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i.
He sees the boat coming from far away, and watches from atop his hill of graves as it looms ever closer. When Elder Brother tells him of who is on it, his lungs tighten and his mouth dries up.
She is as shocked to see him as he is to see her, but there is no fear in her eyes. It is clear to him that she has grown from girl to woman in more ways than one.
“It is good to see you again...” She says, and he notices the lack of a title at the end of her greeting. All the times he’d imagined this moment, the words he’d thought to say over these long years, seem to stick in his throat.
He can scarcely bring himself to nod, “And you, little bird.” He hates that of all the heartfelt reunions he’s imagined over these long years, all the words he’s thought to say, these are the first and only ones he can manage.
They spend many of the following afternoons and evenings together, sitting against the great oak tree on his hill of graves. If she minds the sweat and dirt that covers him after his labor, she says nothing. And if she still minds his scars, she says even less.
In these days they speak of nothing and everything. He feels the rage of the Hound welling deep inside him again when she speaks of Petyr Baelish and all the liberties he took with her before she fled. She cries when he tells her about his run-in with her sister, and he wishes he had more hopeful things to tell her.
As the months pass by, they soon have nothing more to say of the past, and their conversations begin to focus on the future. Soon, talk becomes plan, and plan becomes action. Before he knows it, he is standing on the docks of the Quiet Isle, clad in his old armor, with an eager bird to his left and two horses laden with provisions to his right. Elder Brother hands him a map detailing the route they must take to find those still loyal to the Starks. The old man also passes him a newly sharpened sword.
He swears that sword to her. It is the least of what she deserves. But it is the only gift he has to offer now.
ii.
They win the North as Winter ensues. The final battle is the most brutal. It lasts for weeks, with what is left of the Bolton’s resistance, led by Ramsay Bolton himself now that his father is dead.
The castle is still being rebuilt and is not suitable against a charge. Their soldiers are ill-trained to fight even in perfect conditions, never mind the blizzard that storms around them now. They have no reinforcements to call upon for the Dragon Queen, who accepted the Lady Stark’s bended knee and made her Warden of the North, has taken much of their forces to fight a greater threat at the Wall. No one believes they will win this battle. Yet a loss will cost them the war, the North, and certainly their lives.
But he will fight for her until his dying breath. So when the enemy finally raises an attack, he fights in the vanguard, leading the men as Winterfell’s new master-at-arms. He is not as quick as he used to be with his limp, but he is still strong and capable. He sees tears in her eyes as he makes ready to leave. He finds comfort in the knowledge that should this battle be his last, he will at least be wept for. There is still so much he has left to tell her, much he has been unable to say. Yet his farewell is kept proper, little more than a nod across the yard before he rides out of the gates, the division behind him screaming Winterfell’s names. The battle is long and hard, but it is hardly the worst he has fought. After all, his first battles were a rebellion against dragons, and he has since faced the flames of many others. Now that he is finally fighting for something that matters, it makes it easier.
As the last of the opponents surrender, the sun sees fit to shine upon the slaughter field and the triumphant cries of Northmen carry over the red snow and fill his ears. He basks in the relief he sees in her eyes when she spots him approaching her across the yard. Even with broken ribs rattling in his side, his face and armor covered in blood that could be his or not, it has never felt like a better moment to be alive. He places the tip of his sword in the ground and kneels before her. “My lady, the North is yours.” He tells her as he tosses a bloody, cloth sack to the ground at her feet. “A gift from the enemy, on behalf on their surrender.” Through the mass of black, matted hair in his eyes, he sees her ghostly, grim smile and knows that she knows. The head of Ramsay Snow lies within, just as she had asked.
iii.
No one questions it when the Lady of Winterfell chooses him as a husband. In fact, no one in the keep seems even remotely surprised. His feats in the Battle for the North have not been forgotten. Of course, neither has his low birth, so the lords do grumble over their own lost opportunities. But the people seem to admire him almost as much as they love their Lady. Soon enough, he is watching with wide eyes as she floats down the aisle towards him, and placing his cloak on her shoulders with shaky hands. He looks into the deep well of her eyes, sees the vast amount of love he can’t believe is for him, and makes the last vow he had ever expected to make, but the one he is most glad to.
The banquet is a modest affair, yet perhaps normal for the Northern tradition, but his eyes are occupied as he watches his pretty bird flit around the floor, dancing with whichever lords she deemed were necessary in order to maintain courtesy. Hem might have felt threatened by that once, but he doesn’t mind now; for she is his, all his. And he won’t be threatened by some uniform masquerade meant to keep bannermen loyal.
Soon they call for a bedding, and ever the gracious Lady, she gives it to them. He protests, but she silences him with a kiss and allows the men to carry her away. He would like to murder them all, but settles for barking at the women who dart after him and dare to reach for the laces of his breeches. After all, he has nothing to fear. For that night, she gives him the gift she has given no other, and will give no other after him.
iiii.
They are eager and intense lovers in their newly wedded state, and it does not take long for his seed to quicken, and a babe blooms from their love. When he learns the news, he is met with a storm of such conflicting emotions, the likes of which he has not felt since before peace found him on the Isle. There is happiness, of course, for it is a piece of her and a piece of him brought together and made into one. To watch her swell with his babe gives him a pride he cannot explain. Her happiness reflects his own, for that’s all he has ever wanted: to see her happy.
But there is also fear. Fear that he will lose her to the birthing bed as he had lost his own mother, fear that he will let the child down as his own father had done him, a fear that the babe could be anything like him, like Gregor had been. She assures him there is nothing to worry about. He is a wonderful husband, and will of course make a wonderful father, and their children would represent new life in the North. Still the doubt lingers ever-present in the back of his mind, even in blissful moments when they lie in bed, and he presses a palm against her belly, and feels the fluttering of a tiny life.
One late night his wife wakes him with a shake, and he knows from the urgency in her eyes that it is time. She labors for hours. He paces the empty hall outside the door, hands folded behind him, and tries uselessly to drown out the sounds of her screaming, until the sun peaks over the horizon. When the screaming stops, so does his heart, only to resume again when he hears the faint cry of an infant shatter the silence.
When the maester bids him enter, his little bird is perched up in bed, beaming down at the bundle in her arms. Her skin is pale except where it darkens under her eyes, her hair is tangled, and she shines with sweat, but she’s holding his child and she’s never looked more beautiful to him.
“Come, my love.” She beckons him, and he goes to stand by her side. She tilts the babe so that he might see. “Meet your daughter.” She whispers softly, breathless. “Isn’t she amazing?”
Yes, he wants to say. She is the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. So amazing, that in one fell swoop she stole him, his thoughts, his heart, the very words from his mouth. He knew immediately he would never be the same, and not a notion would ever pass through his mind that did not somehow relate to her.
The little bird looks up into his eyes then, smiling. Affectionately, he pushes away the hair clinging to the side of her face, and he feels his throat constricting when she says, “Here, you hold her.” She extends the babe out towards him. He kneels by the bed, breath held tight, as the little pup is placed in his arms.
Cautious, he studies her tiny face, her tiny mouth, and her big eyes that blink up at him. Blue like her mother, fearless like her mother.
He doesn’t feel his shoulders shaking, or the warm wetness sliding down his cheeks, nor does he notice when the maester and the maids exchange gentle smiles with their Lady and wordlessly take their leave. He is too immersed to pay them attention, cradling the small body to his chest, whispering words he never thought he would ever say, and wondering how he will ever be able to thank his wife for this gift, the greatest he has ever received. Distantly, he hears bells begin to ring.