Winter Is Here

PROLOGUE; Jon

The King in the North.

Their cries still echoed in his ears even after night had fallen. Their raised swords still glinted in his eyes, dim in the candlelight, thrust forward to him: our swords are yours. Our life is yours. The north belongs to you, Jon Snow.

Never before had anyone pledged their lives to him. Never before had he been responsible for so many. And the worst of it was, he had no idea how to handle any of it. Robb had been trained for this; Robb had been taught by their father. This was all meant for him. Wintefell, the north, even Sansa. Jon felt like an outsider in his own home.

But it was his home, still. His room was as he had left it; walls bare save for the tapestry of a wolf that hung by his bedside. Father had said that his mother had made it. Jon had forgotten its existence, having thought it was unsuited for the Night's Watch it had been driven from his mind by other things. But here it was, still, after all these years. Frayed and bleached by the sun, but there all the same.

His bed was covered in the same furs that it had been. His dresser and trunk were empty, Rickon having probably taken his things as Jon had told Tyrion to allow. The chair in the corner of the room creaked, still. His windows were still scratched and thick. The door still had a crudely carved J in the bottom left corner.

All the same, and yet so foreign it made his head spin.

The floorboards creaked from behind Jon. He did not bother to turn, because by now he had grown used to the sound of her light footfalls. "Will it be warm enough?" She asked him, voice oddly tremulous.

"I didn't want this," he said quietly, not in answer to her question but in answer to his own unspoken one; do you deserve your fate?

"You can have the Lord's chambers if you want," Sansa offered.

Jon almost smiled. Almost. It was hard not to, which surprised him because for years he had not smiled unless it was Sam or Edd, but here was this sister of his, who had hated him for so long, and at present she was the only one capable of making him feel happiness.

"That's not what I meant," he told her, turning half-way and leaning against the doorframe. "I mean... All of it. I'm no King, Sansa. I don't know the first thing about ruling anything."

Sansa did smile, faintly. She took a step forward, wrapping her cloak tighter around herself. "Nor does any good King," she said. "You are Ned Stark's son. Lyanna was right. His blood runs through your veins—"

"As it does your own," Jon countered. "And Catelyn Tully's does, as well. Don't you think a highborn girl, with two noble parents born within these very castle walls is more suited for the job?"

She outright laughed at that, though Jon didn't know why. It was a bitter sound. Then she met his eyes and he saw that they were like ice; blue and cold, thawed only for him. "You're right," she said. "But you always miss the most obvious point." She paused, tilting her head in a way that reminded him of Arya so suddenly his heart stopped. "A highborn girl, Jon. The northern lords won't rally behind a woman. They barely stood behind Robb — a greenboy before the war. But you..." She bit her lip. "You fought for Winterfell. You deserve this."

"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself," he pointed out, put off by the thought. If even his own sister did not support his claim — what little of it there was — then who truly would? And how could he get by without her? Suddenly he stood straight and faced her. "Sansa, I need you. I can't rule the north without your help. And if... If you don't think I should be King — not really — I don't know if I'll make it or not."

She took his hand, lacing their gloves fingers together. "You're my brother," she said. "True born or not. And you know the north — maybe better than I do after so long. But I know our enemies. What worries me is... Father died at the hands of the Lannisters. You're so focused on the Night's King—"

"He's the true threat, Sansa—"

"No, I know that, I know," her reply was rushed and hurried. "But the northerners will want vengeance. Walder Frey will lives, Cersei still lives — the killers of our family live and breathe while we waste away in winter. And I know that... That there are worse things. But you have to promise me that Father and Mother and Robb will be avenged."

He took a moment, watching her earnest face, and let her words sink in. "They will not be forgotten," he promised her.

She visibly relaxed. "Thank you," she said, and then smiled mischievously, "Your Grace."

Jon rolled his eyes. "'My lord' was bad enough," he muttered.

Sansa laughed. "You're going to be a great King," she said. He could tell that she meant it from her face to her hand tightening around his own.

"How do you know?"

Her eyes flickered to the window, where snow was falling heavily and white. "Father never wanted to be Lord," she said. "He never thought he would be. Brandon was heir to Winterfell, not him. I think... I think it's those that have responsibilities like these thrust upon them that thrive the most, because they have to go further in order to justify what they were given. Or they feel like they do, anyway."

Jon nodded thoughtfully. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek gently. "Goodnight, Sansa."

Once withdrawn to his chambers with the door bolted shut, he stripped down to his small clothes and crawled into bed. His muscles were sore and aching, and his back painfully settled against the mattress.

The wooden canopy above his bed was scratched from when Robb and he had fought with tourney swords as children, hacking wildly with no real training, trying to get a blow in.

Jon pulled the furs around him and closed his eyes. Immediately fire danced across his eyelids, as it did whenever he slept. Fire was all he had seen in the Beyond. Not Robb, or Father, or even Arya, but orange flames dancing against a red sky, almost taunting him.

Then darkness swallowed him.

Promise me, Ned...

"Jon."

Her voice rang out, though the space was open and crowded with trees. It was summer, he realised, by the lack of snow and ice. The grass was green and the spring was no longer frozen. The woman, whom Jon did not recognise, was sitting before the Heart Tree with her cloak spread about her like a pool of dark shadow. She was smiling though her tears, but Jon did not know why she was crying.

At her side was a massive direwolf, with a pelt of grey fur and eyes as blue as that of a White Walker's. The beast was clearly tame; curled around her waist as she ran her pale fingers through its shaggy coat.

"Jon," she said again. The sound of his name on her lips jolted him out of his shock. He faced her, though the hot springs were between them. This woman knew him but he did not know her. "Jon Snow," she whispered, and he thought that this might be his mother.

But she could not be; she looked too much like a Stark. His mother had most likely been some tavern wench.

All of the sudden she laughed. "Oh, a tavern wench was not enough to make my dear brother forget his honour," she said, with the thick accent of a northerner and a grin to match.

'Dear brother', she had said. "You're Lyanna Stark."

It was no question. There was no doubt in his mind. So often had Arya been compared to his Father's sister, and now he saw that it was the truth. "Aye," she said, scooting a little closer. "And you are Jon Snow."

"I'm sorry you died," he told her, feeling as though all of the pressures of propriety and expectations had been lifted from him. He could talk freely with this woman, though as to why he felt that way he was unsure. "I died too, a while ago. But I came back."

"For your family," she said sadly, staring down at her lap. "That's why we've done a lot of things, you and I. But coming back from death? I wish I had had the strength."

"But Father said—"

"That I was a brave fighter?" Lyanna finished. "Aye, it's the truth. But that was before..."

"Jon!"

Her voice trailed away and with her went the godswood. Jon was jerked away from his surroundings into something different; the courtyard of Winterfell. He felt smaller, shorter. And there was Robb, staring at him expectantly in a child's body with the eyes of a man grown. "Jon, who are you going to be?"

Jon looked down at himself; tattered leathers, old boots, and a wooden sword. "A bastard," he said firmly. His voice was younger.

"No," said Robb. "We're playing, remember? You have to be something different. I'm going to be a knight."

"But knights are stupid!" said Rickon, perched on the wooden fence by the pen. "Be something better!"

"A King!" Robb said. "I'll be one of the winter kings!" As he spoke, blood began to seep from his stomach. It dropped onto the ground and formed a puddle around his brother's feet, but Robb did not seem to notice. He smiled, and then the courtyard was gone and they were standing together in the middle of a dining hall, unrecognisable to Jon. "Who will you be, brother?" He said, bleeding and older.

Jon's head felt heavy. He reached up, wooden sword gone and replaced with Longclaw, and found that there was a crown there. "I can't be King," he said firmly, angry at his foolish brother for dying. He rushed to him, he had to stop it, selfish reasons or no. "Robb, you're bleeding!"

He reached out to help, but then Robb was gone.

"Who will you be?"

Jon turned. There was Father, standing in the snow, resting against the ancestral sword of their house; Ice. "Who will you be, Jon?"

"Father," Jon said, choking back tears. "You're dead..."

"Jon," Father smiled, as though he had not spoken. "You are my blood." He nodded as though satisfied with his own words.

"You promised the next time we saw each other we would talk about my Mother," Jon found himself saying, angry at his Father for dying without telling him the truth. Angry at the Lannisters for talking his Father away from him.

He felt four-and-ten again, standing with his Father in the depths of the crypts of Winterfell, and as he thought it somehow it came to be. Darkness surrounded them both but for the light of a torch on a sconce. The effigy of Lyanna stood in front of them. Father and Jon stared at her stone hands, which held a handful of blue winter roses. "You are a song," said Father, touching her cheek.

"Who is the third head, friend?"

Tyrion Lannister was standing on the edge of the Wall, grinning up at Jon with dark eyes. "Tyrion?"

"Not truly," said the dwarf, and so they walked together. "The dragon has three heads, remember that."

Jon shook his head. "If you were truly my friend, why did you not save my sister? Why did you not help Sansa more than you did?"

"How could I, without getting her killed?" He sounded regretful.

"You could have sent her to me sooner," Jon countered.

Tyrion smiled impishly. "She is not a dragon. She is a wolf."

"So am I."

Then Tyrion dipped back against the ice ledge and fell. Jon madly reached out to try and catch him, but his hand caught nothing. There was nothing falling, only him.

Diving through the air, through the darkness, through the ash. There was blood everywhere. A bed of blood; a river of blood. An axe in his chest. His silver hair was stained with red, and there were rubies all around him. "If only you could see how foolish I was," he said. "If only you knew how much I would have loved you."

Then Maester Aemon was looking down on him, dressed in black and as scrawny as ever. "Get up, Jaehaerys."

What?

"Get up." He held out a pale white hand. Jon started to shake, the river was so cold. "Up, Jaehaerys, up."

"Jon!"

He shot up in his bed, as quick as lightning, and looked madly to the door. Sansa stood there, holding a lantern. The candle was half-way gone but still he could see her pale, frightened face. Dream forgotten, he frowned. "Are you alright?"

"Am I?!" She demanded, rushing over to him and sitting at his bedside. The mattress dipped. "Jon, you were shaking."

He blinked, and then pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to recall the last vestiges of the dream before they faded away. But most were gone, leaving only the impression of warmth and sadness. "I'm sorry," he told his sister, regretful that he had worried her.

She cupped his cheek. There was a line between her eyebrows which meant that she was concerned. Her hand was cold against his flushed face. His tunic was soaked in sweat. "Are you going to be alright? You feel warm..."

He shook his head to clear it. "I'm fine," he said. Suddenly it occurred to him that it was still the dead of night, and here she was. "Did you need something?" He asked, careful not to sound impatient.

"I couldn't sleep," she said. "My room smells like Mother."

He probably shouldn't have laughed, but he did. Soon she was laughing with him, woes dissipated. "Lady Catelyn always did have a distinctive smell," he jested, feeling lighter than he knew he should have.

Sansa huffed, smiling. "I just mean... It's like she's almost there. Like the gods are teasing me. Every time I close my eyes I think she might be there when I wake up."

"The gods can be cruel," he said, laughter forgotten. "Where will you sleep?"

"Not my old room," she said quickly. "And I can't sleep in any of the others..." She drew in a sharp breath, eyes shining with unshed tears. Jon watched as she dipped her head in shame.

"Hey," he took her hand. "It's alright. You can sleep here." He kissed her brow as he had done before and she nodded, wiping her cheek. "You don't need to hide your tears, Sansa. We've lost so much... It's not like I don't understand."

He moved over so that she could sit beside him and watched as she buried herself under his furs, much like a child again. He recalled the days when she had begged him to sneak her lemon cakes from the kitchens, so small and innocent, and after they would share the treat while he told her stories of brave knights and worse kings. But those days were long gone, buried behind years of 'bastard' and 'half-brother.'

Arya had never called him either.

Jon hated himself for comparing the two, but it was hard not to when they were so different. Sansa had always been gentle and sweet, and now she was like tempered steel. Arya... Arya had been wild and bold and brave. What was she like now, he wondered? Was she still alive?

Sansa pulled him out of unsaid fears by resting her head on his shoulder. "Are you tired?" He asked her.

"No," she said, to his surprise. And then, after a moment, she sighed. "They're never going to come back."

"Who?"

"Any of them," Sansa replied bitterly. "Bran or Arya, or anyone else we knew. They're all dead."

Jon closed his eyes. "No," he said. "I won't believe that." He knew that she didn't, either. She was just trying to save herself the pain.

Sansa pulled the covers up to her chin. "I'm not asking you to," she said.

"If they're alive, they'll come," Jon told her. "We took back the North. They have a home to return to. They'll hear soon enough."

Sansa looked up at him. For a moment, she seemed small and young; her own age, not like the impenetrable, stubborn lady she had been these past few months. He missed Sansa as she had been before; carefree and trusting. And it hurt him deeply that she had gone through anything to change that nature.

He realised then that he would have done anything to make her pain lessen, even if it meant her calling him 'bastard' once more.

"The wolves will come again," Sansa whispered, settling into the crook of his neck. Ghost jumped up on the bed from where he had been laying by the window and curled up between them, wagging his tail.

Jon smiled, and fell back to sleep.

By the time the sun had risen, Jon had been awake for an hour. He had written a letter to Edd for the Wall, with a promise of more men as soon as he could manage. A raven had come from the immovable Lord Howland Reed, with kind words of Jon's father and a promise to remain loyal. He had also claimed to have reinforced guards along the edge of the Neck, close to the Twins.

Sansa lay under the furs, still; bundled up in a ball. Her face was white, and hair near like fire when the sun hit it. He woke her soon, and she demanded to read the letter from Lord Reed.

"This is good," she said, sitting on the trunk at the end of his bed. "This means that we have almost the whole of the North."

Jon nodded. "Aye," was all he said.

Sansa smiled thinly, curling the paper round her fingers. "He was Father's friend," she said quietly. "If there's one House in the North I think we can trust to be loyal bannermen, it's the Reeds."

Jon nodded. He leaned up against the stone wall of his room, closest to the window. He had cracked it open just a touch so that the winds of winter were playing across each of their faces. Outside, all was covered in a blanket of white; the courtyard, the trees — stretching for as far as he could see.

"Do you think he will come to Winterfell?"

Jon looked back at Sansa. "Lord Reed?"

She nodded, staring down at the scratchy handwriting. "He hasn't left Greywater Watch since Robert's Rebellion," she reminded him. "But how will we know if he's truly loyal?"

Jon shifted his footing. "Father once told me that if anything ever happened, to him or Winterfell, I was to go to Greywater Watch and seek out Lord Reed; he said that he would help me." Jon paused. "I don't think that Father would say something like that unless he was absolutely sure."

"Probably not," agreed Sansa. "What about all of the other houses? They call you King, but they didn't fight for us."

"And they regret that," Jon said, suddenly fierce. She blinked at his tone and straightened. Jon, weary, leaned back once more. "They are loyal, as you said. But they were afraid, Sansa; afraid of losing a war they had already lost."

"They should've had more courage than that," she shot back. "They fought for Robb. Robb died. But even after he was gone, there was still Bran, still Rickon."

Jon closed his eyes, head throbbing. "Aye, but what could two small boys have done? Bran, a cripple. Do you think we would have won any war with him at the head of our army?"

Sansa set the letter down on the old bedside table and adjusted his blankets around her shoulders. "No," she said after a few moments, "but nonetheless, there's still so much to be done. Not only do we have the Night's King to worry about, but the Riverlands are still undefended. Those are Mother's lands. If I'm to do right as her daughter, I must help them."

Jon beamed with pride. She noticed, flushed, and smiled tentatively back. "You're going to be an excellent Lady of Winterfell."

"Does that mean you intend to leave?" Sansa demanded, sounding almost afraid. "Because... Winterfell is the seat of the North. I don't think you should be going anywhere just yet. Not until we've at least formed some sort of a strategy—"

"I'm not leaving," Jon assured her, and she stopped her pacing to stare at him. "I'll stay as long as you'll have me."

"I'd have you until your bones rest in the crypt," she replied promptly. And then she rushed across the room and enveloped him in a hug. He held her as she trembled, and wiped away her tears as soon as they fell. "I meant what I said; you're my brother. You're a Stark and this is your home."

AN: Right, that's a wrap on the prologue of Winter is Here, of which I have many chapters written, already. The rating is probably going to go up, but we'll see.