their voices echoed all around the chamber. Facing each other from across the table, they were both red in the face with anger. Only the table kept them apart, a convenient barrier to stop them actually physically laying into each other. Neither of them noticed her arrival and even Ser Barristan and Ser Davos were keeping their distance now.

"You've been on at me to take this realm for months now," Jon stormed at his father. "Yet I give you a command and you flagrantly ignore it-"

"Because you're not the king yet," Rhaegar cut in. "And if I do this thing, I don't see how you can be king."

Jon turned abruptly from his father, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

"Jon, what's happening?" she asked, daring to enter the hall properly. "What's all this shouting about?"

Jon met her gaze for a moment, his dark grey eyes glinting ominously. After he shoved a roll of parchment in her hands, he said: "We have a perfectly decent offer of peace and reconciliation, but His Grace over there wants to turn it down for his own selfish reasons."

"My Lady, I beg you, see reason and tell him this is too much," Rhaegar implored her. "To heal this realm, I will take any number of consequences for my actions now and in the past. But not this. This is too much."

Sansa wished they would both calm down so she could concentrate. It was a marriage proposal. She read the terms and conditions carefully, squinting to keep the small and untidy writing in focus. Cersei wanted to marry Rhaegar in return for a formal alliance. As soon as she looked up from the parchment, Jon rounded on her.

"Sansa, tell him Cersei is probably barren – she's about that age. It's not like she's going to give him children. As soon as she's dead, I will be King and you my Queen. It's almost ideal. This way, we get to return North for a while before we inherit the crown. We can set our affairs in order."

"Jon," she said, holding up Cersei's terms. "This is absurd. I will not subject my bannermen to the humiliation of a formal show of penance before Cersei, I will not force them all to swear fealty to her. I will not hand Lord Tyrion over to her."

Jon held up his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "I though you, of all people would understand, this is just the starting point of negotiations. Sansa, think about it, she needs us – Rhaegar – much more than we need her. We can get these terms changed and use our superior position to get much more by way of concessions."

"True," she agreed.

"Sansa, no!" Rhaegar cut in before she could continue. "This is not fair."

Jon lost his temper. Again. A vein bulged at his temple as he closed in on his father.

"This realm has already bled for your selfish desires once before," he fumed. "So, you will do this thing and call it your penance."

"You're punishing me for something I had no control over," Rhaegar argued back. "You know not what you ask of me and, I beg you, anything but this."

Recognition dropped in Sansa's memory like a stone down a well. She had seen this moment. She saw this argument after the potion Maester Marwyn had given her. The feeling was so strong it knocked the breath from her lungs and she had to lean against the table before she fell down.

Valonqar, the woman in her vision had said. Just then, Tyrion finally caught up and came waddling into the hall. Meanwhile, Sansa struggled to remember the rest. Queen you shall be until another, younger and more beautiful, comes to cast you down… Meanwhile, Jon and Rhaegar were still fighting and Sansa had had enough. She could barely hear herself think, all the more frustrating because she felt like she was grasping at the smoke of a solution.

"Stop it!" she screamed, positioning herself between them. "Stop it, both of you!"

Finally, the two men stuttered into silence. Heavy sighs were heard from both sides, Rhaegar turned away to go and actually sulk in a corner. But Sansa was thinking. She was thinking fast as the germ of a plan formed in her head. She met Tyrion's gaze and smiled. He had not yet seen the proposal, so she handed over the parchment.

"My Lord," she said. "We have work to do."

Cersei would have her wedding, Sansa was set on it.

Jon drew a deep breath before knocking on his father's door. Hours had passed since their fight, darkness had fallen and supper had already been taken in the common hall. But Rhaegar had been present at none of it. He had apologised to Daenerys, but Sansa and Tyrion had sat at the end of the table with their heads together for hours. He shuddered to think what plots they were cooking up between them.

Meanwhile, Jon had grown regretful. It was his habit to avoid unnecessary wars and if peace with the Lannisters meant no blood in exchange for an empty wedding, then he could have lived with that. But he had been a fool to rage at his father, like that. As such, he knocked on his father's door and let himself in.

The fire was lit, there were signs of recent life in the form of a dirty plate left on the arm of a chair. But his father wasn't to be seen. Eventually, Jon found him fast asleep in his bed. He paused, considering whether or not waking him was a good idea. But, as he turned to leave, Rhaegar stirred and moaned softly as he awoke.

"Oh, seven hells, you've come to put me over your knee, haven't you?" Still half-drugged with sleep, Rhaegar sat up in his bed.

"Actually, I came to make peace," Jon replied. "I shouldn't have said what I said about you and my mother."

"You meant it though, didn't you," said Rhaegar. "You think I started the rebellion. You blame me for the war. Perhaps you're right. But I loved your mother more than I can say and the same goes for you."

Jon sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling the hangings out of the way. "I just don't want people to die needlessly. If we can make peace, then we should. Because when winter comes, we're going to need every last man we can spare – and that's bad enough without us fighting and dying here as well."

Rhaegar was quiet for a moment, dropping his gaze. "I saw Gregor Clegane, Jon. He's Kingsguard now. You know what he did and now he's Kingsguard, and you want me to marry the woman who made him Kingsguard."

Jon was momentarily shamed into silence. "I honestly thought he was dead. They told me Oberyn Martell killed him."

"Cersei made reference to me not being the first to come back," he explained. "What if it was him? She called him Robert Strong, but I swear I took him for Clegane."

"Then this is your way into the Red Keep to finish the bastard off for good," Jon said, evenly. "I don't pretend to know what Sansa and Tyrion are talking about, but I think they're planning something. I know she's summoning her bannermen here and the Riverlords have been sent for."

"Somehow, I don't think Tyrion will be planning something that involves his own execution," Rhaegar said. "But I don't like it, Jon."

"No one's asking you to like it," Jon replied. "Let's just see if we can't all come up with a plan and we might just rid ourselves of Cersei for good."

"Westerosi weddings are bad for the health these days," Rhaegar said. "But I want Clegane, Jon. He's mine to kill."

"For the sake of my brother and sister, and for Princess Elia, you will get him. I promise," said Jon. "There's a way, and together we'll find it."

Tiredness and endless travelling, combined with fear of the upcoming wars, were fraying everyone's tempers. Tiredness was something Rhaegar appeared to be remedying, so Jon was keen to leave him to it. They embraced, sealing their truce over the wedding. "Go back to sleep father, I'll see you in the morning."

Chapter Text

“I thought Cersei was running mad when she said your name.”  Jaime was watching Rhaegar from the opposite side of the room, as if afraid to get too close.  Half in shadow, his one visible eye narrowed, a green glimmer cutting through the fading light.  “Even I cannot deny what I see right in front of me.  So, what are you?  An avenging angel seeking retribution for a slain wife and children, I would have wagered.”

“What would the point be?” asked Rhaegar.  He moved around the painted table, inching closer to the other man.  Jaime had just arrived from King’s Landing with a delegation appointed by the small council in tow.  Under Cersei, it seemed the small council was smaller than ever.  Even when his father was king, he thought wryly, he managed to keep a fully manned small council.  Casting a wary eye over the miniature Westeros, he continued: “Everyone involved in the Sack is dead.  Or, almost everyone.”

“Brace yourself for more grievous news then, your grace,” said Jaime, a lilt of amusement in his voice.  “Pycelle died a few weeks ago.  You just missed him.”

Despite the gravity of the atmosphere between them, Rhaegar laughed.  “How will I ever heal my grieving heart, Ser Jaime?”

“By marrying my sister, apparently,” the other man replied, briskly returning them to the matter at hand.  “For what it’s worth, she’s always loved you.”

Almost as much as she’s loved you, he nearly replied.  He had to bite his tongue, lest he say something he would later regret.  Jon and the others would make him regret it even more.  But even now, in the early days of negotiations, it felt like he was slowly being shackled.

“If I marry Cersei, she would only ever be my consort,” said Rhaegar.  “I will, of course, accept co-ruler.  But she cannot remain as sole monarch of the seven kingdoms.  She is reliant on my Targaryen name and my Valyrian blood to prop up this realm, after all.”

Jaime emerged from the shadowy corner he’d taken up in, revealing himself to the light of day.  He looked older than his years.  There was none of the youthful swagger left in him now.  He came to stand by Rhaegar’s side as they both looked out of the bay windows, taking in the view of the rolling seas and distant cliffs.  On a clear day, they could see all the way to Crackclaw Point.  Alas, today was not a clear day. Beyond a mile or two, it was all salt and sea mists, mixing with the acrid smoke of Dragonmont. 

“If I had my way, she would not be Queen at all.”  Jaime spoke so softly that Rhaegar almost missed it.  “It will take a lot more than an old name to save us now.”

“Us?” Rhaegar turned towards him, frowning. 

“Us,” Jaime repeated. “She and I. I can see you don’t understand.  But she’s my twin sister.  No matter if we lose everything else, we still have each other.”

His words sounded as hollow as the look in his eye.  There was a man watching his world slowly falling away.  But Rhaegar knew that feeling.  He had been there himself, not so long ago.  Every battle lost was another chunk of defeat served cold and bitter.  Only, Jon had turned the tables and it was the Targaryen and Stark alliance devouring the realm. 

Emphasising the point, Rhaegar turned back to the painted table.  The same painted table that Aegon the Conqueror once planned his own invasion.  It was old and faded now.  Bits had been chipped away and hastily repaired, painted over and touched up.  Other parts had been added, allowing for new castles and boundaries redrawn.  Despite its age, it showed a blunt truth.  It showed King’s Landing surrounded by enemy forces.  Only the Westerlands stood with the Lannisters, and that was because they had no other choice in the matter.  Furthermore, the bulk of the army was still in the Westerlands, the opposite side of the country to King’s Landing.  They would have to go through Tyrell lines to reach the capital, and he and Daenerys could deploy two adult dragons to bar their route.

“If I marry her, it could stave off a full-scale invasion,” said Rhaegar.  “But that man she has in her Kingsguard.  Robert Strong.  Who is he, really?”

Jaime hesitated before answering.  “I think you already know.”

“I think I do, but I need to hear someone say it,” he insisted.

“He’s Gregor Clegane.”

Rhaegar nodded.  “Good.”

“Good?” Jaime repeated, narrowing his eyes.  “You’re a man back from the dead.  Don’t waste your second chance at life on Gregor Clegane.”

“I don’t intend to,” Rhaegar retorted.  “I just want to kill him.  If I achieve his death, I believe it will enrich my second chance at life, a great deal.”

“Oberyn already tried it and had his head pulverized by the Mountain using just his bare hands,” Jaime hissed.  “I saw what happened and-“

“And he raped and murdered my wife!” Rhaegar cut in.  “He butchered my children and has been terrorising this realm with impunity ever since.  Do you think I care if I die as long as I take that monstrous cunt with me?”

Jaime ran his hands through his hair, the dull light glinting dully off the gold right.  When Rhaegar first saw it, he thought it was a strange kind of glove.  But now he could see it was an actual gold hand where the flesh one had been amputated.  He tried not to stare, but he was so surprised he looked just a little too long. 

Jaime smiled wryly as he held it up for him to see properly.  “The Bloody Mummers, sworn to Roose Bolton at the time.  They captured me and Brienne.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” replied Rhaegar.  “Have you retrained to fight with the left?”

“Of course, but I’ll never be as good,” he answered.  “I’ll still be leading the Lannister troops north, once this wedding is done.”

The two of them fell silent, taking a moment to lose themselves in the view beyond the bay windows.  The sun was out now, burning away some of the sea mists and affording them a clearer vista of sea and basalt cliff.  At least until a vast, winged shadow blotted it all from view, emitting a jet of bright red and orange flame as it flapped into the sky.  Startled, Jaime leapt back from the window.

“Gods have mercy!” he cried out, face awestruck.  His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching.  As though transfixed by what he saw, he soon returned to the window and carried on watching as Drogon continued his flight.  Daenerys was a little white speck clinging to the beast’s spines.  “Is that your sister?”

“What?  The dragon or the one on the dragon?”

Jaime rolled his eyes.  “Don’t try and be funny.  You were never funny.”

“Yes, Daenerys is bonded to Drogon.  The smaller blue and silver is mine.  The other two are riderless,” Rhaegar explained.  “However, they both answer to Dany.  If she tells them to open fire, they will.”

For a moment, he didn’t think Jaime was listening.  He was immersed in the sight of Dany taking Drogon out for his exercise.  However, Rhaegar could see the dull glimmer of real fear in those emerald Lannister eyes. 

“Drogon, you say?  I say he is Balerion the Black Dread born again.”

Not a minute after stating the other two were riderless, Rhaegal followed his brother with someone desperately clinging on and shouting out loud.  Angry curses that could just be head over the beating of wings.  All the same, a hot and fierce surge of pride swept over Rhaegar. 

“Jon!” he said, throwing open the window. 

“That’s Ned Stark’s bastard,” Jaime said.

“Wrong, he’s my bastard,” Rhaegar corrected him, leaving out the ‘legitimate’ part. “Mine and Lyanna Stark’s.”

Jaime choked, but Rhaegar was watching his son’s first dragon flight beaming from ear to ear. 

“Ned bloody Stark, that sly old dog!” Jaime muttered.  “Told everyone it was his bastard…”

Meanwhile, Jon’s first flight had come to abrupt end with a crash landing.  Rhaegar leaned out of the tower and looked directly down, to where his son jumped off the dragon’s back and now ran across the sands.  Probably grateful to still be alive.  Now the dragon really had its three heads.  Well, almost.

Rhaegar closed the window, turning back to Jaime.  “I hear you did for the old tyrant?”

Jaime was still shaken from the sight of the dragons in flight.  However, the change of subject seemed to draw him out of it.

“Aerys,” he said.  There was no triumph in his tone.  “I wondered when you would bring that up.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not angry,” Rhaegar assured him.  “I would like to know the full story, though. Who opened the gates of the city?  I thought it would have been Varys.”

“Pycelle,” Jaime corrected him.  “Pycelle opened the gates.  Remember the wildfire you told me about? Your father was going to detonate it.  He sent me out to take my father’s head.  While in the city I found Rossart talking to the Pyromancers and I thought he was giving them the order to blow the city up.  So I killed him and returned to the Red Keep.  Aerys asked me if the blood on my sword was Tywin’s.  I told him, no.  It was Rossart’s.  Aerys climbed the steps to the iron throne and was about to declare my death sentence, so I pulled him down and killed him.  A sword slash to the throat.  It was over quickly.”

There was something comforting about the matter of fact way Jaime recounted the last humiliating hours of the Targaryen dynasty.  Something that let him remove himself from it all.  But when Lannister fell silent, Rhaegar found himself at a loss for words. 

“What was Rossart doing at the Red Keep?” he asked, at length.  “He should have been with his beloved wildfire.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have heard; it happened after the Trident,” Jaime replied. “Two weeks before the end, Aerys named him Hand of the King.”

One final act of lunacy, Rhaegar thought.  He couldn’t imagine what those final hours were like, trapped in the city with that madman threatening to blow the whole place and everyone in it. 

“Who was looking after Elia and the children?” he asked.

Shame mingled with fear in Jaime’s expression.  “I don’t know.  She was in Maegor’s Holdfast, with the children.  By the time I got there, they were all dead.  Princess Rhaenys hid beneath your bed, but Amory Lorch found her.  Father ordered it, but he ordered that a pillow be put over the children’s faces.  He didn’t order butchery.”

Over.  All over.  Lives snuffed out as if they were no more significant than fleas leaping off a dead dog’s back. A painful knot formed in Rhaegar’s chest and with the greatest of effort, he had to cleave to his belief that children were not responsible for the actions of their parents.  Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion had had no say any of it. 

“That night made monsters of us all,” Jaime added, his voice hoarse with bitter regret.   

“And Gregor Clegane?” he asked. 

“Tell me where you want him and I’ll make sure he’s there.”  Jaime’s tone was flat, passionless.  “What I mean is, if you want him incapacitated before you kill him-“

“No,” Rhaegar interjected.  “No, I want to kill him in a fair fight and I want to see the blood drain from that malignant mountain of flesh.  Do you understand?”

“Your Grace, there is Ilyn Payne,” Jaime insisted.  “Just order the damn execution-“

“No.”  The finality of his tone almost echoed. And with the matter settled, Rhaegar sought to steer the conversation back onto safer ground.  “I know you’ve been made to suffer for what you did to my father.  But I want you to know that I completely understand why you did it and I attach no blame to you at all.”

He meant it, too.  Aerys had been mad a long time.  People had burned by the hundred.  A city had come to within a hare’s breadth of utter destruction.  And when Rhaegar looked up at Jaime, he noted how the other man’s eyes now misted.  Something fell away from him, like a burden had at least shifted, or lessened in weight. 

While he had been dead, the others who had the misfortune to survive had grown old without him.  They carried their history like a millstone around their necks and harboured their secrets deep in their hearts.  No one recovered, they merely learned to live with what they had seen and done in those frantic final hours.  All the while, the madman haunted them.  The ghost of the mad king lingering in every chamber, an insidious malignancy hanging over them all.

“Come,” said Rhaegar.  “Let’s sort these terms out and get this wedding planned.  Jon wants it done as soon as possible.”

A dark shadow passed over Jaime’s face.  As though he already knew something was afoot but did not want to say.  “Before we go, your grace, the Lord Commander told me what was happening north of the wall.  Lady Brienne vouched for him, and I trust her with my life.  But I’d like to hear it from you, as well.  What are they?  What do they want?”

“The Others?” asked Rhaegar.  Without waiting for an answer, he continued: “Who knows, Ser Jaime.  All I know is, they’re real and they’ve been moving slowly southwards for a long time.  As soon as this is done, we will take our armies and our dragons north, to the Lands of Always Winter, and fight to the last man until they’re pushed back into oblivion.”

Whatever the Lannisters were, they were a logical bunch.  And everything about the coming wars flew in the face of that steadfast logic.  All the same, Jaime nodded.  “Before we begin, there’s someone I must speak with.”

“Tyrion is in the Windwyrm Tower.  But, forgive me, you cannot be alone with him.  We will not hand him over to you.”

“No!” Jaime cut in, abruptly.  “No, not Tyrion. I need to see a woman who saved my life at a time when I didn’t even know it needed saving.”

Rhaegar raised the ghost of a smile.  “You better go then.”

Jon was still weak in the legs by the time he made it back to the Drum Keep.  Before going in, he paused at the top of the steps to look back at Rhaegal, now splashing in the sea.  While his first attempt at flying hadn’t been a complete disaster, he couldn’t imagine for a minute how he was supposed to take the creature into battle.  Meanwhile, his aunt flew that hulking beast as if it was second nature.  She was up there still, training Drogon for combat by unleashing his flame into the open sea. 

Once back inside, he found Sansa speaking quietly with delegates from Cersei’s small council.  They had all been treated with courtesy and provided for according to their rank.  Everything done according to the books.  After a minute, Sansa noticed his arrival and broke off the conversation to join him. 

“How did the flight go?” she asked.

Jon hesitated before answering.  “Let’s just say I’m glad there were but only a few witnesses.  Now come, I would speak privately with you.”

Nodding her ascent, he let her lead the way out of the back of the Drum Keep and into a walled garden beyond.  Aegon’s Garden, if he remembered rightly.  Sat a bench was Brienne of Tarth, speaking with Ser Jaime Lannister.  Only he looked up as they approached, and looked at Jon in such a way that made him suspect Rhaegar had told him the truth of who he was.  However, Lannister soon lost interest and returned to the conversation with Brienne after bidding ‘good day’ to Sansa.

Once back in another tower, one Jon didn’t have the name of, they found an empty chamber with only dust and damp inside it. 

“Marwyn, the Brotherhood and Melisandre have all reached Castle Black,” she said, sitting in an old window seat.  It gave them a view over the garden they had just left.  “Arya wrote to tell me.”

It brought him some small comfort to know that reinforcements were already arriving at the watch.  “Good.  How is Arya?  After years on the run, I thought managing Winterfell would be all the harder for her.”

“No, she’s fine,” she assured him.  “But she needs a new Maester and they’re sending your old friend, Samwell.  He has no chain yet, but Marwyn recommended him.”

Jon breathed a deep sigh of relief. While Marwyn sounded harmless, Jon didn’t know him personally, which he meant he didn’t trust him, either.  “I don’t care about the damn chain.  Sam will look after her and have a care for the interests of the smallfolk.  He’s a good man, Sansa.  He knows what’s coming as well as any of us.” 

Much like the Targaryen dynasty itself, there wasn’t much left of Aegon’s gardens.  Just a few green shoots protruding from the neglected soil and a sorry looking rose bush.  There was almost nothing for Brienne and Jaime to look at, Jon noted.  But, they seemed rather content with each other.  Both he and Sansa were watching them, their hands now touching.

“There’s history between those two,” he said.  “I remember him in Winterfell and I thought he was the King.  He looked like one and he was so bloody arrogant.”

They had shared a brief conversation in which Jon felt himself being pointedly needled by the knight.  The Night’s Watch had come up and Lannister had taunted him: don’t worry, it’s only for life.  Jon had to hand it to him, he was right. 

“He seems to have changed a lot,” said Sansa, only vaguely interested.  “I’ve heard he won’t be at the wedding, which might be beneficial to us.”

Jon shrugged.  “Even if he stays, what difference will it make?”

They had hammered out the plan between them already.  The Lords were arriving from the North and the Riverlands and the Vale, many sailing from White Harbour and Gulltown as they spoke.  The Lords themselves were there under the pretence of attending the wedding and observing a proper coronation.  But Jon was still nervous, there was still so much that could go wrong.

“Is your mother coming down?” he asked.

Sansa nodded.  “I don’t think she would miss this for the world.”

During a natural lull in the conversation, Jon shifted closer to her so he could reach her hand.  This close, he could catch the scent of her rosewater and feel the warmth of her body against his own.  While organising his own thoughts, he glanced around the room they were in.  It large, empty and full of the smell of neglect.  It seemed even Stannis, for all his years in Dragonstone, hadn’t bothered much with this room.  The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen was still carved into the roof beams. 

“When this is all over, and the war is fought,” he began.  “I would like us to marry.”

He heard the breath hitch in her throat.  “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” he replied, turning to face her.  “I would marry you tomorrow, if circumstances were different.”

“Why don’t we?” she asked. “This is my third time, so I don’t want any fuss.  We could go before the heart tree or get a septon.  Rhaegar and Daenerys will act as witnesses.”

“Third time,” he repeated.  “But it’s the first time you’ve agreed to be wed, and that counts for something.  Plan it.  Have everything you want. Because first or third time, it’s going to be our final time.  And when the war for the dawn is at its height, when I’m surrounded by fire, death and destruction, I want to know I have a wedding to live for.  A future to fight for.  I want to know I have you.”

Sansa’s gaze met his own, reminding him of her brilliantly blue eyes.  They were misting now, though.  And her lower lip trembled as she tightened her grip on his hand.  “You will always have me.  Come war, come peace, come the end of the world.”

Before that, they had another wedding to negotiate.  Or at least appear to.  Everyone who mattered gathered in the Drum Keep.  Jon and Sansa sat side by side at the high table, with Ser Davos and Ser Barristan either side of them.  Opposite was Jaime and Rhaegar, alongside a chainless Maester introduced as Qyburn. Although curious about how he had lost his chain, he hadn’t asked.  Instead, he listened as Qyburn relayed how Robb and his men had saved his life at Harrenhal after the Lannisters had sacked it.  Strange then, that he came to be on Cersei’s small council.

Daenerys was present also, staring fixedly at the door. For his part, Varys stayed out of it, but kept a place at table.  Only Tyrion was absent, the trust between brothers, it seemed, broken beyond repair. 

“We all know why we’re here, so I suggest we get these terms agreed between us,” Jaime opened up proceedings.  “You’ve read the Queen’s requirements already, I assume.  Now tell me yours.”

With Rhaegar and Daenerys royalty in name alone, it was Sansa who was the highest ranking of them all.  So, it was she who set forth their terms.

“I agree that this marriage should go ahead.  We cannot afford to waste time fighting with Cersei, so we must unify.  I agree to swear fealty to her as my Queen, and I assure her I will command my bannermen to also swear fealty and renew their loyalty to the Crown.  However, I will only do so once the marriage is consummated and legalised.  I agree that Tyrion Lannister will be brought to Queen Cersei in chains, again only after the marriage has been consummated and is valid in the eyes of the gods old and new.  In return, we would like Ser Robert Strong, formerly known as Gregor Clegane, to be handed over to us to face trial for the murder of Elia Martell and Prince Aegon.”

When she finished, Jon spelled out his own requirements.  “I would like the Lannister forces to be on the road North before the marriage. It is imperative that our armies join forces and go north with all haste.”

Jaime looked sceptical. “You would have my sister undefended in the capital surrounded by your troops, while her own are already gone from the city?”

“I see your point,” Jon ceded.  “Ideally, it would happen.  But, if that is unacceptable to you, then by all means let them stay.”

They would be overpowered in no time. 

“My own forces, the Unsullied and the Dothraki,” Dany stated.  “Your sister requires that I send them away.  I will agree to leave them stationed on Dragonstone, but I regret that I will not be able to muster ships enough for them before the wedding takes place.”

“And the dragons,” Rhaegar cut in.  “I agree to have all four dragons confined safely to the Dragon Pit of King’s Landing.  But, only when the war for the dawn is over.  We need those dragons to head north at a moment’s notice.”

Jaime listened while someone else, Qyburn, noted down every word that was said.  They had to pause every so often, allowing the man time to catch up.  But here, Jaime spoke again.

“You can understand that my sister is nervous about having live dragons on the loose,” he stated.  “She wants them secured in the pits.”

“They’re not on the loose,” said Rhaegar.  “They will be left at Dragonstone, where they will do no harm to anyone.”

“These are our terms,” Sansa added.  “If the Queen does not agree, the wedding is off and we will have no choice but to attack.”

Jon watched as Jaime drew a deep breath, running his good hand through what was left of his hair.  His pallor had taken a greyish hue, now.  But their deal was finally on the table.

“I don’t think anyone has anything else to add to that,” he said.  “Take it to the Queen and let us know what her final decision is.”

With that, he got up and left. The sooner this sordid business was concluded the happier he would be.

Chapter Text

The galleys all set sail at once, moving into formation as they hit the open seas. On the vessel out front, Jon made his way to the prow of the ship to watch as the brisk wind filled the silk sails. Among the fleet sailed the mermen of white harbour, a couple of Greyjoy long ships displayed the kraken and the crescent moon of the Vale sailed alongside them. He saw some of his own, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Although the landlocked Starks had no fleet of their own, Wyman Manderly's newest vessel, the Lady Sansa, now hoisted a direwolf sail in her namesake's honour. And it was on that ship that she and he now sailed toward the yawning jaws of Blackwater Bay.

Never in his life had he seen such a fleet and, he had to admit, it was stirring. Had they been sailing into battle, it would be more so. But, as it happened, they were sailing into nothing more than a wedding. A royal wedding, with all the pomp and ceremony that went with it, and the prospect alone tired him out.

While out on deck alone, he remembered the last time he spoke to the Ghost of High Heart. A memory that popped into his head and gave him a jolt in the stomach. 'You arrive a guest, and leave a king,' she had told him. Was that why he had pushed his father into this marriage? At some unconscious level, had he taken to heart the words of a mad old crone? And there was so much potential for things to go wrong that last minute doubts plagued him.

No longer willing to be alone with his nerves, he left the prow and returned below deck. It was always cold at sea, colder still now that winter had come, and even the cloak that Sansa had made for him no longer kept out the bitter chill. He descended the steps only to find that Sansa was not in the cabin where he had left her. In there, he found only the less than reassuring sight of Catelyn Stark, accompanied by her brother, Lord Edmure. Apologising for the intrusion, he left to descend lower into the bowels of the ship.

His guess was right, and Sansa was kneeling before a barred cage built into the ship's small freight hold. On the other side of the iron bars, Tyrion tried to look as if he was enjoying himself despite being bound in chains. Varys appeared from the shadows of a wine cask with an overflowing cup in hand.

"You can have this, but no more," he stated, passing the cup through the bars. "You must remain coherent."

Sansa looked apologetic. "He's right, my lord. But look, there's salted beef and some lovely cheeses meant for the wedding feast. Why not have some of that to soak up the alcohol?"

"Fuck the cheese," Tyrion declared. "Bring me the cask."

Sansa and Varys made room for Jon around the impromptu prison cell. Tyrion, meanwhile, greeted him warmly.

"Ah, my lord, you've come to join the party."

Jon felt more than a little guilty. It was bad enough to be locked in a cage on a ship, but the rocking was worse down here than up on deck. "Forgive us, my lord, but we had to do a good job. Although, might I suggest that staying sober would be a better idea. Cersei might become suspicious if we're getting you hammered."

"You're all determined to ruin the party atmosphere, aren't you?" Tyrion countered, tossing his now empty cup aside. "Oh look, here come more spectators."

Daenerys had joined them, flanked by two Unsullied and little Missandei. Rhaegar came up behind her, looking pale and whey-faced with Barristan Selmy at his side. Pre-wedding jitters afflicted his father, or so Jon assumed.

"I haven't been the centre of this much attention since my father put me on trial," Tyrion said.

"I bet you had to be sober for that, too," Sansa replied, wryly.

"Don't remind me."

"What I do want to remind everyone of," Jon cut in. "Is what we're meant to be doing. I want us all to make sure that there is minimal damage to people's property, that no one is raped, put to the sword or molested in any way. Daenerys, the Unsullied- "

"They feel no desire," Daenerys assured him. "They don't understand what it is, they only obey."

The Dothraki had been left at Dragonstone, to Jon's relief. "I don't mind plunder, so long as it stops rape and murder. Possessions can be replaced, lives and honour cannot. However, we must all try to keep control of our own forces as best we can."

"When a man's blood is up, there will be telling what he'll do," Ser Barristan cautioned.

But Jon was adamant. "Rapers will be sent to the wall; rapers who kill their victims will be hanged. That's my final word on the matter. Make sure they know that."

The others murmured their agreement, before a cask of ale was opened and they all took a drink to calm their nerves. Even though they were a good day's sailing away from King's Landing, talking about it made it real. The real it got, the more Jon's nerves nagged at him. The troops were travelling over land, meaning they could be delayed at any turn and all their plans would come to nothing.

As they drew closer, and the buildings and streets rolled into view, Jon could see the Queen had not skimped on effort. The Lannister lion now flew proudly alongside the three-headed dragon. A sight that turned his aunt's stomach, but simply left Jon feeling cold. It was there, all along the Red Keep's curtain walls, and red and gold bunting laced the alleyways, interspersing with red and black. By the time they docked, the small council had lined up along the shore to formally welcome them back to the city.

Jon and Sansa stood side by side, waiting to be brought ashore on a small sail boat, looking along the lines of faces. Cersei, from what he could see, wasn't among them. He vaguely remembered what she looked like, but Sansa would recognise her instantly. But, she was nonplussed too.

"I think that's her wheelhouse," she said. "It's the same one she had when I was here and when she came to Winterfell."

Before long, the first of the sail boats bumped against their galley and soon someone was boarding the ship. Sansa groaned as Jon realised who was climbing aboard. He'd somehow managed to forget that she was coming to inspect the goods in person. While her usher announced her, everyone on board knelt on the bobbing deck. Even Jon, as much as it galled him, alongside Sansa who fell into a well-practised curtsey.

"Her Grace, Cersei of House Lannister, first of her name. Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Cersei didn't waste time. "Rise."

As they did so, Jon found himself looking her in the eye. Her hair was shorn, but she still carried herself with a straight-backed haughtiness. But if she was interested in him, it didn't last long as she moved right over to Sansa. Jon studied her carefully, wondering if she really had forgiven his betrothed for her alleged role in Joffrey's murder. Whatever the case, her smile didn't reach her eyes and Sansa looked right back at her, unblinking and full of silent defiance.

"Hello again, little dove," she spoke in a voice as smooth as silk. "What a pleasure it is to have you back at court; you have been missed."

"A dove no more, your grace," Sansa answered. "But a Warden of the North."

Cersei made a noise at the back of her throat, wordless and meaningless. Then relief came in the shape of Rhaegar, who had been dressed in a samite doublet of black and scarlet, matching breeches and tooled leather boots that rose to his knees. An image of chivalry, he bowed before his queen and kissed the ring on her finger. Just for a brief moment, Cersei actually blushed and seemed quite lost for words.

"My betrothed," she greeted him. "King's Landing is yours."

"My Queen," he answered, politely. "I pray it will be ours before long."

Jon breathed a sigh of relief as Rhaegar played his part impeccably. Once reintroduced to each other, they linked arms and continued their inspection of the guests. Daenerys was the lucky next in line.

"Your future sister-by-law, your grace, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Mereen, Breaker of Chains and the mother of dragons."

As a fellow Queen in her own right, Dany did not curtsey. She did extend a hand and utter some well-practised, yet double-edged, pleasantries. "You are very beautiful, your grace. And may I just say how much I am looking forward to drawing from the wisdom of a far more experienced Queen whose many years will no doubt be of benefit to one such as I."

Cersei's smile stiffened, her emerald gaze flickering to Dany's guards. "I see you have with you some interesting savages, your grace. May I ask their names?"

When Dany nodded for him to answer, he simply said: "This one is Grey Worm."

Cersei looked mildly puzzled. "Sorry, which one?"

"This one," Grey Worm repeated.

"This one is Rat Face," said the other.

"They mean themselves, your grace," Dany said, helping the baffled Queen. "It's how they introduce themselves."

"Charming."

Jon disguised his snigger as a cough, which only rebounded on him as Cersei's piercing gaze fell upon him once more. She did not share his amusement.

"And I hear I am not only gaining a husband," she said, approaching with a measured pace. "But, also a bastard step-son."

Behind that rictus smile, Jon could see she wanted nothing more than to see him dead at her feet. A suspicion backed up by what he knew of the massacre of Robert Baratheon's bastards. Whether it was ordered by her or Joffrey, it mattered not since she made no effort to prevent it happening. Suddenly, Catelyn Stark no longer seemed so bad after all.

"And I a step-mother, your grace," he answered, trying to sound as though he relished the idea. "I believe there is one more you are yet to meet. If you could step this way, we will reintroduce you."

This was the part he was dreading the most. As painful as it was for them all to be lined up and inspected, at least they didn't have to endure the indignity of being inspected in a cage while locked in fetters. Jon found himself wishing they had given Tyrion the cask now. Anything to cushion the blow of having the sister who wanted him dead gloating over him from the opposite side of a caged hold.

The dwarf kept his head down and Cersei's triumphant smile was sickening to behold. After commanding her brother to look up at her, she bent her own knees so could take a long and searching look into his face.

"That's him," she said, happily. "That's definitely him."

"He will be brought to you after the wedding- "

"No, I want him now," she cut over Jon. "Bring him with us, I would have this execution done."

Before Jon could panic, Rhaegar took a smooth step into the discussion. "My love, please. Bloodshed before our wedding could only be ill-omened. I want nothing to spoil the happiness of our day."

Cersei hesitated. Clearly, the head of Tyrion Lannister would make her extremely happy. But, mercifully, she had a groom to impress. "Very well. He is to be held here until the morning after we are wed. Then my father's sentence of execution will be carried out against him."

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, all Jon wanted to do was get off that boat and on to dry land. After that, all they had to do was survive the following day.

Sleepless and despondent, Rhaegar lay in bed that night and watched the sky outside his window grow lighter as the sun rose. He remembered his childhood at the Red Keep, when he would watch the sun rising over the Sept of Baelor, casting its shortening shadow over the cobbled streets beyond. In the place where the Sept once stood, now lay only a deep pit. A crater in the street that had consumed not only the sept itself, but numerous houses and small businesses. Innocent people had been blown sky high and a noble house of Westeros had been all but wiped out.

It was wildfire left over from Aerys. The same wildfire Jaime had sacrificed his honour to prevent it being used against the people. Something not lost on the Knight as he explained to Rhaegar what exactly had happened. Sansa had mentioned it to him, but it wasn't until he saw the scale of destruction that it really sank in. Not for the first time did he wonder whether Cersei had some similar trick up her sleeve for them, too. She could wipe them out and take their army for her own.

However, morning broke proper and servants arrived to rouse him in time for his wedding. A tray of food was placed before him, which he hastily pushed away. Once bathed, he was dressed in a samite doublet, trimmed with cloth of gold. His breeches were a cream samite colour, also trimmed with cloth of gold. Cersei had picked it herself, insisting it would bring out his eyes. The night before, they had dined together at a welcoming feast for all the guests. Lords from across the seven kingdoms, many of whom had been in open rebellion against the Lannisters, were also there. Each of them nervous, remembering the Tyrells no doubt.

Nerves that did not calm until they gathered in the Red Keep's own sept, since Baelor's was nothing more than a smouldering pile of rubble. The guests were already assembled by the time he arrived. At the front pews Sansa, Jon, Daenerys and Edmure Tully sat silently, side by side. Only the first three looked up, silently encouraging him on to the front where the High Septon's head bowed under the weight of his crystal crown. Rhaegar didn't know this one, but he supposed a few had come and gone since he was last here.

The last of the guests to arrive was Jaime Lannister, signifying that Cersei could only be a matter of seconds away. He entered discreetly, with large but handsome woman at his side, dressed in a large pale blue dress. Her blonde hair was neatly arranged. It took Rhaegar a full minute to recognise Brienne of Tarth. When they sat, she positioned herself to Jaime's left and he suspected it was so they could reach each other's hands.

Just then, before he had a chance to wonder for too long, a fanfare blared from the eaves above, heralding the arrival of the Queen. Rhaegar stood up straight, hastily wiping the look of certain doom from his face as the doors to the sept opened once more. Like any expectant groom, he turned to look over his shoulder as a long shaft of light penetrated the sept from outside. Light into which Cersei stepped, swathed in a gown of snowy white silk and ivory taffeta. In all fairness to her, she did look lovely. In the absence of her father, Qyburn escorted her down the aisle.

She came to a halt so close their noses almost touched and the ceremony began in earnest.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Cersei turned her back to him as Jon handed over the cloak. Out of nowhere, the memory of draping this very cloak over the shoulders of Lyanna Stark hit him like a kick in the stomach. It still smelled musty from where it had been buried in the crypts of Winterfell. It still bore traces of her, like the essence of her had seeped into the weave of the fabric. With shaking hands, he fastened it at the nape of Cersei's neck.

After that, she stood to face him. The smile on her face made her look twenty years younger, as if the Robert and the rebellion had simply never happened. His left hand met her right, whereupon the Septon wove a white silk ribbon around their wrists as he recited a prayer from the Seven Pointed Star.

"In the sight of the seven, I hereby bind these two souls together as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words."

Rhaegar thought the words might stick in his throat. But, somehow, he managed to choke out the final vow, in unison with his new bride: "Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers, she is mine, from this day until my last."

And it was done.

"Gods, this day will never end." Sansa sat heavily in the seat beside Jon's. "First the wedding itself, then the jugglers, the dancers, the mummers … it never ends."

Jon huffed indignantly. "The whole thing is nought but a mummer's farce."

There had been several courses to the feast as well. They picked a little of each before passing them down to the lower tables. It amazed her, even at such short notice, that Cersei had managed to pull off this spectacle. Warily, she looked down the high table of the common hall, to where Rhaegar was looking stricken as he fed strawberries to his new bride. She was gratified when a servant came to top up his glass and he covered it with his hand.

"Are you not drinking, my love?" she heard Cersei ask. "You've barely eaten a thing."

"I think I will be needed my wits about me tonight," he replied. Laughter broke out at the unsubtle innuendo.

Like Jon, Sansa had been discreetly feeding her own wine to a nearby potted plant. She glanced around the hall, noticing that many of her lords and bannermen were doing similar, having learned a bitter lesson from the Red Wedding. That had been Walder Frey's advantage – the guests were inebriated, or had at least had their senses dulled.

Outside the windows, she could see the light fading against the onset of evenfall and she knew it was almost time. A worry confirmed as Lord Glover approached, with Lord Mallister at his side. When they drew level with her, Glover bent down to whisper in her ear: "One mile, my lady. Give it an hour."

Before they passed, Mallister added, speaking even more quietly and cryptically: "Our wedding present has entered Maegor's Holdfast."

Despite her growing anxiety, Sansa smiled. "Thank you, my lords."

"Is the bedding chamber ready?" asked Jon, having heard the discussion.

"Aye, my lord," Mallister confirmed. "Got it looking lovely for her. Rose petals and all."

To kill some time, Sansa and Jon had a dance with the others, but they kept treading on each other's toes. Then the orchestra played "The Rains of Castamere" and they both quite lost their sense of rhythm. They separated again, mingling with the Lords of their own choosing and passing on messages. "One hour," she whispered to Lord Royce. "One hour," she repeated to her uncle Edmure. She kept going, until she reached the back of the hall, where her mother sat alone and shrouded in a heavy cowl.

Sansa slid onto the bench beside her and accepted the dagger Catelyn slipped into her hands. She would be needing it soon. Once the weapon was concealed down her boot, she took her mother's hands in her own. "Just under an hour, mother," she said. "Then Robb and all our loyal bannermen will be truly avenged."

Outside, darkness was falling and Catelyn's ravaged face was barely visible by the light of the wall beacon. But what little was visible to Sansa was enough to stiffen her resolve and her nerves melted away, replaced only by a steely determination.

"Niece," said Edmure, coming to join them at the rear of the hall. "A Spider crawled across my hand and left me this."

Under the table, he slipped her a large iron key. She had to lean back to get it in view, then hastily hid it down the front of her bodice. Unable to rest, she got up again and circulated among the guests. After a while, she reached the bride and groom to congratulate them one more time. As she did so, she placed a protective hand over the place where the key rested.

"Seven blessings, your grace," she said, curtseying. "On both of you."

She looked to Rhaegar, who met her gaze and nodded his understanding. Cersei, meanwhile, said nothing, but regarded her through narrowed eyes. Behind that fixed smile, Sansa could see she was itching to say something. Only the presence of Rhaegar stayed her tongue.

The hour was ending fast, and she sought Jon among the crowds only to find him seated back at their table. He surveyed the crowds in silence, apparently quite relaxed, with his arm resting against the back of the empty seat at his side. Even when a messenger from Lord Manderly whispered in his ear, he barely flinched.

Jon rose to his feet and gestured for Sansa to come and stand by his side as he addressed the crowds confidently. It was time.

"My Lords, My Ladies," he called out, smiling hungrily. "The wedding is done and vows have been exchanged. Only crumbs remain of this splendid feast and the casks are dry to the touch. And that can only mean one thing: It is time for the bedding!"

His declaration was met with an uproarious cheer, already the women were crowding around Rhaegar and the men toward Cersei. Only Jon and Jaime Lannister held back. Then a hush descended, heavy and expectant as Rhaegar rose to his feet and lifted up his glass. "Aye my lords, to bed it is."

No longer enduring all eyes on him, Jon turned to Sansa and she could see the worry in his eyes. "Get to Rhaegar, quick."

There was no fear on that front, Sansa was already rushing up to the prince before any of the other women could reach him. A few of them laughed at her, teasing her for her haste in stripping the prince as he was borne to his marriage bed. All she did was pretend to laugh along as she barrelled Rhaegar through the backdoor, just as the men hoisted Cersei onto their shoulders, carrying her through the other door amidst a barrage of bawdy jests.

Sansa was still laughing as she pulled off Rhaegar's doublet and flung her arms around his waist, as if preparing to lift him. Quickly, she lifted the key Edmure had passed her and slipped it down the waistband of Rhaegar's breeches.

"Go now, the soldiers have arrived," she said, once they were out of sight of the main hall. "There's a horse saddled and harnessed, waiting for you at the back. Make haste and good luck."

The other women followed, little Lyanna Mormont among them. "My mother and sister were killed at the Red Wedding. Do this, and House Mormont will be very, very grateful," she hissed at the prince. He looked a little scared as he promised to do his best.

The other women they had hand-picked from among their lords, the other was poor lackwit Lady Lollys who simply wouldn't have a clue what was going on anyway. They led Rhaegar down a passageway, away from Maegor's Holdfast, pulling off his clothes, only to replace his silks with a mail shirt and breastplate. Sansa handed him the sword Varys had hidden in an alcove.

"Have a care, my lady," he said, kissing her cheek. "Take refuge where you can."

Sansa waited until he was out of sight before returning to the other ladies. They were women of the North and they well knew how to take care of themselves. And Lady Lollys.

Cersei's spirits soared as she was borne up the stairs of Maegor's Holdfast on the shoulders of a rowdy crowd of men drawn from the Westerlands and the Riverlands. Her jealousy at seeing those women pawing at her husband soon faded as she returned the bawdy japes and jokes, giving as good as she got. It was a world away from the day she married Robert, when they'd almost had to drag her up the steps. When, finally, they lowered her before the door of her bedchamber, she stood on shaking legs and she looked at the closed door.

Breathless with anticipation and excitement, she hesitated before going through it. He was in there waiting for her, her silver prince. After all these years and a miracle from the gods had brought him back to her. Just as good, she had brought to pass her father's original plan for her, and Rhaegar was now her husband. Hopeless, doe eyed Elia was still dead. That wild wolf-girl was still dead. But he was here and she had survived. How could this be anything but a blessing from the seven upon her reign. Better, she still bled. She would give him sons. Beautiful silver haired, lilac eyed little boys. She would have to do something about their bastard brother, but that could wait, for now her prince awaited.

"Make haste, your grace," a Riverlord urged her. "We have a very special wedding present awaiting you inside."

She knew he was right, but she wanted to relish feeling like a giddy girl again. With a shudder of horror, she remembered Aurane Waters. A callow, skinny youth she had once considered taking to her bed because he reminded her of Rhaegar. Back then, she could never have imagined that the real thing was being sent back to her by the gods themselves.

With a thrill of excitement, grinning from ear to ear, she finally pushed open the chamber door. The outer chamber was silent, but a soft yellow glow of oil lamps permeated from below the door to her privy chamber. Rendered speechless with excitement, she tiptoed, barefoot now thanks to the men outside, all the way up to the door.

"I have come, my love," she said in a sing-song voice, inching the heavy oak door open. The men who brought her here and stripped her down to her petticoat and shift. Now both garments whispered down her thighs and pooled at her feet. "Naked as my nameday and loins burning for my one true love."

Silence, but she could see through the muslin drapes shrouding her bed, a shadow figure laying on his back. Scented candles burned on every surface of the room, the floor strewn with sweet smelling rose petals. Blue winter roses that filled the air with sweetness. But still no reply from her beloved. Sensing she was being teased, she stifled a laugh.

"You're teasing me. If you don't stop now, I may have to spank you." She pulled open the drapes, ready to pounce on her silver prince like a half-starved lioness. Only he was not there. Leering up at her from among the silk cushions and petals, bound in unlocked chains, the mismatched eyes of her monstrous brother met her own. Horrified, she staggered back, choking on her own screams of horror as the misshapen little creature rose slowly from the bed.

"You whore," he hissed, low and icily dangerous. "You evil, vindictive, malicious old whore."

Cersei reeled back, tripping over the Myrish rug. Hitting the ground with a violent jolt, she finally screamed aloud.

"Help!" she cried. "Help me, please, it's escaped."

Then the breath caught in her throat. A very special wedding present, they had said. The betrayal swelled inside her. She wanted to be sick, she wanted to claw the little freak's mismatched eyes out. But the chain swung and slammed into her belly, knocking her straight back down as she tried to rise. Before she could scramble back to her feet, he was on her, wrapping his hands around her bare, pale throat. In a raw panic, she reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair, trying to pull him off. Her right hand slammed into his face, but she could not throw him off.

"You whore," he repeated, tightening his grip with inhuman strength. He was crying, a tear slipping from his eyes and splashing on her burning cheek. "You utter, fucking whore."

She tried to scream out, but Tyrion's stubby little fingers were crushing her windpipe. Her strength was flagging fast as Maggy's words returned to her once more. She should have killed the bitch.

"Shame," said a young woman's voice.

Through the fog of her dying eyesight, Cersei could make out Sansa Stark emerging from the shadows. How very young she was … how very beautiful…

"Shame," she said again, watching as Cersei slumped into the oblivion of death. "What a shame."

Rhaegar jumped down from the saddle of his horse before he even reached the city gates. Just as Manderly had promised, the army was vast and it was racing toward them at a speed he couldn't guess. But it was bloody fast. Starks, Glovers, Mallisters, Mormonts, Unsullied … all racing towards him at breakneck speed. The horses sounded like thunder, the angry voices brought the storm of vengeance. His hands shook as he struggled to unlock the gates of the city, but he managed it as the first of the host bore down upon him.

They didn't even have to break their pace as Rhaegar threw open the gates of King's Landing in the nick of time. He leapt aside as the furious soldiers, all mounted on huge destriers, came thundering into the city. High overhead, Drogon soared through the darkness, roaring flame into the open air. Dany must have called him after she had sneaked away from the wedding party earlier that afternoon.

"Go for the Goldcloaks!" he shouted to the advancing army. "Go for the city watch! Lannisters will be advancing!"

Not one of them heard him, but it made him feel as if he was doing something. And he need not have bothered anyway. The Goldcloaks stood no chance in the face of the onslaught. By the time Rhaegar was mounted again and charging back through the city streets, they were in retreat. Just like those caught in the Red Wedding, they weren't prepared for this and most of them had been drinking.

However, their Lord Commander was forming them up all the same, barking out commands and threatening to behead deserters. No sooner did they form up then Drogon plummeted through the skies, screaming as he went. Daenerys didn't even have to open fire on them before they scattered to the four winds. And the army was waiting for them, attacking them into a route as they attempted to flee.

With the path back to the Red Keep now clear, Rhaegar galloped his mount through the carnage breaking out all around him. He cut down a guard who tried to block his re-entry. More were sent scattering courtesy of Drogon who roared a river of flame high above their heads. With the dragon deployed and the city being sacked, none dared stand in Rhaegar's way as he burst through the castle gates.

Breathless, sweating, Rhaegar went straight to the common hall where fighting had broken out between Cersei's men and the Northmen. But Jon was leading the way, pushing the enemy from the doors and marshalling his troops expertly. There was only one that Rhaegar sought, however. He had seen him during the wedding feast, lurking on the side lines, and he found him fighting in the common hall. He was advancing on Jon with a speed that defied his sheer bulk, until Rhaegar launched himself between them.

"Well then, Gregor," he panted, breathlessly. "It's me you want, and it's you I want."

That was enough talk. He slashed at Gregor with his sword, aiming for the throat. Oberyn had made the mistake of toying with the Mountain instead of going in for the kill. Rhaegar had no intention of making the same mistake. Nor did he need a confession. He knew what the Mountain had done. To urge him on in the fight, all he had to do was hear Elia's screams, conjure the image of his son being smashed into the wall to the point where he was just pulp and bone, little Rhaenys with half a hundred thrusts of a sword.

Fury blinded him as he laid into the Mountain, whose strength soon ebbed thanks to his bulk. He got slower, where the anger of a grieving father only made Rhaegar stronger. He aimed for the head, the middle, the chinks in the armour that encased that vast malignant flesh. All around them men were fighting their way out of the hall, but the few Lannister troops and fewer loyalists were soon throwing their swords at Jon's feet, yielding to him. But Gregor could not yield and Rhaegar pressed on.

"Leave him, he's mine!" he bellowed, whenever anyone stepped in to help.

He slashed the sword at the breastplate so hard it pierced the armour, sinking into the flesh below.

"For Elia!" he bellowed, snatching up another sword from a fallen Lannister.

The distraction was just enough for Gregor to get a cut of his own in. It scraped Rhaegar's abdomen, piercing his own breastplate and drawing blood. But he didn't feel it. He aimed for the throat, just under the gorget as the Mountain swung a gauntleted fist at his head.

"For Aegon!" He hissed, skewering the Mountain under the chin.

Another cut him, in the join between breastplate and shoulder, cutting him deeply. But Rhaegar's second blow to Clegane's gorget had dislodged the Mountain's helm. Seizing his advantage, he slashed the sword at Gregor's throat so hard his head bounced clean off his shoulders, spurting foul smelling black blood from a jagged stump.

"For Rhaenys!" he gasped, exhausted from the fight.

The Mountain came crashing to the ground, that same black blood pooling around his broken corpse. Rhaegar sank to his knees, choking on his own grief and tears. He closed his eyes for a second and Rhaenys came to him, running barefoot across the common hall, laugher in her guileless brown eyes. "Papa" she always called him. "Papa". When he opened his eyes again, she was still dead. But so was that animal. And that was all that mattered.

The fight was over. Picking himself up, he made his way to the throne room. But his injuries were worse than he realised, blood leaked from his pierced armour. He was weak and exhausted and just wanted to lie down. Until he remembered the throne room. He had to get to the throne room. He lurched forwards, pain coursing through him with every step. Onwards, with an agonising slowness. He could only move forwards, until he hit the ground and couldn't get up again.

It was over. It was all over, now. Cersei was dead and Rhaegar had already abdicated in a sealed document, kept safe on ship. Jon stood at the foot of the iron throne, looking up the vast steps of melted swords. He was dimly aware of the others filing into the room behind him, but he did not turn to address them. There was nothing he could say. After the clamour and chaos of the battle, the silence in this throne room was eerie. It seemed to him that even time itself stood still in this moment. All the while, he looked up at the iron throne, the jagged swords in silhouette against the silver moonlight spilling through the oriel windows.

"It is yours, Jon," said Sansa.

No, it is ours, he thought, but could not articulate into audible words.

Without making any conscious decision, his feet walked him forwards. He sheathed his own sword, and began to climb the steps as if in a daze. It seemed to take an awfully long time to reach the top, where the iron throne awaited him.

Only then did he finally turn to face them, before taking his place among the Kings of Westeros. No sooner had he sat down did Sansa approach him with a crown of bronze swords in her hands. She held it up like an offering to a demi-god. Robb's old crown, it was the only one they had. She placed it gently on his head.

"Jon Targaryen," she said. "The first of his name."

Whatever else Sansa was, she wasn't High Septon. All the same, this impromptu coronation was enough for his bannermen and her declaration was met with a roar of approval. The weight of the moment weighed heavily on him as he looked out over the sea of victorious faces. His subjects. His people. His realm.

Chapter Text

Jon swept the crown from his head, allowing himself a momentary smile of triumph as he walked straight into Sansa's arms. People were watching, but that scarcely mattered a jot as he kissed her deeply. It was a moment or two in which they could savour their victory, to be with each other before their world turned upside down. Again. When they broke apart, he could see the tears in her eyes. Maybe even disbelief that they had finally done it. As for him, he just wanted to forget the wars to come just for one moment.

Meanwhile, some of the Lords were beginning to trickle out of the doors. A proper coronation would have to be arranged for as soon as possible. But, for tonight, his half a minute up on the throne with a bronze hat on his head had sufficed. A myriad of things he needed to do flitted through his head. He had a kingsguard to appoint, a small council to form, he needed a new Hand and he needed to raise every Lord to raise every bannerman to march on the wall. After the passing of the euphoria, it really didn't take long for the reality to come barrelling in.

"Your grace." It took Jon a few seconds to realise it was he who was being addressed. "Your grace!"

Hoping to keep the world at bay for a few moments longer, he still couldn't bring himself to look away from Sansa.

"Your grace, come quickly."

Belatedly, he had noticed the shift in the atmosphere. The celebrations had died out suddenly, voices petering into silence as a crowd formed in the outer gallery. Jon could just see them through the open door of the throne room. Suddenly worried, he found the Lord who had been calling to him. It was Lord Cerwyn, brought down from the North by Sansa. He was grey-faced and serious.

"Come, it's your father."

Jon and Sansa exchanged an anxious look, he was trying to second guess what mischance had befallen Rhaegar while simultaneously denying the worst. Realising the futility of lingering in ignorance, he made for the door where the crowds were gathered. However, they parted quickly, forming a path to where Rhaegar had collapsed on the polished oak floor. Blood pooled from a wound in his abdomen. He'd tried to pull of his breastplate before falling, denting it more as he hit the ground. A bloodied sword was at his side, but whether it was his father's or someone else's, Jon had no way of knowing.

"When I saw him last, he was fighting the Mountain," someone said. "A few men tried to help, but the Prince chased them off."

Jon could well believe that. Between Rhaegar and the Mountain, things were personal. What he couldn't believe was that his father had been brought back after twenty years only to die here, now. Not when the realm was barely unified. Not when they were within touching distance of taking on the Others. Not when he, Jon, had come to love having a real father back in his life.

"No," he murmured, dropping to his knees at his father's side. Rhaegar's blood soaked into the knees of his breeches. "No, he can't be dead. He can't. He's only just come back."

He pressed his fingers to the side of his father's neck. Warm, but without so much as a trace of a pulse. His skin was waxy, cooling rapidly as the second life drained away. To Jon, it didn't seem possible.

"Get a Maester," he commanded, desperation growing. "Get a Silent Sister. Get anyone who can help!"

His command was met with running footsteps, and he could only assume they were heading for the nearest Maester. But, already, he knew it was too late for that. All the same, Jon shook Rhaegar by the shoulders, as if he'd simply chosen a bad place to take a nap. He was still distraught when nothing happened.

Voices rose again, accompanied by the subdued shuffling of feet as the crowds parted to let someone else pass. Jon looked up to see who it was and found Lady Stark looking down at him from over the top of the shawl she wore to hide her face. Cautiously, she knelt beside him covered his hands with her own. Not so long ago, he would have recoiled from her. But now he was too desperate to care.

"We still need him," said Jon. "He hasn't achieved what he needed to achieve. I need a Maester."

He hoped she would take the hint and get out of the way. But she didn't. Instead, she looked back at him, lowering the shawl to reveal the horror of her face.

"Fire," she said, covering the wound at her throat. "R'hllor."

Jon frowned. "What?"

Catelyn gave no answer. Getting back to her feet, she tried to lift Rhaegar herself, gripping him firmly under the armpits and attempting to haul him up. Jon stepped in, taking over and gesturing for Ser Barristan to get his feet. Even in death, there was little room for royal dignity and Rhaegar was carried like a sack of turnips, back into the throne room where he could be placed away from the crowds. Catelyn followed them in, closing the doors behind her.

They were about to set him down in the middle of the room, but Catelyn threw out her hands to stop them.

"Fire," she said again.

There were beacons lit along the walls. The only fire in the place, it would have to suffice. They brought Rhaegar as close as they could, laying him down between two of the beacons. Meanwhile, Sansa had returned with a Silent Sister. Between them they carried a pail of water to wash the wounds. As soon as the pail was set down, the Silent Sister was herded out of the room.

"What are you doing?" asked Jon, growing more suspicious. "We need her."

He thought he knew already. But how? All his life Catelyn had adhered to the Faith of the Seven. His uncle even had a sept built for her. But R'hllor had brought her back, he remembered.

"She led the Brotherhood Without Banners," Sansa reminded him. "They're all followers of R'hllor. Even her."

"But, does she know what she's doing?" Jon asked, keeping his voice down so she wouldn't hear. "I mean, I'm sure she saw Thoros doing it all time, but it's not the same thing."

"Maybe he taught her," she replied. "I mean, she led them with Thoros. He must have taught her. And Beric can do it, too."

Regardless of what they thought, it looked to Jon like she was going to attempt it anyway. And seeing as it was their one last, desperate attempt to save Rhaegar's life, he saw no valid reason to try and stop her. Uneasy, nervous, he stood back and watched as she slowly, almost lovingly, prepared the body. Her fingers, still nimble, removed the battered and bloodied mail shirt to reveal bare bruised skin beneath. The blood had dried around his wounds, so she washed it all away with slow and measured movements. All the while, her lips moved silently. Unable to close the wound at her throat, Catelyn could only whisper the High Valyrian prayers as she worked. She was the opposite of Melisandre, who positively cried out the words in a fit of religious ecstasy.

Jon felt his body tense as Catelyn cut away some of Rhaegar's hair, dropping it into the nearest beacon. The smell of it soon filled the air, acrid and bitter. Behind him, the doors opened, breaking his concentration just as the beard trimmings followed the hair cuttings. It was Ser Davos, looking worried and pale. He came to a halt beside Jon, just as Catelyn leaned down close to Rhaegar. So close, they were at kissing distance and closer still until her mouth met his and blew into his lungs.

Sansa gripped Jon's hand, squeezing it as the tension got to her too. For his part, he held his breath and closed his eyes.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, a voice whispered wordlessly, almost soundless. Rhaegar tried to grasp at the meaning, but it was like catching smoke. He tried to open his eyes, only to be dazzled by the brilliant sunshine that was beating down on him. Sun strong enough to make the ground on which he lay uncomfortably hot. Making matters worse, every time he breathed in, he inhaled dust and sand. After another minute, he came too coughing and choking on the stuff, while still having the presence of mind to shield his eyes from sun.

The mountains spread out all around him, silent and miles from anywhere. Even small movements, like scuffing a stone with the toe of his boot, carried down steep inclines and across the jagged peaks. Slowly, his last conscious memories leaked back into his conscious mind. He married Cersei, he opened the gates of the city, he killed the Mountain. He missed his son's coronation. And now he was here, in the mountains, displaying an impressive knife wound through a shirt that had been torn open. The ragged edges were stained with blood, making him quite a disconcerting sight.

Almost self-consciously, he clutched the two halves of the shirt together and tried to get his bearings. The Red Mountains of Dorne, he realised. Was this someone's idea of a joke? Wait for him to get stabbed and then dump his unconscious body in the back arse of nowhere? He wasn't amused. He would be lucky if he didn't die from thirst before finding the nearest village. Still, he had to try. Not exactly brimming with confidence, he set off down the road he had woken up on. It was narrow, more a dirt track than anything else. But he'd been to the Red Mountains often enough to know it would, eventually, lead somewhere.

Clumsily, he lurched forward and found himself near falling down the mountainside. But he didn't mind, just so long as he was moving forward. Although still open and raw looking, his wounds didn't pain him as much as he thought they would. A small mercy that he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for. Then he reached lower, flatter ground and he began to form an inkling of where he was.

He came to an abrupt halt, looking quickly in each direction. Why here? He wondered to himself. Ned Stark destroyed the Tower of Joy and there would be nothing to see. What exactly was going on? He slew the Mountain, the memory still made him happy as he recalled how his head bounced clean from his body. In the heat of the fight, he had not felt his own wounds. Only after, when it was done and his heartrate slowed, did the pain begin and it dawned on him how serious the situation was. Then, he woke up here. Hadn't something similar happened to Jon?

Rhaegar looked all around him again. These were not the Mountains of the Moon. This was definitely Dorne. He turned a corner in the road, watching as the Tower of Joy veered into view and everything stopped making sense.

"Oh, shit," he said aloud.

Shaking now, he ventured close enough to get the bodies in view. They were lined up neatly along the base of the wall, shrouded in soiled white sheets. Some had been buried in freshly dug graves while the rest waited their turn. He took a moment to gather himself before approaching Arthur Dayne, kept in the shadows away from the sun. Even so, the smell of death was rank in the air. Blood blackened and congealed in the dirt beneath their bodies.

"You should have guessed that this would happen."

Thinking he was alone, a startled Rhaegar whipped around to where a man dressed in black approached him, accompanied by a young lad with auburn hair and piercing blue eyes.

"Are you talking to me?" he asked.

"Who else?" the old man asked.

Then the young lad spoke. "There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm Bran, Jon's cousin."

"Sansa's brother," Rhaegar added. It was a small relief he clung to. "I've heard of you."

Rhaegar looked twice at the old man. One red eye, pale skin and a wine stain birthmark spreading down the side of his face. He knew a song about Brynden Rivers, with his thousand eyes and one, but he had a feeling now was not the time to sing it.

"I can't be dead if I'm back here," he said. "Where is Lord Stark?"

"He's gone to Starfall," answered Bran. "He will bury the rest when he returns, after the graves have been dug and his sister is boiled to the bones."

Lyanna. Rhaegar's heartbeat palpitated as he set off for the Tower steps. Both of the newcomers called him back, but he ignored them. Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed into the Tower and found her in a room on ground level. The room was dark and cold, protecting her body from the heat outside. She was dead already, causing the breath to catch in his throat. Laid out on a stone slab, she looked like she was sleeping. Her hair a dark shadow falling over the shoulder of an ivory coloured night rail.

A sound came from ante-chamber, crackling and a slow warmth spreading under the closed door. He inched it open, peering inside at a huge vat of water that was slowly being brought to the boil. Steam was rising already, curling into the poor light. In there, Lyanna's flesh would be boiled from her bones, leaving just a skeleton to be buried in the crypts of Winterfell. Closing the door again, he returned to Lyanna's death chamber, finding her no longer alone. Bran Stark and the Three-Eyed Crow had followed him and stood over her like an honour guard, watching in silence.

"I want to be alone with her," he said. "Wherever I go from here, to death or whatever, I just want to say the goodbyes I never got to say when she was alive."

He touched her hair, brushing it back from her brow. Her night rail was clean, but her legs were still bloodied from childbirth.

"Where is Jon?" he asked.

"With Howland Reed," the Crow answered. "They're upstairs. But there's a Silent Sister heading straight for us. She can't see us but she can see you."

"What?"

Before the Crow could even repeat what he said, the young Sister opened the door and almost gasped in shock at the sight of him. Rhaegar had to think quick.

"It's all right, Sister," he assured her. "Lord Reed asked me stand guard over her until the water is ready. I'll put her in once it's done, then you come back in the morning for her."

It wasn't as if she could argue with him, so she just left. She didn't so much as glance at the other two.

"That was smooth," said Bran, before changing the subject. "Well, I'll leave you two to talk."

Once Bran was gone, Brynden closed the gap between himself and Rhaegar. Like the Prince, he came to halt at Lyanna's body, studying her intently for a long moment.

"She was the piece of the puzzle everyone forgot about," he said. "Even you forgot her, although you knew she had to be the mother of your child."

Rhaegar felt quite affronted by the accusation. "I never forgot Lyanna and my wedding to Cersei was a sham. All through that mummer's farce, I thought of Lya. It shames me to even think on it."

To emphasise the point, he cupped Lyanna's cold face with his hands and leaned down to kiss her brow.

"You mistake me, Rhaegar," said the Crow, soothingly. "Jon was sent from the future back to this time to unite the three heads of the dragon – of which you are one, and he and Daenerys are the other two. You and he were right about that. But neither of you ever stopped to wonder why he was taken all the way back to Lyanna on that fateful day she returned from visiting Robert at the Eyrie."

Trying to second guess what the Crow was talking about, Rhaegar frowned. "Do you mean, why was Jon sent to Lyanna when all he had to do was find me, save me from the Trident and return to his own time?"

"It would have been a lot easier," the Crow replied. "If that was all he had to do, he didn't need to meet Lyanna at all. He would have woken up a few days before the battle and met you, so on and so forth."

"But she's his mother!" Rhaegar protested. "He needed to meet her, to learn the truth about himself."

The Crow shrugged. "The gods care not for family reunions, Rhaegar. They wouldn't have sent Jon years back in time just to find out something Howland Reed could have told him in a few, short minutes. No, there was a much more important reason as to why he was taken to her."

He remembered talking to Jaime on Dragonstone, telling him Lyanna was not part of their plan. But she was, he saw that now. It was all there and he had known it all along without realising the significance. She was the ice to his fire – that was what led him to her in the first place. She was part of the equation; she was still part of the equation. But before he could speculate further, another question burst into his head.

"But what about the dragon egg?" Rhaegar asked, out of the blue. "Jon needed to hatch it, that's why you showed him Summerhall."

"We showed him Summerhall because that was when the Others began to amass and migrate south," the Crow explained. "That was all. Your lovely dragon was a pleasant diversion with an unexpected consequence. The dragon only has three heads and yours appears to be the surprise fourth. He was meant to save Lyanna too. You and her together, yours is the song of ice and fire."

Rhaegar could have wept. He would have done had his head not been in such a whirl. Quickly, he had to pull himself together again. "Let's just say I put someone else in that boiling vat? I mean, one set of bones looks very much like another, doesn't it?"

"The youngest of them, the Glover boy, is about the right height," the Crow stated. "And he is of the North and died for House Stark. Quite worthy of a place in their crypts."

"What about Howland Reed?" asked Rhaegar. "Ned Stark might be gone, but he'll be back soon and Howland Reed is still here."

The Crow laughed. "Do you know what Howland Reed was doing before he arrived at Harrenhal?"

Lyanna had told him. "He'd spent a year on the Isle of Faces, studying the Old Gods and the weirwood trees. He was returning home to the Neck, wasn't meant to be at the tourney at all, when he was set upon by the squires. Lya saved him and fought them off."

He realised then that he'd answered his own question. Jojen had the Greensight, but all those little Crannogmen had their own way of knowing things. He had suspected all along that Howland knew a lot more than he was letting on.

"Howland Reed and I are already quite acquainted," the Crow assured him. "Otherwise, Brandon would never have found me."

"So, Reed knew all along?" Rhaegar asked. "When he met Jon at Harrenhal, did he know he was Lyanna's son?"

The Crow shrugged. "Quite possibly."

Rhaegar's mind was still racing, flitting from one subject to another. Now, it landed on the problem of how to get back. "Jon had to die again, didn't he? I mean to get back home. So, I have to do the same and bring her with me."

"Hold her tight, your grace," the Crow advised. "She is more precious than any of you realised."

"I thought that once our child was born her role was done," said Rhaegar, almost embarrassed. "I should have known. I should have realised from the off. We need her."

The Crow's words echoed through his head once more: you and her together, yours is the song of ice and fire. Only if they remain united will the heads of the dragon work together. With his head still reeling, he made his way back outside. Bran was there, greeting him with a warm smile.

"Do you have a plan?" the boy asked.

Rhaegar nodded. "I told that Silent Sister I would tend the body. I'll put Ethan Glover in there and when she comes back in the morning, there will only be bones."

"Fill Ethan's grave before you go," said Bran. "If it's left empty and open questions will be asked."

Rhaegar flushed in the face. "Gods, I hadn't even thought of that."

"Don't worry about the cairns," said Bran. "Father will put them over the graves himself, after he destroys the tower."

They were about to go their separate ways when Rhaegar called out to him: "Your family miss you, Bran. Can I give them a message?"

He probably had his own ways of sending messages. All the same, the young man stopped and smiled again. "I'm coming home," he said. "I'll see them at Wintefell."

Just like that, in the blink of an eye, Bran was gone and Rhaegar was alone again. Only the Silent Sister moved among the dead, removing their clothes and washing the bodies. If he was going to do this, he needed to think of a way to get rid of her. In the meantime, he contented himself with borrowing a bucket of her water to wash Lyanna's body himself. Even if only to pass an hour before he could pull off the body-swap. Meanwhile, the shrill cries of a baby wailing cut through the air.

Howland Reed was standing in a window, cradling the babe in his arms. He looked down, briefly meeting Rhaegar's eyes, a brief flicker of a smile on his face. He held up the baby, showing him the stars popping into the night sky, the red comet shining down on them. Jon, he realised, looking toward an upper window. He is king now.

Learning from the mistake she made with Ramsay, Sansa and Jon made sure this regime change was public. A pyre had been constructed in the place where the Sept of Baelor once stood. A great mound of wooden pallets, dry kindling and discarded driftwood. Slowly, the populace gathered in stunned silence to watch as Cersei's corpse was borne through the streets on a board carried by her twin brother, among others. Not even Jaime grieved openly for her now. He carried her, numb and expressionless. Everyone going through the motions of a proper burial.

She was placed beside her creature, Gregor Clegane. The Mountain's body had been staked back onto the rest of his corpse. Just like Cersei, there would be no trace of him left behind. Meanwhile, Jon and Sansa moved to stand beside Tyrion and watch the scene from above.

"How are you?" she asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

Tyrion shielded his eyes from the morning sun and looked up at her. "Free."

She managed to raise a smile. "I suppose you are now. But you should know, Jaime is no longer Kingsguard. He agreed to turn a blind eye to what was happening so long as we freed him from his vows and allowed him to take no part in the sack."

"I know," replied Tyrion. "Varys told me. He also told me he has no interest in taking Casterly Rock. Apparently, he's far more interested in claiming his own body weight in sapphires."

Sansa laughed. "Brienne."

The brothers hadn't spoken. Clearly, Jaime still hadn't forgiven Tyrion for killing Tywin. Meanwhile, the pyre took flame and Jaime was already walking away, leading Brienne by the hand. Sansa watched them go, swallowed by the crowds that had gathered to watch Cersei burn. She wouldn't have been surprised if Jaime was walking away from literally everything. Only Brienne would bring him back.

"How is Prince Rhaegar and your mother?" asked Tyrion. "I hear reviving Rhaegar took a lot out of her."

Despite everything, despite knowing that wasn't really her true mother, it still made Sansa emotional. Because somewhere in that ravaged body, some trace of Catelyn lived on. "Melisandre told me they can do it seven times. But my mother didn't have that much life left in her, she was barely strong enough to bring him back. She's resting, but we don't know if she will recover."

"I am sorry to hear it, my lady," he replied. "And what of Rhaegar? I hear it worked, but that he hasn't regained consciousness."

That was more puzzling. The same thing had happened to Jon. But, this time, they didn't know whether it had happened simply because Catelyn wasn't strong enough to do the job properly. Alternatively, the same thing that happened to Jon was now happening to Rhaegar and he'd been propelled back to his own time. If that was the case, there was no telling when he would recover. And, frankly, they didn't have time to wait.

After the funeral, they returned to the Red Keep. Less than a day after the sack, Jon still didn't know his way around. Every time he strayed down a random passageway, Sansa had to gently steer him back, trying not to laugh. Otherwise, the mood was sombre. With Rhaegar still out of reach and Catelyn considerably weakened, neither of them could find it within themselves to celebrate.

Meanwhile, Rhaegar had been taken to some chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, close to the apartments Jon would soon be commandeering for himself. They looked in on him as they passed, noting that there was no change. In a corner of the room, Catelyn sat in a chair watching over the scene much as she had when Bran fell from the broken tower.

"I know now how frustrating it must have been for you," said Jon, as they dined together that evening. "We're just sitting here, waiting for something to happen."

"It wasn't so bad for me," she corrected him. "I had to go to Bran, fine the Three-Eyed Crow and come to the past to find you. I had all that to take my mind off everything else. Now we're just waiting."

"And we're so far from Bran we can't even get in touch with him," Jon griped. "The weirwood here doesn't even have a face, Sansa. How are we supposed to communicate with the old gods?"

All the same, the Old Gods heard them. Jon felt himself being shaken from a deep sleep during the small hours of the morning. He hadn't slept in days so and tried to resist. Until the messenger mentioned his father.

"He's awake, your grace," said the messenger. "Come quickly, something else is happening."

Groggy from sleep, Jon hastily dressed and pulled on the nearest set of clothes he had. He was still trying to lace his boots as he emerged from his chambers and descended the stairs of Maegor's Holdfast.

"Wait, has someone woken Sansa?" he asked. "She needs to be here."

She had her own apartments now. The same ones once inhabited by Cersei. If the disturbing recent history put her off, she didn't show it.

"She's already there, your grace."

Without wasting any more time, Jon burst through the doors of Rhaegar's chambers. The two of them met, throwing their arms around each other, holding each other tight for a moment. When Rhaegar pulled back, Jon studied his face intently. He looked pale and weak, but otherwise healthy. This was his second return, and Jon knew each one chipped away at the soul. But Rhaegar was still Rhaegar.

"You're all right?" he asked. "We feared you'd be comatose for months, like I was."

Over Rhaegar's shoulder and through an ante-chamber door, he could see Catelyn Stark hunched over a figure in a white dress. Both of figures lit by the flames of a small fire. But, for the moment, the significance was lost on him as he relished being back with his father. He would thank Catelyn later.

"I woke up in the past," said Rhaegar. "Just like you did."

Jon almost laughed. "We feared something like that had happened, but thank the gods you were not kept there forever. We need you. We still need you."

He was still hurt, but the flames had most healed him. What was left was nothing a good maester could not sort out.

"Jon, listen," said Rhaegar. "It's your mother. We had to jump from the tower to get back here."

Jon had been about to say something else entirely, but it went clean out of his head. He looked over Rhaegar's shoulder again, to where the figure on the floor was now being kissed by Lady Stark, the air breathed back into her lungs as the flames grew around her.

"No," he said, stepping forwards to get a better look. "No, this is some joke, surely?"

Even as he spoke Lyanna drew a deep shuddering breath, a sharp gasp as the life jolted back into her and she sat bolt upright. Wide-eyed and terrified, she shied from the strangers that surrounded her. Jon and Rhaegar burst through the door together, rushing to catch her, as if they were afraid she would try to run away. In a three-way embrace, their arms wrapped protectively around her.

"It's all right," said Rhaegar. "It's all right, my love. We'll tell you everything, just stay calm."

Jon drew back, allowing them some space, and turned to where Catelyn had collapsed. She barely had the strength to bring Rhaegar back, never mind Lyanna too. Now she lay in Sansa's arms, what was left of her life draining rapidly away. The enormity of what she had done hit Jon square in the gut. Sansa wept openly as she cradled her mother's dying body, rocking her gently.

The last time he and Catelyn spoke, he had not answered the final question she asked of him. With Rhaegar back and Lyanna slowly recovering not two feet away, Jon felt the time had come to give the answer and he gave it freely.

"I forgive you for everything," he said, reaching for her hand.

She met his gaze for just a moment, letting him know she had heard, before her eyes finally closed for good.

Chapter Text

Restless and anxious, Jon paced the length of the outer-gallery. Beyond the bay windows, the darkness faded into a pallid grey morning, a slow transition he used to measure the passage of time. It seemed to him this night had lasted a week. Clouds formed overhead, their black underbellies swelling with the promise of rain and lots of it. He paused for a moment, trying to gage the temperatures. Before too long, those rains would freeze and even the south would be blanketed in snow.

Behind him, the door opened and he spun on his heels. But it was only a servant. She dipped a curtsey to him – something he was still wasn't used to it – while wiping bloodied hands on her white pinafore. Without a word, she scurried away into the labyrinthine passages of the Red Keep. He watched her go, trying not to imagine what was happening behind those doors to the inner chambers.

Rhaegar had brought Lyanna back in one piece, just about. But no one realised she'd died after having her belly cut open to free the baby inside her. To free him. She had returned with the wound still open and the fear they thought was in her eyes turned out to be pain. Subdued with Milk of the Poppy, the Maesters were now doing their best. He was a steward, a ranger, a Lord Commander and a King. But he was no surgeon and the life of his mother was in someone else's hands, leaving him hanging there useless and hopeless.

Just before the dawn, Sansa joined him. Red eyed and pale, she sat by him in silence – the fact of her being there was enough to bolster him. He managed to sit beside her for a while, holding her hand in his own. The fact that she had lost her mother for the second time wasn't lost on him. It was enough to make him set his own worries in proportion.

"We will return Lady Catelyn to the rivers," he promised her. "I've commissioned a boat to be built especially, but Edmure will oversee it to make sure all is done according to Riverlands custom."

Sansa managed a wan smile. "Thank you. I will make the sail."

He had never seen a Riverlands funeral before, but knew what it entailed. The deceased were placed in a boat surrounded by some of their treasured possessions. Once set afloat, a flaming arrow was loosed at the sail, sending the boat and body up in flames. There was no time to take Catelyn back to the rivers she had known as a child. The Blackwater Rush would have to suffice. They would take her as far upriver as they could and lay her to rest there.

"What of Aunt Lyanna?"

"They're patching her up," he answered. "She should be all right."

She wouldn't be having any more children, though. Although that cut a lot of complications that could arise from a crown prince bearing more sons. The only sons who mattered now would be the ones he had with Sansa and any Dany might produce. But they would have Dragonstone and the eldest might even take Mereen – extending Westerosi influence across the Narrow Sea.

"I don't know about Rhaegar's marriage to Cersei," he said. "Consummated or not, it was still a form of wedding, wasn't it?"

"It's only valid if consummated," Sansa insisted. "He never sealed the union so it really was just silly play-acting."

Satisfied, Jon shrugged. "I suppose his first valid marriage to Lyanna negates anything he did with Cersei, anyway."

A Targaryen King once had two wives. Aegon the Conqueror. But when Maegor the Cruel tried to pull the same trick, civil war almost broke out and the Faith Militant formed. The same Faith Militant that had proved a thorn in Cersei's side, once she decided to arm them again. They also had gone up in fire and ash as the Sept of Baelor was blown sky high. So, at least Cersei had staunchly corrected her biggest mistake before his army stormed the city.

"You ought not worry about it," said Sansa. "Anyway, did you not hear what Rhaegar said about Bran? He will be waiting for us at Winterfell."

Jon smiled. That was one thing that made his heart a little lighter. "I heard. I heard also that he is very close with Lady Reed."

Sansa nodded. "I think, before too long, there will be another wedding. A real one, this time."

"After all the pretend ones, it's time someone had a real one," he agreed, laughing. "You, me, Arya and Bran all together again. It'll almost be like the old days again."

Her smile faded, sadness creeping back up on her. "I know you're right, but I don't think it will ever be like the old days again. Not without Robb, or Rickon, or Father and Mother."

"Emphasis on the 'almost'," he pointed out. "But we cannot mourn for what's already been and gone. All we can do is aim for the future and hope we shoot the arrows straight."

Before that, the war against the Others loomed large. It was a frozen obstacle barring the path between him and whatever the future held. He couldn't see a way past it or around it, which meant a deadly head-on assault.

Not long after dawn, the doors to the inner-chamber opened again. Rhaegar appeared, looking tired and pale. But he was happy. He greeted them both with a smile.

"All is well," he announced to the gallery at large.

Jon breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back against his seat as the burden fell from his shoulders again. "Thank the gods. Can I see her?"

He kissed Sansa goodbye before ducking under his father's arm, through the door Rhaegar held open for him. To his further relief, Lyanna was sat up in bed and seemingly rather happy. A bloodied nightrail of ivory silk was hanging over the back of a chair – the only piece of evidence to tell of what had happened in the room. The air carried the iron tang of blood as well, but fresh herbs were now burning in the freshly stoked fire to freshen the place up.

"Jon," she said, looking up at him. Her eyes followed his progress across the room. "How are you?"

She asked as if he was the one who'd spent the evening having his insides sewn back into his belly. He almost laughed. "I am really quite well, mother. It's you everyone's a little more worried about."

"I knew you would come back for me." Her voice was weak and, up close, he could see a soft sheen of sweat beading her brow.

"It was Rhaegar," he pointed out, gently. "But had it been in my power, I would never have left you behind in the first place."

Jon settled in a chair at her bedside, where he could speak with her privately after sending the servants away. Only Qyburn remained, the non-Maester who had patched her up. He lurked in the shadows, where Jon turned to thank him.

"Robb Stark saved my life," he repeated once more. "It pleases me to have been of service to your grace."

With that, he left. Jon still didn't know what to make of him. He appeared loyal to Cersei. He even brought back the Mountain. However, he didn't think on it for too long before turning back to Lyanna.

"It seems like I birthed you yesterday," she said, her voice distant. "I feel like I birthed you yesterday, fully formed and adult as you are." She meant it as a jest, but it was weirdly true. "But I know what happened, Rhaegar told me. I know it happened a long time ago. But what am I now? I was but sixteen and you are now older."

"You've missed twenty years," he said, sorrowfully. "Rhaegar woke up as a forty-four year old."

"Now this is old," she remarked, drily. "But, whatever the case, I'm glad I am back now. I wouldn't miss this for the world. Your reign, your war, your triumph. And I know you will triumph."

"I wish I shared your confidence," he retorted.

Her brow creased. "But you've already done a lot of groundwork. That's why you were sent back to the past, to my time. It was all part of the fight against the Others. You reunited the heads of the dragon, you hatched the fourth and you've used what you learned there to take the realm today. You're already winning, Jon."

"When you put it like that..." his words trailed off as he went through it all again. So much had happened in the months since he returned to his own time and place. But it had all advanced him forward. But with him, there was always the doubts. Doubts gathering and lengthening with the setting of the sun. "Even so, I now have a whole realm to protect. It felt easier when it was just the wall and Castle Black. Now it's all seven kingdoms and everyone in them."

As with before, when he was with Lyanna in the past, he found himself speaking easily to her. Even before he knew she was his mother, she invited confidences and she did so now. Even with her obvious discomfort and disorientation at being propelled into a frightening future she knew little about. She still made time for others and made him feel as if he mattered.

"You're not alone, Jon," she assured him. "And it's not up to you to save the whole realm and everyone in it. It's only up to you to convince the whole realm that they need to save themselves now. It shouldn't be too difficult to convince people to save their own hides."

Jon chuckled, but there was more than a grain of truth in what she was saying. A small note of comfort. Everyone would be affected by the upcoming war. What was once, to most people in the south, a scary hearth side story would soon become a nightmarish reality. No one would be able to deny it then. But he wanted to do it before the wall fell, or before the white walkers started advancing south and killing all in their wake. By then it would be too late.

"How do you feel now?" he asked. "Honestly."

She knew what he meant. "All is well, I promise." Her gaze dropped from his own and turned to the fire. For a long moment, she watched the flames lapping in the hearth where they were reflected in her dark grey eyes. "Actually, I am a little afraid."

"Of what?" he asked, leaning forward.

"I know I'm being stupid," she replied. "But I fear what I will, or rather won't, find here. I remember what you said, back at Dragonstone, when you told me what would happen. You said Eddard was dead and some of his children and many of my friends. They're all gone. Everything I knew is gone."

"Not everything," he assured her. "Winterfell still stands and I'll take you back there. It's been damaged by fire and battles, but it's being rebuilt even as we speak. The Boltons are gone, their lands redistributed. And Benjen lives."

Her gaze snapped back to his, hope rising again. "Ben's alive?"

Jon smiled, nodding. "He lives and you might see him again, once the wars are done."

He'd heard what Rhaegar had said: that Lyanna mattered in the wars to come. But he had no intention of letting her out onto the battlefield to face another death. She can stay at Winterfell and sing her song of Ice and Fire from the battlements, if it really mattered. But she would see no action on the front lines.

"Well, I'll be coming north with you, so I'll see him beyond the wall," she said. "I would be the sweetest thing to see him again."

Deciding he would inform her of his decision later, he changed the subject. "You should rest. You can try and hide it, but I know you're still in pain. Rest now, and you'll be strong enough for my coronation this afternoon."

"It really isn't so bad, certainly not bad enough to have me miss your big day," she replied. "Anyway, Qyburn is good. It aches, that is all. Was that really Lady Stark who brought me back?"

"Yes," he answered. "A follower of the Lord of Light taught her to do it. But it's cost her her life."

"I am sorry to hear it," said Lyanna. "But I think she must have loved you to sacrifice herself like that."

Jon had told her about it in the past, of how he and Catelyn never got on. "I wouldn't go that far. I don't know why she did it. Maybe guilt. I don't know. But it doesn't matter any more. Her family is avenged and she can be at peace. Everyone deserves that, no matter what they've done in the past."

He meant it, as well. Everything he and Catelyn had gone through simply no longer mattered. He had stopped being a child a long time ago, everything he had, he fought to get it despite what she always said. He had proved himself before, and he felt able to do it again.

"You seem different now," she said, meeting his gaze again. "When you were with me in the past, you were lost and had lost everything. I remember it still, the way you jumped out in front of mine and Brandon's horses. You didn't even have clothes."

Jon couldn't help but smile at the memory. Those who were still alive had forgotten him by the time he had been born and grown up. But both Lyanna and Rhaegar, taken while the memory was still fresh in their minds, had woken up in the future feeling as if it had all happened yesterday. But her main point was sharp in his mind, now.

"No, I had nothing," he recalled. "I didn't even have the Night's Watch, any more. I was cast out, Sansa was a wanted fugitive, I thought Bran and Arya were dead. I wanted to stay with you in the past, and never come home again."

"That's what's different," Lyanna added. "You have it all now. I think that's why you seem so afraid. Hunger fires you up when you have it all to gain; once you have it all fear of losing it again can cripple you. You ought not let that happen."

He had to admit that she had a point. "I won't, I swear it. I've never been craven-"

"It's not craven, Jon. It's human nature," she corrected him. "Anyway, we'll be behind you, pushing you forward should you need it."

He tried to raise a smile at her encouragement, but only managed a twitch. "A proper kick up the arse if I know you right."

"That, too," she grinned.

But under that grin, he could see she was still dazed and bewildered by what had happened. Just like Rhaegar, she would need time to adapt and find her feet in a world much changed. Just like Rhaegar, he suspected she would overcome it all with style and aplomb.

As needs must with the devils at the helm, the coronation was conducted with almost indecent haste. Less than two days after Jon was made King in the first place, the nobility of the realm gathered in the throne room of the Red Keep. Sansa had done what she could, using the preparations and ceremony to keep her mind off her mother.

She kept telling herself that Lady Stark was at peace now, but it still hurt to have to lose her again. All the while, she stitched new banners for the throne room. The three-headed dragon now bedecked the whole castle, adorning the passage leading to the throne itself. The Lords Paramount would form an archway of crossed swords, under which the new King would process to take his place. After that, the High Septon would crown him and anoint his brow with sacred oil. Following that, Jon would be on his own, alone at the top.

An hour before the event began, she met with Rhaegar and her aunt, who had only just left her place of convalescence to watch her son's coronation. Mercifully, only a few people knew who she was, and they were determined to keep Lyanna's identity a secret.

"We met when you first came around," said Sansa. "But you won't remember. I'm Sansa, your niece."

Lyanna smiled, almost as if in recognition and greeted her with a kiss. "Eddard's daughter, I am sorry for your loss."

It was a platitude all were offering her, but she smiled as best she could as she showed her aunt to her place in the Throne Room. Meanwhile, the place was filling up with lords and their retinues come to swear fealty to the new king. She, as future Queen, would not be allowed to steal Jon's thunder today. Her place was up in the eaves, watching the coronation unfold from behind a special lattice screen so none could see her.

From that height, Jon looked small, even though he was now the most powerful in the land. He had been wrapped in blue velvet, trimmed with snowy white ermine over his steel breastplate. She could just see it glittering beneath the fur. For a minute, he vanished under the arch of swords formed by his sworn bannermen, emerging at the other end and ascending the steps to the throne.

Sansa moved too, keeping him in view as the High Septon appeared from behind the iron throne. The crown glittered in his hands as he placed it on Jon's head. The Septon's own crown of crystal made the light shimmer and dance while the watching crowds collectively held their breath. As soon as it was done, a sigh of relief rippled around the room. It was over in a matter of minutes.

The sacred oil was still wet on Jon's forehead when they were reunited for the feast in Maegor's Holdfast. He held her tight, away from the crowds, and they kissed deeply. Huddled in an alcove like two lovers stealing a moment together, they let their hands pull at their robes, groping their way to the warm flesh beneath.

"You'll come to me tonight, won't you?" he asked, urgency in his tone. "Once this Mummer's farce is over."

"It's no farce, you are king." she retorted. "And of course I'll come."

Inflamed by the promise, he kissed her again and nipped gently at her ear. "I need you."

She'd had no idea that coronations were so amorous, but she suspected he only wanted it to be done, so they could be alone. In the meantime, she merely enjoyed the moment. Even though the coronation was over, they would not be permitted to dine together. All attention had to be on Jon and Jon alone. She would be seated at a lower table, with Rhaegar and Lyanna.

In the meantime, a fat lad dressed roughspun was approaching them. Sansa just caught sight of him as her eyes peeped open, searching for the back of Jon's breeches. "Stop," she said, "someone's coming."

Disgruntled, Jon broke off. "Everyone keeps telling me this is my day and I can do what I want. Well, I want you."

Sansa delivered a playful smack to his backside. "I think they meant within the context of a solemn coronation, your grace."

"Damn them," he retorted.

The newcomer approached quickly. To her horror, he threw back the curtain that shrouded them, causing Jon to swear audibly. Sansa swiftly straightened her own skirts and smiled as if nothing untoward was happening. All the while, the fat lad beamed.

"What a shame I'm still too fat to bow," said the newcomer.

Jon was looking furious as he whirled around to see who it was. But the anger melted faster than a summer snow. He looked so happy Sansa thought he might cry.

"Sam," he whispered, before raising his voice: "Oh, gods, Sam!"

Jon grabbed his old friend in a bear hug and Sansa smiled with relief. She had heard all about Sam, and she knew he and Jon had not seen each other in almost two years. Protocol be damned, Jon was sharing his coronation feast table with them whether the High Septon liked it or not.

Jon left his own party early. Lyanna had returned to bed, exhausted from the day's events. Rhaegar had gone with her. Sansa looked thoroughly fed up with the whole thing, and he himself only wanted to sit up long into the night and catch up with Sam. Even seeing Gilly and little Sam again brought him joy. Although she was as shy as ever, she soon warmed to Sansa and together the two girls played with Little Sam while Jon and Big Sam repaired to the king's private solar.

"I caught you at a bad time, didn't I?" Sam asked. His bashful tone suggested he knew what Jon and Sansa were trying to do, but hadn't figured it out until it was too late. "And I don't blame you. She's a real beauty."

"I take it you know everything that happened?" he asked. "The stabbing, and everything else I mean."

Sam's expression darkened. "I wanted to come right back as soon as I heard. But Oldtown is so far from the wall that as soon as I heard, you'd have been back already. It was later, on the road, that we heard Rhaegar returned with you and that the dragons had arrived. That's when Marwyn went to find you. He wrote to me and told me everything. And that was your mother, sitting by Rhaegar's side at the feast? Marwyn told me who she was, but not that she was back too."

Jon nodded, grinning from ear to ear. "That's her. But Catelyn Stark brought her back. Marwyn wouldn't have known."

"I wish I could have seen the look on Thorne's face when you came back," Sam sighed, sounding almost wistful.

"So do I," he couldn't help but laugh. "But, he'd already been burned for a traitor by the time I returned. Melisandre insisted on it, thinking his life would restore mine."

"You know he ended up at the wall after he was captured fighting for your father on the Trident," said Sam. "Can you imagine how he'd look if he realised you were Rhaegar's trueborn son."

The irony hadn't been lost on Jon, but it was all too late now and that singular pleasure had been denied to him. Meanwhile, he turned to the crack in the door through which he could see Sansa rattling a toy at Little Sam, the two women's indulgent laughter drifting into the solar.

"They sound happy," Sam remarked.

"Aye," he agreed.

He remembered what the Ghost of High Heart said. He remembered Little Sam was their brother. The brother of the white walkers, playing on his rug. But he was just a baby, like any other. Toddling around on unsteady feet, chasing a silk ribbon the women dangled in front of his face. Just a baby, oblivious to the danger of his kin.

"That'll be you and Sansa soon," said Sam, happily.

Jon felt the happiness draining out of him, replaced by a sombre realisation that this was to be just another fleeting moment. The war against the Other was coming and, if High Heart was right, their biggest weapon against them was a few feet away, biting his growing teeth into a pudgy fist.

"Aye," he said again. "The Old Gods willing, we'll have sons just like him."

He couldn't say anything to Sam. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

The heavy chains had corroded, leaving a long streak of rust down the double doors that formed a once ornate entrance to the Dragonpit. Jon lifted one of the coils that had been looped through the brackets, studying the padlock that held the chains secure. The key was probably long gone, which left them with the only option of flying in through the hole in the roof, or brute force. As such, he stood aside and let the burly armourer brandishing a huge pickaxe get on with the task at hand.

A few well-placed blows later, the chains padlock split in two and the chains slid to the ground, landing in a heap. He could smell the rust coming off them, a metallic dust that irritated his nasal passages. Daenerys thanked the man while Rhaegar handed over the money for his services. Meanwhile, Jon tried the doors. The pit had stood empty and abandoned for so long now that they refused to budge. He shoved against the weirwood doors with all his might, feeling the hinges buckle but resist. Only after another monumental effort, did they finally get access to the interior.

It was a wide, open space built of stone. A large shaft of dazzling light shone down through the hole in the roof, but all else was in shadow and darkness. He blinked rapidly, trying to get accustomed to the contrasting light. After a while, he could make out the stone alcoves in which the old Targaryen dragons were housed. Staked to the stone floor were chains now long rusted, nothing more than stains seeping into the cracks in the flagstones. At regular intervals, braziers stood dark and misshapen by the walls. Rats had gotten in and made their nests in some of them.

"You can see where the last dragons tried to escape." Rhaegar moved toward the shaft of light, shielding his eyes as he looked up to the hole in the roof. "Up through there."

"I don't want to keep them here," said Daenerys. She hugged her arms around her middle, shivering against the cold air of decay that hung over the place. "It's not right that our dragons be housed where the last were slain. I don't like it."

"Unless you have any better ideas, I think we have no choice," Jon replied. "We can't have them flying free over the city."

Ghost had shied at the doors, refusing to enter he cowered there still. Jon tried to beckon him inside, but still he backed up. His fur was bristling.

"It won't be for long," Rhaegar assured her. "We're going north soon."

"We're going south, first," Jon pointed out. "We already have the Dornish on our side, but from the border and North, I want to march the length of this realm and rally every man to our cause."

"It'll take months," said Rhaegar. "And you can just call your banners. Now that you are King, they are all yours."

But Jon had already given it his careful consideration. "I know that. But my Uncle Eddard would never have asked strangers to fight for him and these people don't know their new King. I would speak to them myself, show myself to them and show the king I mean to be. They will know me, and I'll look them in the eye when I tell them why they must fight a war, thousands of miles from their home."

There was a moment of silence in which the other two watched him. But he didn't look back. He was still walking a wide circle around the Dragonpit. There were more stalls than there ever had been dragons, he noted. Scores of them. But once, he guessed, the Targaryens would have had many dragons grown and mere hatchlings alike. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could see the walls were blackened from ancient dragon fire. Some was even melted, like the stones of Harrenhal.

"It's a noble thought," said Rhaegar. "But is there time? The longer we tarry south … well, you said it yourself. And we still have the funeral to prepare for."

"Are you a dragon rider or not?" Daenerys retorted. "Jon won't be alone. We'll be with him. The three of us together will raise the biggest army the world has ever seen. We can fly from place to place, recruiting as we go."

Through the gloom, Jon could see his father's smile of approval. "I suppose we could send the soldiers North in fleets of ships. Redwynes, Greyjoys and what's left of Cersei's fleet will be a good start."

"The Manderlys have a large fleet, too," Jon reminded him. "Lord Manderly has been building new ships for years. He can set sail up the east. The Martells and Redwynes can take those from the west. The Greyjoys, too, if they can get past their uncle's lines. For now, trade can hold until the army is north, so requisition trade galleys."

Despite the danger, Jon felt a flicker of excitement unfurling deep inside him. If they could do this, if they could rally the whole realm as never before, they would face the oncoming threat as a unified whole.

"And Sansa is Queen in all but name," Jon added. "These are her people, too. She will be at my side."

"You'd be better off is she was also your Queen in name," said Daenerys. "Marry her and make it official-"

"Better yet, get her with child," said Rhaegar. "If we all die in the wars to come, the realm will be in chaos if Lady Sansa is not with child. Wed her, bed her, then we'll be on our way."

Although he saw the sense in it, Jon dug his heels in. "I promised her the wedding of her dreams-"

"Save it for her coronation, Jon, we don't have time for girlhood dreams," Rhaegar cut in. "We need legitimate heirs."

Jon wrapped his coat tighter around his middle as the temperature dropped again. The light spilling through the hole in the ceiling paled to silver. All the while, he wrestled with the notion of a wedding conducted with almost indecent haste – despite what he had promised his bride.

"She did say she'd marry me on the hour," he recalled. "I wanted something to fight for-"

"Once you hold your new born heir in your arms, you'll know what it is to have something to fight for," Rhaegar put in. "You need to act-"

"I said I'll talk to her," Jon interjected, angrily. "Now cease haranguing me."

He'd come to inspect the Dragonpit and that was what he continued to do. Leaving Rhaegar gaping at him aghast, he studied the stalls and the damage done during the dragon massacre. The hole in the roof was where the last of them had tried in vain to escape and he could not remember the beast's name. But Daenerys was right. The place had a foreboding feel to it. His aunt followed him at a distance, keeping her thoughts mostly to herself.

"Something else is troubling you," she said, at length. "Something more than weddings and wars, I think."

She was right, but it took Jon a moment to gather his thoughts.

"You've been in a strange mood ever since Samwell arrived," Rhaegar noted. "I thought having your closest friend here would help."

Again, he was close to the mark. "It does help. But the Ghost of High Heart told me something. Not about Sam, but Little Sam. The baby Gilly has."

"The Ghost of High Heart?" Dany repeated, questioningly.

"She was there the night Summerhall burned down," Rhaegar explained. "Jenny of Oldstones brought her. She prophesised that the Prince That was Promised would be born to the line of Aerys and Rhaella. She told me how I would become King. And she told me that the key to defeating the Others was Little Sam."

Both Rhaegar and Daenerys looked sceptical now. They circled around him, keeping a distance.

"He's just Sam's baby," said Dany. "He lay with the Wildling girl, that's all."

Rhaegar shrugged. "That's what I thought, too. A crime against the Watch, but perfectly understandable."

Jon drew a reluctant breath. "Sam's not the father. Old Craster, Gilly's father, raped her and got her with child. He did that to all his daughter wives. Whenever one of them birthed a boy, it was left as an offering to the Others. They're Craster's sons. Little Sam is their brother."

Daenerys looked disgusted. "Those poor women. Where is this Craster now?"

"Dead," Jon answered.

"Good!"

"Yes, it's awful, but we're getting side lined," said Rhaegar. "That child has the blood of the Others. Did High Heart explicitly say you needed to sacrifice this child?"

Jon thought about it, recalling the last time he saw the Ghost. "No. She said I knew what needed to be done, though – which was demonstrably wrong. Those people never give straight answers."

"Blood, Jon. You need the blood," Rhaegar stated, authoritatively. "You don't have to kill a child just to get its blood."

Jon snapped to attention, looking his father in the eye and hoping more than anything he was right. Even if he was wrong, he was not about to sacrifice a baby anyway. They would face the oncoming threat with an army of men grown.

"If I could just get a scratch…" he began, trailing off as he considered the possibilities. "Little Sam's on his feet now. Babies that age are forever getting bumps and scrapes."

For a moment, Daenerys was deep in thought. "Blood magic," she said. "I've seen the Red Priestesses do it. There's one at the wall, now."

"Melisandre?" he suggested.

"They use leeches," Dany continued. "Starve a leech until its tiny, then let it at the child and keep it once it's done. Melisandre will know what to do. Maybe that's what the key is?"

They would have their magic blood and no harm done to the child at all, besides a blood-sucking parasite clamped to his leg. And it didn't have to be done now. They could collect the leeches before the waterways froze and bring them North to Melisandre herself. Jon smiled, feeling a weight shift from his shoulders at last. He turned to his father and aunt, where they had taken shelter in an old dragon stall.

"Sam, Gilly and the baby are coming North with us anyway," he said. "I'll send a raven to Castle Black, summoning Melisandre to Winterfell. She can meet us there."

As he spoke, something caught Daenerys' eye. She was looking over Jon's shoulder, a frown tightening her brow. "What's that?"

It was probably just a rat, he thought. They'd been scratching around ever since they busted through the doors. But when he turned to see what she was looking at, he saw the snowflakes swirling through the beams of light that spilled down through the hole in the roof. The sparkled briefly, glinting brightly before they melted in mid-air.

Undeterred, Dany rushed over to stand beneath the caved in ceiling, trying to catch a snowflake in the palm of her hand.

"You've delivered on your first royal promise, Jon," Rhaegar laughed. "Winter has come to King's Landing."

Without another word, they strode from the Dragonpit and out into the open to see properly. Even in the few moments they had looked away, the snow had thickened and fell in squalls. The snow they had left behind in the Riverlands, finally catching up with them as winter finally engulfed the realm. Although he knew what the snows brought, Jon allowed himself just a moment to savour the sight.

Daenerys, meanwhile, walked in the squalls with her hands outstretched. But then, Jon supposed, there wasn't much snow in the Red Wastes, or Mereen, or whatever far flung regions of the far east she had tried to call home. She looked like a child, hankering to build a snowman.

"This is it," he said, turning to his father. "Winter has come and we must ride out to meet it."

That night, Rhaegar stoked the fires in his apartments himself rather than waste time waiting for the servants. The snowfalls intensified all through the day, soon carpeting the city and smothering the rooftops in a pretty marzipan layer of white. Beautiful to look at, he knew, but soon they'd be bringing out the dead of those too poor for firewood or proper housing. The weak and sick would go first, along with the elderly and the babes in arms. They always did. But it wouldn't take long for the young and the healthy to start wasting away as winter's privations began to bite deep. And, if this was the long night, he shuddered to think how bad things could get.

After reviving the fire in his apartments, he paused to watch from the window. Darkness had fallen now. But the light of a full moon shone down, turning the swirling snows silver. It showed no sign of letting up.

"You look so worried." Lyanna's reflection appeared in the window he was looking out of, pallid and ghostly. As she wrapped her arms around his middle, she added: "Come and eat, my lord. There's no use fretting on it yet."

He turned to face her properly, taking a moment to brush some loose strands of hair back from her face. In the few days since she had returned to them, she had grown strong quickly. There was a healthy glow in her face and her belly healed clean and fast, too. The fires had cleansed her, imbued her with a lifeforce that made her skin almost warm to the touch. She seemed to him to be more beautiful than ever.

"Go easy, my love," he said, mock pleading. "Us southron pansies are unused to such harsh climes."

She rolled her eyes. "I would have thought a few months in Winterfell would have acquainted you with snow, by now."

It wasn't really the winter, though. It was what winter would bring that worried Rhaegar and they had yet to fly farther south to raise their army. All corners of the realm would be descending on the North in a few months. For now, however, he was content to let his wife lead him over to the dining room, where they would savour their last few hours alone.

"Are you ready for it?" she asked, once they were seated.

"As much as I'll ever be," he answered. "It really doesn't help that the last major battle I fought, I also lost."

"Ser Barristan will be with you. Put him in charge, and Jon."

"Barristan was at the Trident with me, too," Rhaegar reminded her. "But you're right. It is different this time. For once, the entire realm will be fighting on the same side."

Unable to eat, he pushed some venison around the plate and then gave up with a heavy sigh. Lyanna cast him a disapproving glance from the opposite end of the table. A look she might have given a child in a temper, to his own amusement. A shame she had missed out on raising their own child; he thought she might have been quite good at it. A thought that only reminded him of what they would be doing tomorrow, before flying out to raise their nationwide army.

"It's Lady Stark's funeral tomorrow," he said. "How do you feel about her?"

"Grateful," she replied, with a shrug. "She gave her second life to resurrect us. Beyond that, it's not every highborn who would suffer the indignity of raising another woman's bastard – which is what she thought our son was."

Rhaegar scowled. "So, we should be grateful she didn't leave our prince out in the woods for the wolves to finish off."

Lyanna seemed quite amused. "If she had thrown him to the wolves, he'd have come back leading the pack, my love. He has a knack for survival."

He couldn't disagree with that. Leaning back in his chair, finishing off the last of his wine, he regarded her again. This would be their last night before the great war began in earnest and it struck him again how beautiful she was. Candles stood on the table between them, their light reflected in her dark grey eyes. The shape of them, wide and bright, reached into the pit of his being. The shape of her slender hips as she rose from her seat, visible beneath the bodice laced tight up her front and causing her breasts to swell ever so slightly over the top when she leaned forwards. Although he still wasn't hungry, he was working up an appetite all the same.

"The Maesters did assure us you would have no more children, didn't they?" he asked, eyes still venturing down the space between her breasts.

"Yes, I hope you're not disappointed," she replied. "I would give you more, if I could."

"No, it could cause problems for Jon," he assured her. Noticing how downcast she looked, Rhaegar was quick to accentuate the positive. "It also means we get to spend our final night … well, you know…"

He had the decency to blush, while Lyanna smiled wolfishly. "Well then, let's not waste another minute."

Sleepless, despite his exhaustion, Jon lay back with his face turned towards the window, watching the snow drift past the window. It was a night like countless nights he had spent at Winterfell as a child. As an adult, he'd slept outdoors in worse during his time beyond the wall. Only now, Sansa lay in his arms, dozing lightly and waking often.

"Are you all right?" she asked, voice low and heavy. "You need to try and sleep."

"I'm fine," he tried to assure her, but the words felt hollow even in his own ears.

The bedsheets rumpled as she moved, craning her neck to kiss his cheek. After she did so, she cupped his face with her hand, gently turning his face toward her. "I love you."

Just for a moment, all his worries and all his fears no longer mattered. He raised a smile easily as he propped himself up to return her kiss. He never aspired to be a poet, something he once told Sam Tarly under very different circumstances. He had other ways of making his feelings plain and, come dawn, they ley entangled in rumpled sheets, sweating and breathless as a pale sun gave darkness chase.

But the day was waiting to bring them both back to earth with a bump. Jon formed up his entire household guard, slowly moving them all out of the Red Keep for the long journey north. Daenerys arrived from Dragonstone, dragons in tow, while Sansa prepared for her mother's funeral. With time wasted getting the first soldiers despatched, they left later than they had anticipated and their progress south was hampered by the heavy snowfalls.

After two days ride, they reached the part of the Blackwater they wanted. For Jon, it was enough of a relief to know it hadn't frozen solid and that their funeral boat had travelled ahead of them anyway. It had arrived before they did. And, following a chaotic start, the funeral offered them a chance to pause and reflect on what was happening around them. For that, as well as all else she had done, Jon found himself strangely grateful to Lady Stark.

The morning of the now delayed funeral dawned cold and snowy. Wrapped in new furs, Lyanna and Sansa filled the base of the boat with flowers before laying Catelyn's body on top of them. Rhaegar had donated a cloth of gold funeral shroud to wrap the body in. And Sansa had found an old necklace that her mother had gifted her one name day, long ago. Edmure Tully had provided them with a family sigil, from which Sansa was able to stitch a sail during the journey from King's Landing.

Then, finally, it was done. The boat bobbed on the river, the hardening winds filling the sail and making the leaping trout shine silver. Standing downwind, on the riverbank, Jon could catch the scent of the flowers the girls had picked. Lilies and carnations, roses and lavender – what was left of the summer flowers, growing in the Queen's gardens back at the Red Keep. Overhead, the dragons circled in the freezing skies.

Before the boat was cast off, Jon walked the length of the wharf to look upon his old nemesis one more time. Wrapped in Rhaegar's shroud, there was nothing to be seen of her now. Her body had begun to decay, too. But the long and slender shape of the remains was Catelyn like enough for him.

"She is at peace now," he said, turning to Sansa. "Her family is avenged; her daughters are home and you will be Queen. She is at peace."

Her tears froze on her cheeks. "I know. I know she is."

Jon tried to smile, if only to encourage her. But Sansa had lost her mother twice, now. And the second time was no easier than the first. Before too long, however, they were joined by Rhaegar and Lyanna, with Edmure and ser Davos bringing up the rear. With great difficulty, a brazier had been lit on the wharf and Jon was able to use it to light the arrows that would set Catelyn's floating pyre alight. Meanwhile, it was Ser Davos who untethered the boat and cast it downriver.

Alongside Edmure and Rhaegar, Jon picked up a bow and knocked a flaming arrow. Drawn back fully, so that the bowstring creaked, they paused while the boat picked up speed. Snow melt had swollen the Blackwater, helping speed Lady Stark on her way. In that small moment, he remembered the Catelyn of his childhood – but he felt no animosity now. Only a strange sadness at what could have been had Lord Stark decided to tell her the truth.

The arrows loosed, all three at once. Jon's hit the mast, setting the wooden pole alight. Rhaegar's hit the sail, the silk burning easily; while Edmure's thudded to a halt on the gunwale, setting the gold shroud alight. In silence, they watched the flames slowly claim the boat. A thin trail of smoke quickly thickened, marking the pyre's progress downstream. No one moved until the boat was out of sight, engulfed in flames. And it was done.

Sansa sniffed daintily, accepting a hug and a kiss from Lyanna who whispered words of condolence in her ear. Then she looked at Jon, the ghost of a smile on her face.

"It is time," said Sansa.

Jon nodded as Rhaegal landed on the riverbanks, sending up a plume of steam as his hot scales hit the snow. From across the river, those bronze eyes met his own as if issuing a challenge.

"Let's go," he said.

He kissed her lips before taking her by the hand, setting off at a run toward their waiting dragon.

Chapter Text

"I'm not going to be your Nissa Nissa, am I?" Lyanna laughed as she asked, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. "It would be truly tragic if I was only brought back to die all over again, the right way this time."

"If so, then prophecy be damned," replied Rhaegar. But he thought about for a minute. She was right about one thing, it would be tragic. It would also be pointless. Nissa Nissa was a willing sacrifice, and he was not willing to sacrifice another soul for this war. "If it comes to it, we'll die together at the Frozen Ford, hand in hand and tusk to tusk for all eternity."

"I've always admired your sense of romance," she sighed. "Well, let us be more practised in cheating death this time. I intend to grow old with you."

They were clattering on to Winterfell, bumping over the last few miles of frozen road. All Rhaegar could do to make himself comfortable was lie back on the bench, his head resting in Lyanna's lap. From that vantage point, he looked up at her wistfully.

"But it's true," he insisted. "We will never be parted again."

He remembered the time he left her for the Trident, after she had been secured at the Tower of Joy. At the time, the prospect of possibly never seeing her again hadn't seemed real. It wasn't that he was blind to the facts of Robert's Rebellion: he knew Baratheon had won all but one of his battles. His mortal mind simply couldn't grasp the enormity of eternity without her.

"If what happened before taught me anything, it's that we have no control over anything," she said. To remove the bleakness from her tone, she toyed with a lock of his hair, running out the curls between thumb and forefinger. "But I say we live, and live some more."

On that, they agreed.

Their carriage drew to a halt while the portcullis was raised and Lyanna leaned out of the open door, forcing his head from her lap. A smile lit up her face as she surveyed her childhood home and she got out, despite the bitter cold. It was dark, as well. All they could really see of the castle were the beacons along the curtain walls and the flames of small fires lit within the chambers of the keep. With no choice but to follow his wife, Rhaegar braced himself for the onslaught of winter and dashed out after her.

Through the outer walls, then the inner walls and Arya was there to greet them. Having arrived some weeks ahead of them, Brienne was also present. On her hip, a sword was sheathed. But even at a distance, Rhaegar could tell it was not Oathkeeper. Still, it looked a good sword. Meanwhile, he was relieved to see the old castle still standing. Outside the keep, a boy sat in a chair, swathed in thick furs, and held up a lantern, but made no move to come up and greet them. He almost forgot, in the real world, that Bran was crippled. The boy did wave, though. Behind him, a girl of about sixteen or seventeen smiled proudly.

Before approaching Bran, Rhaegar made sure Lyanna and Arya had been formally introduced. But it was obvious who they were. They were identical each other, but Arya's hair was shorter. That was all. He saw Arya in a vision, once. Only now could he forgive himself for confusing her with her Aunt.

Under the circumstances, however, it was never going to be a family reunion full of sweetness and light. As soon as Lyanna and Rhaegar were settled into some spare chambers, they were transferred to the common hall, where minor Lords had gathered in a huddle around the high table.

Instead of the table being dominated by silver platters of boar and venison and fine wines from around the realm, it was overtaken by a huge map of the far North. From the Wall to the Lands of Always Winter, and every mountain range and wildling settlement between, it was circled and dotted in coloured inks. They ate their supper off their laps as they discussed the war to come.

"Where are Jon and Sansa now?" asked Arya.

It had been months since they parted company, after Catelyn's funeral. Jon had gone to Dorne, to do his best to sell a war of ice in the far north to people who lived in a desert region. Since then, he and Sansa had flown up the Reach, through the Stormlands, the Westerlands where they met up with Tyrion and Jaime Lannister. By now, he thought they must have at least breached the Neck, meaning Rhaegal could carry them home by the morrow.

"I don't think they're coming back here, anyway," Lyanna pointed out. "It makes sense that they're flying on to Castle Black to await the troops."

"That makes sense," said one of the Northern Lords. A Forrester, if Rhaegar remembered it rightly. "It means I should take my men back North, too. I mean to be there before the King and Queen arrive."

While Rhaegar smiled at the use of their titles, there was a murmur of agreement from the room at large. Meanwhile, Meera Reed had brought Bran to the table and settled him into an adapted chair beside her own. Rhaegar couldn't help but notice that, under the table, they clasped their hands together. Soon, he thought, there would be more than one wedding to look forward to. He would give her no children, but they looked happy and that was what counted.

"The Others are coming from the Land of Always Winter," Bran said, addressing them all. "They're traversing south through the Fist of the First Men and the Skirling Pass. More and more of them, all the time."

"And isn't there a risk that we're just feeding their armies?" asked Lyanna. "We've raised an army of thousands from all corners of the realm and they're all marching on the North. If they face the Others with no one to direct them, they'll be annihilated. Fodder for the army of wights. I suggest my lord husband and I fly out on the morrow also."

"Queen Daenerys is already there," Arya told them. "She has her Unsullied, but I don't know what they're like as Generals."

"There's no more time to waste," Bran cut in, urgently. "My legs don't work, I would be a hindrance on the battlefield. Leave me here to hold the castle and you all start North on the morrow."

"I'm not leaving you," Arya cut in.

For the first time, Rhaegar saw a flicker of fear in the girl's wide grey eyes. It wasn't like her, but when he remembered what happened last time they all got separated, he understood it. It had been Bran, Jon told him, who surrendered the castle to Theon Greyjoy. But there was no time to let the ghosts of the past spook them into inaction. His inner thoughts were echoed aloud by Lady Reed.

"It won't be the same as last time," she said. "We were frightened children when the Ironborn stormed the castle. Everyone knows that if we waste time squabbling over castles and thrones in the south, we'll all be dead come spring. Even the Ironborn understand that."

Arya looked mollified, but still reticent. Her sword was sheathed at her hip and she slid it in and out of its scabbard over and over, a habit betraying nervous energy.

"It's unlike you to miss a fight, niece," said Rhaegar, lightly. Despite her concern for Bran, she was itching to come with them. "But your little Needle might be useless against the Others. I'm sure we can find a suitable blade."

She smiled, grey eyes glittering cheekily. "I can do better than that. Meet Winterfell's new armourer…"

They had hired a new armourer and blacksmith before they left and he could only hope the same man was still around now. Alas, he was to be disappointed. The new armourer was a young lad of about eighteen or nineteen – no older than Jon, but built like an ox. Under a shock of jet black hair, his blue eyes twinkled as he entered the common hall at his Lady's summons. He didn't say anything to any of them, but he eyed them suspiciously, working his surly way the length of the high table.

Inwardly, Rhaegar shuddered at how much the young man resembled Robert Baratheon.

"Everybody," said Arya. "This is Gendry, Winterfell's new armourer."

Gendry tried to smile, but ended up looking like he was suffering from wind. Meanwhile, there was silence during which everyone waited for someone else to say something. Arya broke first.

"Go on, Gendry, tell them what you told me."

"I-I was 'pprenticed to an armourer in King's Landing," the young man stuttered. He wasn't surly after all, just shy. "I trained under Tobho Mott, one of the best there is in the Street of Steel. I don't know who paid my fees, my lords, but I think it was because I'm…. I mean forgive me my lord prince, I am-"

Rhaegar ended the young lad's suffering swiftly. "You're one of Robert Baratheon's bastards, I know. Don't fret on it. We don't get to pick our parents – I'm more keenly aware of that than any of us. Now, I remember Tobho Mott. He was a Qohorik, wasn't he?"

Poor Gendry sagged with relief. "Yes, my lord prince. He taught me everything he knew."

Rhaegar held his breath. "Everything?" When Gendry replied with a nod, he added: "So, you know how to rework Valyrian steel?"

Gendry nodded again. "Yes, my lord prince. I mean, I don't know the spells, but Lady Melisandre does and she's been helping me."

Rhaegar knew ancient spells were needed to reforged Valyrian steel, it was why the craft was so rare in Westeros to begin with. Tobho Mott was the last one standing, as far as he knew. He also knew it was he who had reforged Ice at Tywin Lannister's behest, but he kept that to himself.

"We've requisitioned all Valyrian steel we can find," Gendry continued. "I'm forging as much as I can into weapons to use against the Others. Arrow heads, even. Arrow heads are good. They can be reused over and over again."

"Do you mean, people are parting with their ancestral swords?" he asked. The Targaryens had two, but both were lost now. If he had them still, he'd gladly part with one.

"Don't be silly," Arya laughed. "But there's loads of Valyrian steel out there. Daggers, ornaments, armour … someone on the Iron Islands found a whole suit of armour made from Valyrian steel. It's all being fashioned into weapons now. You're working on something else as well, aren't you Gendry?"

The young lad nodded and blushed. "A gift for the King," he blurted out. "Well, for House Stark really, but for Jon mostly."

Rhaegar smiled approvingly. "Whatever it is, I'm sure he will be delighted."

It was a small ray of hope, something to make them feel like they were advancing. Once the meeting was concluded, and they began to go their separate ways, Rhaegar spoke with Brandon privately. Even alone at Winterfell, he would still have a role to play in the upcoming war.

"They say you're the most powerful warg since the age of heroes," he said, once the others had gone. Only Meera remained with them. To spare him the blushes of an answer, Rhaegar pressed on. "We have a riderless dragon. And we cannot afford to have a riderless dragon."

Bran looked at him, searchingly. "Which one?"

"It's the smallest of the four," he said. "Daenerys calls it Viserion."

Recognition shone in him. "Yes, I saw him when Queen Daenerys passed this way. So, you need me to warg him in battle?" You will fly, Brynden Rivers had once said. "I will. I will fly that dragon."

The North was alight. Spread out below them a thousand flames flickered against the background darkness. Even through the snowfalls that drifted in, Jon could pick them out. More than once, even flying Rhaegal from a great height, he sometimes thought he could pick up the acrid scent of smoke. The only thing that could repel the Others, and that they had in abundance, was fire. Soon, thanks to the dragons, those fires were about to get hotter, bigger and deadlier.

From above, he could track the progress of the thousands of marching men, all heading North to fight the great war. Out at sea, the shipping lanes were crammed with galleys and merchant vessels, all carrying the cargo of war past Eastwatch and as far up the Northern coasts as they could go. It was freezing up now, however. They had left it too late to get all the way up to the farthest reaches of the North.

Their own journey had been faltering in its progress. His first solo flight, without even Dany to help guide him, had been to Dorne. Sansa he had left in the Dornish Marches, where she progressed through the streets as a Queen, rallying men to their cause. Since they were flying with her as a passenger, they had had to stop and let Rhaegal rest at regular intervals. Even so, the extra burden was making the dragon stronger every day. If Jon needed to fly him into battle, he knew Rhaegal would be able to fight for hours.

"We're beyond the wall now," he said. "Should we keep going?"

Sansa was behind him, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. "I think we should land."

They were somewhere near the Fist of the First Men, but Jon complied. As he suspected, there wasn't a great deal to see, upon landing. The area was devoid of life, but for the remains of long abandoned settlements – relics of the freefolk who lived and perished here. In the moonlight, not far off, he could even make out the remains of the old hill fort the Old Bear had tried to fortify. It was half buried in fresh snowfall, but the pikes still jutted above the ground. Back then, he had been a lowly steward, green as grass and utterly unprepared for what lay ahead. Just a few months later, he had killed the Half-Hand and was undercover with a tribe of Freefolk.

Ygritte … her face swam in his mind's eye, unbidden and out of the blue.

"I think we came this way when looking for Bran," said Sansa. "There were wights and Others here, we saw them."

She looked North, to where a fire now burned in the distance. It seemed ranging parties had made it out this far, after all. Curious, Jon left the dragon rolling in the snow and ventured along the pass they had landed on. Although he motioned for Sansa to remain where she was, she followed him anyway. When the wind died down, he could hear the distant sound of clashes in the distance. The fighting had begun already.

"We should get back to Castle Black," he said, leading her away. "I want to see the look on Edd's face."

"Oh," she replied. "Any special reason?"

"No. But the look on Edd's face is always worth seeing anyway."

And it was. He still hadn't cheered up, but Jon expected no less. In the pale light of the early morning, Dolorous Edd donned his thick black, Lord Commander's coat, and stood guard over his patch of the wall. Looking a little helpless and more than a little dazed, he watched as the swathes of soldiers, fighting men and armed smallfolk came swarming through his castle. There wasn't a moment spare to make them take an oath of any kind and he had had to rely on seasoned southern battle commanders to take charge of them all.

But, finally, he almost broke into a smile at the sight of Jon. "Last time I saw you, you were dead. Now you're the King of all you survey and you come riding into this keep with a bride on your arm and on the back of a fire breathing dragon. Not bad for a foundling, even if I say so myself."

"Foundling!" Jon laughed. "You were never one to understate the case, Edd."

They closed the gap between them with two long strides, grabbing one another into a rough bear hug. For a moment, it was all laughter and warmth as two old allies met and joined once more. Now they were moving. Now, they were finally getting somewhere.

"Sam and Gilly got back a few days ago," said Edd, once he'd brought Jon and Sansa to the Lord Commander's keep. "Melisandre's been back and forth to Winterfell for months now. No idea what's she up to. But then, I don't think she knows either."

Jon smiled, crookedly. "What's that you got there? New recruits?"

He nodded to a jar that was on the shelf of the common hall, full of what looked like fat, black slugs. Edd turned to see what he was looking at.

"Leeches," he said, beaming proudly as if they were his children. "You should know, seeing as you ordered 'em."

Jon felt his mood darken again, thinking of Sam, Gilly and the baby. "Ah, yes. I should have known. Is Melisandre here? And she better bloody well know what she's doing for this blood magic business. I like it not at all, but I fear it must be done. And if she hurts that baby, I'll have her head."

"Aye, as it happens just back from Winterfell. The armourer needed her help, from what I hear," he explained.

Jon was puzzled. "The armourer?"

"I'm telling you, there's no end to that woman's talents," replied Edd, sounding wistful. "She didn't feel the need to show me her tits though, the way she did with you." Noticing Sansa, he nodded to her: "Forgive me, my lady."

Jon had almost forgotten about that. "I'll show you mine, if you want."

Edd appeared to be giving the offer some consideration. "Some things are best kept between man and wife, I think. Anyway, the last of the Boltons are here now. That's as close as I'll get to a bunch of tits. The Lannisters, too. All your favourite people, gathered under one roof."

"Lucky me," Jon replied, drily. "Well, we best put those leeches to use. Where is she?"

Although they were both tired from their long journey, they stuck around to watch as Melisandre got to work with the leeches. Pale and trembling, Gilly held Little Sam fast in her lap as the wet, fat leeches got to work on his flesh. Jon shuddered, but the baby only fussed and grizzled, before settling down quite nicely. He had been leeched before, of course. Roose Bolton swore by it, earning himself the "Leech Lord" moniker. The bite stung a little, but after that the sensation was little more than mildly unpleasant.

After that, Melisandre simply tossed the leeches into a burning brazier and muttered a few prayers of High Valyrian. As far as rituals went, it was nothing compared to the resurrection one. Jon kept watching as the leeches hissed and spat as the flames engulfed them, waiting for something to happen. Daenerys had come to join them, having flown over on Drogon, from Eastwatch by the Sea.

Together, they moved closer to the flames, watching them as they formed images and pictures. Jon frowned, rubbed his eyes and opened them again. The images in the flames were still there. Beside him, Daenerys shivered, wrapping her new furs tight around her middle.

"What do you see?" he asked her.

"I see them," she whispered back. "The armies of the dead, the Others … they're close by."

"Me too," he said.

In truth, it was nothing he hadn't seen before. But Daenerys remained transfixed. Meanwhile, Melisandre joined them.

"Take this fire," she said. "And use it to light the beacons along the wall. Do not let this fire die out, it must be kept burning all through the war. The blood of the Others makes it more potent than dragon fire."

When the day was done, Jon was glad of it. Edd let him and Sansa use some of the rooms in the Lord Commander's keep for the duration of their stay, brief as it would be. Both of them retired early and, that night, he dreamed of peace. He dreamed he was back in King's Landing, standing alone in the dragon pit as the snowflakes swirled in through the broken roof. Snow, or ash, it was impossible to tell. But it was silent, and peaceful. A far cry from the din and chaos that dragged him from his much-needed sleep the following morning.

He dragged himself over to the window, looking down on the courtyard as he had a hundred times before during his own tenure as Lord Commander. Immediately, a smile lit up his face. Among the newcomers swarming into the courtyard, his mother and father stuck out a mile.

"Sansa," he said. "It's them. They're here, at last."

He dressed hurriedly, staving off the bitter cold as much as he was keen to be reunited with his family. Once done, he left Sansa to go at her pace and dashed out of the door and down the rickety wooden stairs of the keep. Out in the yard, he shouldered his way through the massing crowds until his reached his mother, who he wrapped in a tight embrace. Lyanna cried out at the sight of him, kissing his cheek firmly.

"Father," he greeted Rhaegar, clasping him in a bear hug too. "I missed you both. And Arya!"

She was mounted on a sturdy Garron pony and slid down from the saddle as soon as she saw him. They kissed each other, holding each other tight for several long moments. Jon regretted that he didn't get to see Bran before he and Sansa arrived at Castle Black. But, being reunited with everyone else bolstered his confidence enough to know that, soon, they would all be together again.

Come night fall, they grouped together at the top of the wall. Jon, Rhaegar, Lyanna and Daenerys all standing in a line, looking out over the darkening north. Beneath their feet, the walls shone and shimmered under the light of a full moon. At regular intervals, beacons lit with the flames lit from the blood of the Others themselves blazed, casting an orange glow in the skies above them. Jon could feel the heat coming off them, bringing him out in a sweat.

Meanwhile, overhead, the dragons screeched into the night, wheeling overhead as they seemed to sense the battle ahead. Drogon landed on the wall with a crash that sent chunks of ice tumbling over the precipice. Jon turn around, to where an army of thousands had amassed, ready to pour through the gates and out into warzone. But, just at that moment, all was quiet and still, with just a breeze washing over the scene before him. A million little flames danced in the current.

"There's one more thing we must do before the war," said Rhaegar.

As they both watched the crowds, the people began to part to form an aisle. Down below, he could make out Sansa's distinctive auburn hair as she walked into the mechanical lift to bring her to the top of the wall, she was carrying something but he couldn't make it out. Jon breathed a sigh of relief. He had hoped for one last kiss from her before they left. He might even see if he could get her to bring Lyanna back with her. He was far from happy about sending his own mother to war.

"We don't have much time," he replied. He felt he needed to be cautious, but he really did not mind waiting another ten minutes.

"You're going to want this," Rhaegar assured him. "Believe me."

While Sansa was being winched to the top of the wall, Lyanna moved to kiss his cheek. He was surprised to see a tear shining in her eyes. "You've never had the name 'Stark', but you're one of us, through and through. The greatest Lord the North has never had and I couldn't be prouder. There is none more worthy of this honour."

"What honour?"

But Rhaegar cut in next. "I can only echo what your mother said. But know that I couldn't be more proud of you. You're not like other princes, who have their lives handed to them on a silver platter. Everything you have, everything you're about to get, you've worked and fought for. You've earned it all."

"You're making me blush," he jested, still puzzled about all that was happening.

Just then, Sansa stepped out onto the top of the wall. She looked beautiful in a fur lined gown of grey and white samite. A dark grey cape hung from her shoulders, skimming the length of her body, her auburn hair loose about her shoulders. The item she bore was shrouded in linen, but it looked like a sword.

"Sansa," he said, as she drew close enough.

She was smiling as she halted, a hair's breadth from him. "This is yours now. Take it."

He took the sword wrapped in linen, and gently removed it. It was huge. He'd not seen a sword so big since…

"Ice," he gasped, the breath hitching in his throat. "But how?"

The blade was sheathed, but he drew the sword enough to let the Valyrian steel shine in the moonlight. The pommel was new, fashioned in the wolf's head he remembered so well from his late uncle's days. He saw Brienne days ago, noticed she no longer carried Oathkeeper.

"Ser Jaime returned Widow's Wail," said Sansa. "And Brienne had Oathkeeper all along. Now they are back where they belong."

"The armourer, Gendry Waters," said Rhaegar. "He knows how to work Valyrian steel."

Jon's hands shook as he held the newly reforged Ice. Somehow, it was even more stunning than he remembered. The way it caught the light, the way the steel rippled and swirled, dark and smoky grey. When it caught the moonlight, it flashed ice blue and a deep, scarlet red. He couldn't think of a word to say. As a child, he had dreamed of wielding Ice. He had dreamed of being deemed worthy. And now, he had. Sansa helped buckle it to his back.

"I-I'm not," he stammered. "I cannot-"

"You are," Sansa insisted. "You will. And if father was here now, he'd be the one fastening these buckles right now, not me."

Overwhelmed with emotion, he choked back a sob and kissed her lips. They opened their eyes, looking searching into each other. And the moment had come to part for the great war.

Chapter Text

The path to the heart tree glowed in the light of half a hundred beacons, wending their way through the darkness of the godswood. Jon was the first to arrive, pausing to admire the effect of the flames. The long shadows of weirwoods and sentinels and Ironwoods shifted and warped over snow banked up around the uneven ground, making the old place seem half-alive, even when he knew it was deserted. A small breeze made the surface of the pool ripple, distorting the reflected moonlight.

He held up the palm of his hand, catching the large, fat snowflakes that drifted down through the branches of the trees. Snow or ash? These days, after living through four dragons deployed in battle, he felt the need to double check. In the heat of the battle, he had seen ancient glaciers melt and vanish into steam, swathes of forest that had stood since the age of the Children, reduced to ash and cinder in a matter of hours. Their air he breathed had been choked with falling ash, just like the snows drifting down around him now.

He paused at the edge of the pool, where the heart tree sunk its roots deep in the glacial waters. All he could see was his own reflection staring back at him, blank eyed and spectral in the fading light. It distorted and rippled as the breeze came again. Ice was still strapped to his back, the pommel visible above his left shoulder. He drew the blade again and held it up to the dappled moonlight. It shone red and blue and grey, the colours running into each other and blending to form a curious pattern.

Even now, several weeks after his return to Winterfell, he could recall the darkest hour of the battle beyond the wall. They had lulled rank after rank of White Walkers into a trap, hemming them into a deep valley lined with Unsullied and Dothraki and anyone else brave enough to form the circle, and rained down arrows made from obsidian. Only the arrows fell far short and the White Walkers had magic of their own. The things they could do with ice had knocked him for six, temporarily throwing him off guard as he struggled to counter their fire power.

They thought the dragons had made them invincible, a trap even he had allowed himself to be lulled into. He honestly thought one dragon would be enough to finish off the White Walkers trapped in a valley. But they'd underestimated the enemy and yet more were spilling down the mountainside, cutting a vast swathe through the troops they had stationed around the edge of the valley. Each dead man rose again, almost immediately. Nothing stayed dead for longer than a minute or two.

Shield walls, block formations, vanguards and rear guards – whole forces of troops from all over the seven kingdoms smashed and resurrected again as wights to do the Others' bidding. It was a war machine that fed itself on its own dead. Every military tactic in the book was useless against them. It was then, after that disaster, that all four dragons were deployed at once. The whole of the North, from the Wall to the Skirling Pass, seemed to be a lake of raging fires.

Footsteps jolted him out of his reverie, bringing him back to the present day. It was Arya, a candle flickered in her gloved hands as she took up position by the side of the footpath. Behind her, Bran was carried piggyback style by Gendry, the new armourer. His mother, Lyanna, approached him and helped him sheath Ice again. She was dressed in a new gown of silk and samite, her hair in a braid that reached her hips.

"You look nervous," she said. "After the last six months or so, you really shouldn't be."

Jon tried not to laugh. "We're all allowed to be nervous on a day like today."

More witnesses were arriving by the second. Wyman Manderly was there with his granddaughter and her husband. The Glovers and Cerwyns all assembled, candles in hand to light the way to the heart tree. After half a year of constant war, it was a beautiful sight to soothe his eyes. Still, he took a moment to recall the many faces who should have been there, but wouldn't be. Although too many to count, Jon did his best. Edd and the boys from the Night's Watch – not one of them had lived beyond the third month of fighting. Great stretches of the wall had come crashing down, hit by the magic of the Others. The Shadow Tower was gone completely, along with everyone inside it. Old Denys Mallister had been manning it at the time.

Lyanna brushed a loose strand of hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. "There's more coming. We'll be set to begin soon, however. Are you ready?"

Jon nodded and smiled. "Of course. I've been ready for over a year now."

Nerves be damned, he had been looking forward to this night and nothing was going to be allowed to spoil it. There had been times when this night was all he had to hold on to. He remembered, clearly, wielding Ice with blade alight in his hands, taking on White Walkers single handed, dead-eyed semi-decayed wights all around him, thinking he was going to die at any minute, the possibility of this night would pull him through. It was the reason he fought and kept on fighting to the bitter end.

Now, he looked back at his mother and spoke with conviction. "It's time I had my Queen."

She smiled her approval. "So, let us begin."

Jon looked down the shining path that now wended through the godswood. He couldn't understand why Sansa wanted to do this here. It was the same place she had married Ramsay and he felt like he was following in another man's footsteps. But, her wishes were paramount and his pride be damned. He looked to Arya for a bit of last minute reassurance, which she granted with an easy smile and a quick thumbs up. Her grey eyes twinkled in the light of the beacons.

Still there was no sign of the bride and his nerves were twitching. He was more nervous now than before the start of a battle and it was silly. Just silly.

Daenerys arrived alone, carrying a small lantern in red glass. His aunt came and stood facing Arya and Bran. Jon glanced at her, making sure she was all right. But, she well knew how to look after herself; it was just a pity she had no one bring to the ceremony with her. She looked a little self-conscious, standing there on her own with just her little red lantern. Her Unsullied army had gone marching into the jaws of death in a manner so unquestioning, it chilled Jon to the core. Westeros would not miss them, but he still felt the burden of grief and guilt whenever he thought of them. Taken as slaves as children barely old enough to remember their real names, freed and then killed in a foreign war anyway. It was enough to make anyone think the world was sometimes a little unfair.

The worst part was: they hadn't won. Not really. The Others were out there still, retreating into the Lands of Always Winter. However many had survived, Jon couldn't guess. But once they had the Watch up and running again, they would soon try to find out. No. What they had won was a respite. A respite of thousands of years, for all they knew. But that didn't mean the Others had gone away. They were out there still and would, one day, return again. The only difference was that it would be someone else's problem, by then. But for now, for the next however many generations at least, they had some sort of peace to look forward to.

Meanwhile, in the clearing of the godswood, before the solemn face of the heart tree, the ceremony began. Ser Davos was the last to arrive and nodded to Lyanna as he took his place among the guests and witnesses.

Lyanna stood with her back straight, her expression serious as she focused her gaze down the pathway. She issued her challenge in a stern voice that carried over all. "Who comes before the Old Gods this night?"

"Sansa of House Stark," Prince Rhaegar answered the call. "A maid trueborn and flowered, she comes to be wed to Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen."

Sansa felt a frisson of excitement and nerves run the length of her body as they entered the clearing properly. All eyes were on her, making her blush faintly. It was all so beautiful; like an enchantment from one of the books she read as a child. There was none of that girl left in her now, but this was enough to bring the memories of much happier times stirring gently back into life. Even if only for this one night.

She looked at Rhaegar for reassurance, who returned her gaze and gave her a nod of encouragement. After another brief pause, he let her lean on him as he escorted her to the heart tree. After the wall had partially collapsed, she had been trapped under a fallen tree in the woods just north of it. She was on the right side of the wall, but whatever those things had used to bring the edifice down, she had broken her leg and smashed a few ribs after getting in the way of a falling tree. It was as she lay there, helpless and barely able to breathe, that she heard the screams of dying men smothered in a landslide of collapsing ice and rubble. But still Melisandre's fires burned. Great, towering circles of fire blazing over the ruins to form a protective veil between the Others and the realms of men.

She pushed those memories of war out of her head and looked to the future. She looked to Jon and joined her hand in his.

"Do you give your consent to marry this man?"

"I do," she replied, tearing her gaze from Jon to see Lyanna.

"Do you give your consent to marry this woman?"

"I do." Jon choked his answer.

Lyanna's role was done and Sansa watched as she joined up with her husband before returning to the rest of their guests. From the corner of her eye, she could see Sam and Gilly, with the baby on her hip. The blood of the Others lived on in them.

With no septons or officiators of any kind, a wedding in the old gods fashion was a short and brief affair. In fact, it was almost done already. She and Jon knelt before the heart tree and it was to the Old Gods they made their formal vows by way of a few minutes silent meditation. So, hand in hand, they closed their eyes and lost themselves in the moment.

He had tried to talk her out of having the wedding at Winterfell. He said he'd take her to the Isle of Faces, one of the most sacred spots of their faith. He said he'd take her anywhere to marry her in a place not associated with Ramsay Bolton. But, it wasn't about that for her and Jon still didn't seem to understand.

Winterfell was her home. It's godswood the most sacred place of her home. She would not allow this place to be about her and Ramsay. She wanted to own it again and reclaim it from that monster. When she was old and in her death bed, she wanted to look back on Winterfell's godswood and remember this moment, between her and Jon, and never think of Ramsay again. Even now, she couldn't really remember what he looked like. The finer details were gone, the sharp lines began to blur. Some victories were clear and absolute and this was one of them: Sansa's victory.

When she opened her eyes, all she could see was Jon. After all the years she had been away from him, during her girlhood, she had never forgotten what he looked like. Or Robb, or Rickon, or her father and mother – she recalled all their faces as if she had seen them only yesterday. The people she truly loved always seemed to find a way to stay with her, or so she thought. And that she cherished.

It occurred to her that the deed was done. They were now husband and wife, making her stifle a laugh as they drew closer to seal their deal with a kiss. Already, the guests were filing away, heading for the common hall where a banquet had been prepared. A modest banquet, this deep in a winter that promised to be long, but a fancy do all the same.

Even after all the others had gone, she and Jon remained where they were. Their hands were still joined, their gaze still locked in on each other's. He brought one hand up to her face, brushing aside a loose strand of hair.

"Wife," he whispered, relishing the word. His gaze dropped to her belly, still flat at this early stage. "And baby."

She smiled again. "I think we'll get away with it."

What did it matter if they weren't wed at the moment of conception. It had been a moment of weakness when Jon had returned to the ruins of Castle Black, having ordered the standing down of the troops. They were celebrating and commiserating at the same time. The act itself was intense and fleeting, but afterwards she felt different and she wasn't at all surprised when her moon blood failed to show up.

"Nobody knows," he said. "If anyone says anything, we'll just say your labours came early."

Sansa nodded, even they only found out a few days ago. "Arya knows. But she doesn't care in the slightest about the precise moment her future niece or nephew was created."

"I want our child to be born here, at Winterfell," he said. "I'll need to return to the Red Keep, but Rhaegal can get me there in days, if need be. But when you return, with the baby in your arms, you will have your coronation."

It made her happier still that her eldest, boy or girl, was to be born at Winterfell. It was the seat of the Starks, the root of their power and their family ties. The firstborn son would take the Iron Throne, but he would come to Winterfell to learn to rule. A second son would be its permanent Lord, once she had died.

"It pleases me greatly," she answered. "More so, if we get to the feast on time. The others will wonder where we've gotten to."

Arm in arm, they followed the path back out of the godswood, back into the main keep, where they could already hear the musicians playing the first song.

The heat in Winterfell's common hall was stifling. Every fire was lit, the people all crammed inside. The air Rhaegar breathed was heavy with the smell of furs, horse and burning meat. The musicians played so loud he could barely hear himself think. A situation not helped by the fact that he was drunk and stuffed to the gills with the food that had been on offer. An indulgence he was beginning to regret.

He left the high table after making his excuses to the bride and groom, shouldering his way across the dancing hall. He made it outside just in time to vomit heavily in an empty water barrel. While he heaved, a crowd of rowdy Stark guards gave him a rapturous round of applause. Yes, very funny, he thought to himself, miserably.

"Are you all right?"

Rhaegar wiped his mouth, feeling a bit of a fool as he turned to find Daenerys watching him. "I'm fine, sister. Damaged pride more than anything."

The rowdy retainers had at least found something better to occupy their minds and were no longer cheering him. He also found a barrel of clean water and, after breaking the surface ice, washed his face with it, rinsing the foul taste from his mouth. It was freezing outside, with snowfalls still banking up around the walls. But it sobered him up nicely.

"Well, the war is over and the Others have retreated," she said, taking a seat on a bench. "What will you do now?"

It was a timely question. Ever since he came back, well over two years ago, he had been so preoccupied by the war against the White Walkers he hadn't the foresight to think beyond it. Before Lyanna returned, he hadn't even thought to survive it, never mind work on any kind of retirement plan. He was still young, still royal, but he had no formal role to play anywhere. He couldn't get too close to the throne without being problematic to Jon.

"I think Lyanna would like to have apartments here in Winterfell," he replied, at length. "I think the Queen will be happy to accommodate us. She can help on the ruling council, if Lady Arya would permit it. Other than that: who knows?"

"You can come to Dragonstone," she said. "And Mereen. Lyanna would be welcome as well."

Genuinely grateful, he smiled happily. "Thank you, sister. But traveling will be more problematic these days."

A shadow of sorrow passed her face. "Yes, I know. It will take more time, but you can still travel. You'll just have to use boats, like everyone else."

He had lived without a dragon for most of his life, but had come to rely on Sonar during his short years afterwards. And he knew he would never bond to another in the same way he had Sonar.

"I keep having nightmares about what happened that night," he told her, keeping his voice low. In the hall behind them, the music continued, muffled but intrusive. "I didn't even see that thing until it had pierced his scales."

"That was what was so frightening about the White Walkers," she replied. "You didn't see them until they were almost upon you. The weapons they used, the ice magic, you didn't see it. It blended so perfectly…" her words trailed off as she struggled to articulate what they had seen. "I mean, sometimes you would see the air ripple, and it was one of their ice spears heading right for you."

'Ice spear' didn't quite do them justice, but for Rhaegar it was close enough. And it was one of those that had felled Sonar, leaving them only with Dany's three. Worse, he had been hundreds of feet in the air, on the dragon's back, when the spear cut through the chinks in his dragon's belly scales. The dragon had three heads; but Rhaegar recalled how rapidly he lost his only head as the pair of them plummeted out of the skies.

All the while, the dragon froze beneath him. All his heat melted away and, by the time they crashed through the Haunted Woods, a shimmering crust of ice and frost had completely covered the dying dragon. Even the fires had frozen and Rhaegar had never known cold like it. Struck dumb with horror and grief, he had stood there rooted to the spot and watched as his dead dragon didn't stay dead for long.

It was Lyanna, who had seen Sonar's fall from the skies, who came to his rescue. While still rooted to the spot, she had come charging through the woods mounted on a destrier and grabbed him, pulling him into the saddle without breaking pace, before Sonar rose again. It took the combined fires of Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion combined to finish the resurrected ice dragon off. After that, they turned the fires on the Lands of Always Winter, showing not a trace of mercy to the White Walkers.

"I still don't feel as if we achieved much," said Daenerys. "Have the Others really gone now?"

Rhaegar nodded. "Not completely. They weren't completely gone after the last major war and they aren't after this one. They'll always be there. But, as long as we never forget them, they won't be able to regain such power ever again."

And that was the key issue, for him. How to make sure the Others never again faded into mere folklore; how to make sure the Night's Watch didn't revert back to killing wildlings to justify their continued existence during the more peaceful years. Before that, they needed a new Night's Watch. There was so much to do, so much to organise, it seemed he wouldn't be without an official role for a long time yet.

"So many free folk died," said Rhaegar. "I wonder who will populate the more northerly regions now?"

"That's not really our problem, is it?" Dany said. "They're not part of our realm-"

"Yes, but we must continue to harbour good relations with them," he cut in. "Just imagine if the free folk and the Night's Watch had worked together from the start – Jon's life would have been a lot easier. Just imagine if we all learned to cooperate? This war could have been avoided."

It was too soon for this after-war post-mortem. It was a wedding. There was music. People were dancing and having far too much to drink. But he couldn't shake the lull he was in. Maybe it was the residual drink still coursing through his bloodstream. He had never been a great drunk. Some people became the life and soul after a few drinks, while he grew only more morose. He supposed he should have learned by now.

"Forgive me, sister, I'm not much company."

"You're all the company I need right now," she answered. "But, come, we should go back in and toast the newlyweds."

And so he did. He rejoined the party and resumed his place at the high table. Jon and Sansa took the places of honour, where Eddard Stark and his wife once sat. Bran and Meera were close by, with Arya making up the last of the surviving Starks. He wondered what the others were like. Rickon had been only a baby, but Robb had been King in the North in his time. Unlike them, he had never lost a battle. And maybe that was the point: sometimes, one had to lose in order to grow stronger and harder. Each loss a lesson never forgotten. And he wouldn't forget his own for as long a life as the gods allowed him.

The morning after the wedding, Jon awoke before dawn. Next to him, Sansa rolled in her sleep but did not awaken. Careful not to disturb her, he climbed out of bed and opened the shutters over the main window. That morning, as with all mornings, the sun rose in the east. A pale sort of a morning, heavy with the promise of snow. A winter's morning like any other, he knew he was lucky to be alive to only witness it.

He wondered how he was going to rebuild the North after the war, but he knew he'd find a way. Both he and his Queen were yet young, they had the luxury of time. When he looked back at Sansa, he remembered there was a generation coming up behind them who would also have time. That was society: an endless procession of people, each generation finishing the work started by the ones who came before.

Slowly, Sansa woke up as the morning brightened. She sat up in bed and looked at him through heavily lidded eyes.

"Good morning," he greeted her, crossing the room back to the bed. "How are you?"

She wrapped her arms around him, kissing him full on the mouth. "All is as it should be."

That was a good enough start for him. During the night, he dreamed of waking up alone and naked on a cold mountainside, injured and in need of help. He woke up breathless and afraid, calming quickly as the present day resolved itself around him. And Sansa was right: all was as it should be.

~ The End~