Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Game of Thrones. Thank you so much for all the interest in this story. It has been a great experiment and challenge balancing the book characters, show characters and where I think the show could go, and I've really enjoyed writing this. There will be an Epilogue from Sansa's POV after the end of this chapter, set several months after the series ends. Hopefully, it will be finished before Game of Thrones comes back in April.

Summary: "By what right does the Wolf judge the Lion?"

Jamie Lannister was a far-cry from the boy who joined Aerys Targaryen's Kingsguard all those years ago. Then he had dreams of valor before him and the likes of Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon, to live up to. Life had taken away his faith in such naïve institutions as justice and honor, and the fate of the Starks had only reinforced the fact that in the real world life was cruel, the gods ruthless and only the strong prevailed.

But Jon Snow, Ned Stark's bastard, might be just enough to restore a little of what he'd lost.

The Lion of Lannister

A frigid breeze blew off the Trident and Tumblestone Rivers, where they met in a froth of foam and encircled the tall and nigh-impregnable walls of Riverrun, traditional seat of House Tully.

Jaime Lannister sat his fidgety warhorse and contemplated the leaping trout on a red and blue shield that once more flew over the ramparts of the fortress. It had been many weeks since he had left Cersei and Kings Landing, since the first snows began to fall in the south, and he was no closer to reaching Winterfell than he had been at the start, but he could not say that the time had been ill-spent. Lord Edmure Tully once again commanded the Riverlands, whose burned and ravaged lands and scattered people were once again free of Lannister control and slowly being united in purpose.

When word had reached Edmure that his nephew and nieces once more held the North and that they faced an impossible foe now that the Wall had fallen, the Lord of Riverrun's duty had been clear. 'Family, Duty, Honor,' were their words, and now what forces the depleted and war-torn Riverlands could muster were gathered in the plains surrounding Riverrun and in final preparation for a hard march North to join House Stark in facing this new foe.

Given their pace and his own restless nature, Jaime highly doubted they'd get there in time to do any good. Like as not, they'd arrive to find the castle a ruin, the smallfolk dead, and the remaining Starks turned into White Walkers or other such rot.

He stared at the stone walls again, once more comparing their stout, plain appearance with those further south. The lush, peaceful lands below the Trident, their rolling, green hills and gently, tumbling brooks, made the large, palatial castles there a thing of beauty and a sign of wealth and prestige. Up here, such a palace would look ridiculous. This part of the Riverlands, well used to attacks from the Ironborn, built fortresses instead of castles and palaces. They were used to hard work, deprivation and constant setbacks. Not for the first time did he wonder how the people of the Reach, the Arbor, Dorne and the Crownlands would have coped with the constant warfare the Riverlands had seen in the past decade.

He suspected not half so well.

Another icy breeze wailed over the grey, choppy waters of the twin rivers and dug through his cloak, armor and smallclothes. He shivered and wondered exactly how cold it was in the North if even the Riverlands was covered in drifts of snow, the bare trees of its forests festooned in icicles, and its smaller rivers already frozen solid.

A horn sounded on the plains before the castle walls, soon taken up by another and then another. Sitting in Riverrun's outer courtyard, the bustle of knights, men-at-arms, archers and servants a constant hum around him, Jaime could see across the lowered wooden bridge the thousands of men, and even many women, who were slowly gathering together in some type of orderly formation under the stern, watchful eyes of sergeants and commanders and, even more importantly, their yelling.

Ravens flew overhead, sending out messages to every keep in the Riverlands and ordering them to muster what men and supplies they had and march North towards Winterfell. Only a bare bones contingent would stay to guard the Riverlands themselves. Jaime had counseled against this approach, wary that Cersei and Daenerys Targaryen, now engaged in open warfare against each other in the Crownlands, might seize this opportunity to take the undefended keeps of the Riverlands. Cersei was their father's daughter after all; she would not allow such a prime opportunity to go to waste.

But he had been overruled by Lady Roslyn Frey Tully.

The girl had certainly grown a spine since the death of almost all her male relatives, and her assumption to the position of acting Lady of Riverrun. "We will remain," she informed him shortly, indicating the many women, both noble and commoner, who were gathered in the Hall. "And our lands will still be ours when you return."

Jaime, staring around at those elegant, beautiful or small feminine figures, unused to fighting, protected always by their menfolk, had been deeply skeptical, but saw no point in belaboring the issue. The Riverlands were not his concern any longer, only the enemy that moved down from beyond the Wall was.

Now, Lady Roslyn walked down the ice-covered stone steps from the main keep, snow drifting down and settling in her pale brown hair and the warmly swaddled babe in her arms. Lord Edmure bent down from his own warhorse, a magnificent bay, and kissed her square on the mouth before brushing leather-clad fingers over the cheeks of his infant son. The elder son, his first child, toddled behind its mother, one hand firmly clasped in that of his Septa.

Two sons, when old Walder Frey, the gods spit upon his black soul, now had none. Perhaps there was some justice in this benighted world after all.

"Winter came for House Frey," the smallfolk in the Riverlands said about the matter – the complete destruction of an entire House a little over a year past already – when asked, and their eyes looked North when they did so. Jaime thought the words no more than a saying, brought on by the advent of snow and freezing weather, but he had dreamed of Robb Stark last night, the one they still called the Young Wolf here, and the words the previous King in the North had sent to his father during the War of the Five Kings.

Tell Lord Tywin that Winter is coming for him.

He had always thought the words of the Great Houses empty boast, nothing more, for all that every Lannister compared themselves to a lion and put blasted lions on everything they owned. It was certainly the case for the other houses, but he was not so sure about House Stark any longer. Send them south and they ended up betrayed and murdered – he could still hear the screams of Brandon Stark in his nightmares – but as winter came, they grew ever stronger.

Jon Snow, standing in the dragon pit outside of Kings Landing in that ridiculous fur-lined cloak of his, had been completely different from the sullen bastard boy he remembered from Winterfell all those years ago. The King in the North had been clear-eyed, battle-scarred and filled with a burning, righteous anger that Jaime could feel even from several feet away. He was a man to watch and a man to respect.

He remembered Robb Stark and his giant wolf standing before him as he'd been a prisoner of the Starks; the cold fury and single-minded purpose which radiated off the Stark king. The boy king who had been the greatest commander of all those in the War of the Five Kings; more daring than Stannis, more innovative than Tywin Lannister, more righteous than Renly.

He wondered how differently the war would have gone had Jon Snow and not Robb Stark's Tully relatives and the traitorous Roose Bolton been beside him. He suspected that the two Stark boys would have taken the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms between them.

He wondered what the other Starks, the lame boy he'd pushed from the window and the two daughters, were like now. He vaguely remembered Lady Sansa as a pale, silent, vaguely pretty girl with the personality of a wet limpet, but the other two he could not recall at all.

Unwillingly he though again of Cersei's children…his children; cruel, twisted Joffrey, murdered so terribly, Tommen who had been manipulated and controlled his whole life, until death was the only way out, and sweet, stubborn Myrcella, who had been the best of them all, and yet poisoned in the games of people who should have been protecting her.

He stopped himself before he could wonder about the babe still in Cersei's womb – if it had died there, if it was a boy or a girl, if she would even tell it his name. A part of him, a part he had thought long dead and gone, hoped it was a girl as beautiful as Cersei, with the ability to defend herself as well as Brienne of Tarth, the proud warrior woman he still counted as a friend.

He hoped that one day, if he made it through this war, he might see the child, whoever it turned out to be, and tell it he loved it, no matter what.

Unwillingly he looked back over at Lord and Lady Tully again, watching Edmure's proud form as he swung back upright in his saddle and raised a gloved fist. At his command the rest of the knights and men-at-arms mounted. Lady Roslyn's hair blew in the breeze, streaming out around her in a silky halo, and her skits whipped out as well. There were tears on her cheek, but her chin was raised high and she looked proud and firm as she watched her lord give the command.

Edmure road out from Riverrun and did not look back. His household thundered over the bridge behind him. Lady Roslyn and her two sons stayed until he vanished from sight, and she met Jaime's eyes as she turned away. A look was all they shared, but Jaime nodded at her, a silent promise. I will keep your husband alive if I can, he swore to her.

He had been the cause of too much death in his life. Perhaps he could make some of it right by keeping the remaining members of Lady Catelyn's family alive; she had given him his life back after all, even if that had not been her intent, and something was owed her memory in return.

It was Brienne who had found her daughters and was now protecting them. Jaime would have to walk his own path.

He turned away from Riverrun at last, kicked his horse's flanks, and they were off, pounding over the bridge, the snow-crusted fields and into the woods to the north, heading towards Winterfell and his long-awaited foe.

He dreamed of Cersei at night; the golden shine of her hair, the flashing green of her eyes, that smile she reserved only for him. He had felt admiration for other women at times, even appreciated their beauty, but Cersei was the only woman he had ever desired. She had been since they were children; fierce and willful and dangerous even then, like a wild horse, or a sudden storm, or a battle. Most times he didn't know whether she wanted to kiss him or kill him, and the uncertainty had always been an aphrodisiac greater than anything else except a straight-up fight ever was.

She was his queen, his other half, his…. she was his. And she always would be. Even though he now feared the paths she chose to walk.

He woke shivering, his fur-lined cloak still not sufficient to block the cold. There wasn't enough time to make camp at night, not at the pace Edmure wanted to keep, and so they slept under the stars, or a sky filled with snow-clouds, and wrapped themselves in leather and fur, huddled together to keep from freezing to death. Around him the men on watch kept the fires roaring, bawdy songs being sung by those who were drunker than they were supposed to be. But they were going off to war, the last war, and no one begrudged them the liquid courage they found in ale and the last of the summer wine.

The taste of Cersei's mouth still lingered on his lips.

He staggered up and wandered over to the nearest fire. No one huddled close to him for warmth at night; the Kingslayer was a pariah even among those going off to die together, and the group at the fire moved over hastily to leave a wide space for him.

A coarse-faced, middle-aged woman with gleaming dark eyes passed over her wineskin without comment though, before going back to her task of fletching more arrows. Jaime took a large swig, choking on the foul-tasting, fiery liquid to the great mirth of those around him.

The woman pounded him on the back, chortling, and accepted her foul brew back with a shake of her head.

"Any news?" he asked the men around him, his voice hoarse. Their faces gleamed ruddy and watchful in the firelight, and there was wariness as they gazed at him.

"Aye," one of them said, but no further words were forthcoming. The lone woman silently handed him her wineskin again. Jaime took another large swig, no longer minding the burning sensation down his throat, before he staggered up and away from them, in pursuit of Lord Edmure or his Maester; there was news and he was not going to like it.

He didn't speak to anyone for the rest of the journey. Silent to the point of surliness, the ever-growing procession of those winding their way North left him alone. Alone with his memories and his demons.

Your sister tried to burn Kings Landing down to the ground.

Thousands are dead between dragon fire and wildfire.

The queen has fled, or is dead, and Daenerys Targaryen now rules the ashes.

And the babe? He hadn't asked. Part of him wished he had stayed by her side; they would have died together as they had lived together. But a larger part of him knew that he couldn't have stood by to watch as his sister burned thousands alive. He had betrayed his honor all those years ago, his word, his oath, anything that mattered, to stop Mad King Aerys from burning that cursed city down; to save those people.

He wouldn't have been able to watch Cersei do the same thing now, but he wouldn't have been able to kill her either.

Around him the winds whipped, the snow continued to fall, and at night the wolves howled. Every Keep they passed since cross the Neck was deserted and the silence was oppressive. They saw no one; no smallfolk, no Stark soldiers, and no wights.

Jaime began to long for even a White Walker to appear; he preferred a straight-up fight to all this creeping along and waiting for the worst to happen. Yet nothing did; there was only the silence, the vast emptiness of the North, the cold, harsh landscape that stretched for hundreds of miles in all directions and seemed incapable of supporting any kind of life at all.

One day, a fortnight's journey north along the Kingsroad from Moat Cailin, Edmure Tully pulled up beside him. He looked gaunt beneath his furs, the Northern cold hard even on a Riverlands man. They road together in silence for a long while. Winterfell was no more than a day's journey away and it seemed that not a soul remained in all the North.

Jaime had felt eyes watching him from the shadowy trees now for days; watchful, unfriendly eyes. And he remembered the old stories of the North his Septa used to tell him and Cersei and Tyrion in the nursery, with their trees that could see everything and the giants that still roamed the mountains. He had given no credence to the stories when he'd grown, but then he'd never believed in White Walkers or an army of the dead either. Or even in dragons for all that Robert had continuously showed off their skulls like he had personally killed any of them, and Aerys had decorated his Hall with their remains.

"Do you think anyone is left?" Lord Tully asked after a while.

They shared a strange bond, these two men who had been divided by war and family their entire lives; somehow connected by the life of a woman they'd respected.

A wolf howled again, a long way away.

Jaime shrugged, his frozen leather cracking as he did so. He was chilled through to his bones and vaguely wondered if he would ever get warm again. Tyrion had once told him that the men on the Wall soon forgot the memory of warmth, that winter lived in their bones. What a grim, inhospitable place the North was if even the summer was like this, and now that winter had come, he could not imagine any reason people would stay here.

He shrugged again, bringing his mind back to Edmure's question. "If they are or aren't, it doesn't matter. We came here to fight White Walkers; better here than down South."

Edmure nodded but looked around unsurely at the silent, white, snow-covered world that surrounded the marching army. This place was alien to them both. Perhaps a Stark would feel at home here, but they did not.

"My Uncle would say," Edmure said quietly, "that only a fool fights on territory he does not know."

Jaime's laugh was a harsh, rasping thing and surprised them both. "No matter where we fight them, we'll be on unfamiliar territory."

A wolf howled again, closer this time, and Jaime's horse whinnied uneasily. Lord Patrek Mallister cantered up, his armor emblazoned with the silver eagle on a purple field the denoted his House, reining in his horse and showering them in a shower of snow. "Wolves, milord," he panted. "They're getting closer."

Lord Tully looked around him uneasily. They had been lucky with wolves so far, the size of their caravan more than enough to deter even the large, ravenous bands that roamed the lands encased in winter. But if these wolves were starving….

Jaime had heard the rumors that plagued the Riverlands, of a huge she-wolf that prowled the lands, leader of a pack that numbered in the hundreds. "Move the caravan together," he ordered Lord Mallister firmly. "I want the pikemen reinforced by archers surrounding the entire damn thing five minutes ago."

Lord Mallister briefly hesitated, looking to his overlord for confirmation, and when Edmure nodded, he turned his horse and galloped off southwards, shouting orders up and down the extended line of soldiers. Lord Tully shook his head worriedly as another wolf howled, this time coming from the south. "We're too spread out," he said, "we'll never make it in time."

"Yes, we bloody well will," Jaime snapped, kicking his horse's flanks, he began galloping northward towards the front of the line, shouting exhortations and curses as he went. His armor might be plain and dull, typical northern wear, but his golden hair and proud bearing still gave away that he was a Lannister, a lion of the south, the Kingslayer, and his reputation preceded him. Men and women hurried faster, getting in line despite the cold that seeping in their bones and the tiredness of weeks of hard marching.

Wolves howled on all sides as Jaime pulled up at the front of the line, Edmure hard on his heels. The Kingsroad lay before them, empty and silent, entirely covered in huge drifts of snow that moved in the harsh, northern wind. Shapes moved through the bare trees on all sides, fast, swift-footed shapes. Jaime could not follow them with his eyes, but he knew there were more wolves than there he had ever seen in one place before.

"Hold the line!" Edmure Tully shouted, over the whinnying of frightened mounts and goats and sheep that the army had brought with them. The call was taken up by the other commanders and lords, with Lady Joslin Mooton of Maidenpool setting herself and her followers the task of protecting the baggage which housed their grain and stores.

The wolves howled, close and terrifying.

The snow fell from the leaden sky in soft drifts, limiting Jaime's field of view to know more than a hundred paces in any direction. He squinted his eyes. Down the Kingsroad he could just make out a dark shape. The figure grew, darkening and massive through the white of the snow, and his he drew his sword, eyes widening as he beheld the largest wolf he'd ever sheen, twice the size of even Greywind, Robb Stark's direwolf.

The grey wolf's teeth were barred in a snarl and it prowled towards them in graceful, menacing silence.

Edmure drew in a shocked breath and someone behind Jaime cursed.

"Seven Hells," Edmure breathed, "is that….." He started forward and Jaime's harsh exclamation to hold came too late.

Jaime had been so taken with the wolf that he'd failed to spot the smaller figure at its side; a very human figure. Now he could see it clearly, dressed in the brown and blue leathers of the northmen, a fur-lined cape attached over one shoulder, leaving the dominant hand free to swing the small rapier attached at the figure's side.

It was a girl, a girl-woman, with shoulder-length dark hair pulled back in the Stark style traditionally worn by the men of that House. Her face was snow-white pale and her blue eyes blazed, while one hand was kept warningly on her sword. Her pale, cold eyes were fixed on Jaime.

"Arya?" It was Lord Edmure's voice. He'd stopped several paces ahead of Jaime, plainly unsure of what his eyes were telling him. He'd also never met his niece, but the girl-woman before him was dressed in the colors of House Stark and she looked so like Lyanna, with that dark hair and the small, fine-boned features of her face, that she could be no one else.

She looked like Jon Snow, her half-brother.

Finally, the girl-woman took her unsettling eyes off Jaime and took in Edmure Tully, the red and blue of his raiment, the banners of the lords who road behind him. "Uncle Edmure," she said, and Jaime knew he wasn't imagining the sudden lessoning of tension in Lord Tully's shoulders. She did not remove her hand from her sword. "Bran said that he'd seen you coming but was unsure when you'd arrive." Her cold eyes swung back towards Jaime. "And he failed to mention in what company."

Lord Edmure turned and looked back over at Jaime. The wolves had fallen silent but the Kingsalyer knew that they were still there. For a moment the world seemed to hold its breath. Jaime knew he was surrounded on all sides by people who had no cause to wish him well; Northmen and Rivermen and even some from the Vale of Arryn.

Arya Stark had been there when Jaime's sister and son took Ned Stark's head. There were rumors she'd been there when the Red Wedding took her mother and brother, her sister-in-law, and the unnamed Stark babe Talisa Stark had carried, as well. These had been none of Jaime's doings, but he knew his golden hair marked him as a Lannister and he had done other, even worse, things.

He lowered his sword and, after a moment's hesitation, sheathed it again. If he knew anything about Starks….

"I have come to offer my allegiance and service to your brother, Jon Snow. The King in the North."

Her ice-blue were mistrustful and from the shifting of the men and women behind him he knew that his oath of allegiance counted for little in the minds of those who saw him only as a betrayer of both Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon. "I ask that he decide my fate," he continued and watched the rueful acceptance that stole over her countenance.

She nodded, only once. "My brother will judge your words," she agreed, "but if you betray him, a death being torn apart by wolves will be the most merciful one I'd grant you." She turned away. "Come, Winterfell is just over that ridge." And she vanished into the falling snow, the wolves vanishing with her.

Jaime shivered and tried to hide it. He could see the hesitation even Edmure Tully had in following her. "Old blood flows in the Starks," Jaime heard him mutter, before he raised a hand and ordered the army to continue.

Jaime wondered how even fierce, she-wolf Catelyn Tully had fared among these people, in which something other still ran. He wondered how she had ever fit in in a place so alien.

Jaime and Edmure crested the rise to find Winterfell in the distance, sprawling over the landscape, austere and magnificent, and what they saw made them gasp; all around the ancient fortress, spread in every direction, were hundreds of thousands of sturdy wooden and stone dwellings. Millions of people had gathered here, fleeing from all directions to reach Winterfell. Smoke rose from their chimneys, men and women called to each other and children played in the snow.

Armored northmen and knights of the Vale were everywhere, scouts keeping an eye on any sudden changes in weather, or the first sight of a wight. Despite the freezing cold, the grey skies, the frozen landscape, the implacable enemy before them, these sullen, dour people were…still alive. They were still living.

Eyes swung towards the army from the Riverlands as it crested the hill, people halting in their tasks of fetching water and wood, sharpening weapons, tending fires, roasting meets and the open cauldrons of stew and soup that sent enticing aromas everywhere.

Someone, Jaime knew, had planned brilliantly so that all of these people could be fed, despite the years of winter before them and the wars that had ravaged this place; someone with a keen talent for logistics.

Arya Stark and the largest of the wolves stood waiting for them. Jaime swung off his horse and walked up beside her. "This is…magnificent," he told her, awestruck. There were so many people. He could not believe there were so many. There were more here than Kings Landing.

"This is my sister," Arya Stark said, and there was pride in her voice. "And my brothers," she added, as a contingent of guards wearing Stark armor rode down an open thoroughfare from the distant castle's open gates. A dark-haired man in Stark armor rode at their head. Even from this distance, Jaime could tell that it was Jon Snow.

"Welcome," Arya Stark said, "to Winterfell."

Jaime was allowed to bathe and rest before being brought before the King in the North. He did not choose to hide himself as he stepped through the doors into the Great Hall. He was dressed, not in the white of the Kingsguard, to which he no longer held claim, but in the red and gold of House Lannister, as he had been all those years ago when he'd knelt before Rhaegar Targaryen and been knighted in the service of the realm and the king.

He had dreamed of Cersei again as he dozed in the bath, the warm water fed from Winterfell's underground hot springs. He knew she wasn't dead, he could feel her as he could always feel her. The emerald green of her eyes, that fall of golden hair; she had been all that he dreamed of for so long. Yet, as the warm waters surrounded him, he recalled the sad, resolute eyes of the Stark king, his fair face, the solemn cure of his mouth as he'd greeted Lord Tully and Jaime.

He had been on his way to conduct a sortie; wights had been spotted to the north-east. His great white wolf prowled at his side, and a horse had been brought for Arya, who had unhesitatingly mounted up on her brother's right side.

"We shall talk when I return," Jon Snow had said, his eyes on Jaime were not unkind. He had galloped off and the last Jaime had seen of him was the fall of his dark hair. He'd had to fight with himself not to demand to accompany them. He'd never fought a wight before, would be more hindrance than help with only one hand, and yet the king's words had struck too close to home.

In the bath those sad eyes of the northern king merged into Prince Rhaegar's violet gaze, his handsome, solemn face, the fall of that silver hair. His hand had been warm on Jaime's shoulder, his eyes kind but far away as he'd taken his leave for what turned out to be the last time.

When this battle is done, I mean to call a council. Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago but… Well it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall take when we return.

He had never returned. Jaime had loved Rhaegar Targaryen, admired the Dragon Prince, would have followed him to the gates of Hell itself. Instead, he had let Elia's babes be murdered, done nothing as Rhaegar's wife was violated and killed as well. He had stayed by the side of his family, by Robert Baratheon, as they hunted Rhaegar's younger brother and sister.

He had looked for Rhaegar;s likeness in his sister, Daenerys Targaryen but had not found him. The dragon queen was a conqueror like Aegon of old, but she did not possess Rhaegar's wisdom, his gentle soul, the duty he'd felt towards the realm. Perhaps it was because she'd been raised by Viserys, trained in the cruel, nomadic ways of the Dothraki, but Jaime would not trade one ruthless monarch for another.

Daenerys Targaryen was great and glorious, but she was not a ruler he would die for. He wondered how old Ser Barristan Selmy had thought she was. Perhaps she had changed; it happened to them all.

Now he stepped into Winterfell's Great Hall and took in the two seated figures at the head table. Along either side of the Hall wear wooden tables upon which sat the collective lords and ladies of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale. Candles flickered warm golden light around the massive room and outside all was dark and the snow fell. Night came early in this winter-bound place.

Across from him, seated in regal splendor, was Jon Snow and by his side sat a tall, beautiful, red-haired woman. She looked lovelier than Catelyn Stark had ever been, but Jaime knew that this must be her daughter, Sansa. Sansa Stark's eyes were as coldly blue as Arya's had been. Even now he could see the other two Stark siblings, standing and seated off to one side, but all his attention was fixed on the two figures before him.

Jon Snow stood as he approached, the direwolves emblazoned on his silver breastplate flickering in the candlelight, and his huge fur-cloak, ridiculous-looking in Kings Landing, giving him an air of majesty here in the North.

"Ser Jaime Lannister," he said, his northern brogue pronounced. "Come forward."

Jaime came and stood several paces away from the high table. He had had words prepared for this moment, about common enemies and united purpose and a promise that his word held some meaning. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw Brienne's pale blonde hair and a small figure that might have been Tyrion, but he could not be sure and now was not the time to look. He remembered Ned Stark's scorn when the northern lord had entered the Throne Room in the Red Keep and found him sitting in Aerys' seat and braced himself for harsh words from the second of his sons.

A sudden flurry from behind interrupted him before he'd begun. A slightly worried-looking man in Maester's robes hurried up and bent over Sansa Stark, handing her a rolled parchment with a red wax seal on it. "My queen," she said, "my apologies but urgent word has come from Daenerys Targaryen."

Jon glanced down at the woman by his side, even as Sansa Stark murmured her thanks, and Jaime felt shock course through him. Before he could sensor his loud mouth, the curse of the Lannisters, he said, "You married your sister!" It was an accusation. "So, it's alright when a Stark does it, or even a Targaryen, but the gods and smallfolk curse Cersei and I for it."

Jon Snow's dark eyes moved back to meet his and Sansa Stark's as well, her eyes even icier than before. The silence in the Great Hall was deafening and in it, Jaime definitely heard Tyrion's exasperated sigh.

"Yes, Sansa and I were married," the King in the North said, "but she is not my sister."

At this, the flame-haired northern queen stirred. "At least," Jon Snow amended, "she is not biologically my sister."

Jaime's eyes moved between them, now confused. His gaze moved over towards Edmure, seated close to his nieces and nephew on one of the benches. The Tully lord grimaced but offered no explanation.

"Our father lied to protect me," the king continued. He looked haunted.

Sansa Stark placed a hand on his, her gaze piercing Jaime like steel. "Jon was born as Aegon Targaryen," she said, her clear, bell-like voice hitting Jaime hard, her words ringing through his head over and over. "He is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and our aunt, Lyanna Stark. We are cousins." Like your parents were, she did not need to add.

But Jaime did not care about the impropriety of their match, the hypocrisy of the Starks and their constant judgment of him, any longer. He couldn't take his eyes off Jon Snow and all he could think of was that there was no way this could be true, and yet he could not doubt it, that this Stark boy was actually Rhaegar's son, not Ned's.

He began to laugh, his voice almost hysterical, and could hear the notherners shifting menacingly, the sword hand of the younger Stark girl falling to her blade. He laughed until tears came to this his eyes and he had to wipe them away. "That devious shit," he said, rueful and angry and strangely humbled all at once.

"Your father," he explained at Jon Snow's raised eyebrow. "Stark" he added as the eyebrow rose higher. "We were all so smug about his bastard. About you. The 'honorable' Ned Stark broke his word and betrayed his lady wife. The dirt in the closest, and he'd brought it home with him. Of course, no one could be as honorable as they claimed Ned Stark was, not even Ned Stark! For decades he was a small joke amongst us all and we didn't even think to question his story, because of course everyone does something wrong. See, Ned Stark is the proof of it. It comforted us to know even he had been dishonorable."

He shook his head and laughed harder. "And he knew it." His laughter went on for several more moments before beginning to taper off. "He used it to protect you. The heir to the Iron Throne, in plain sight of his friend, Robert Baratheon. In front of Varys and Baelish and…my father. And no one saw a thing. That cunning old" – fox, he'd been about to say – "wolf," he said at last.

It was a humbling thought to realize that Ned Stark had let his name be smeared, his honor questioned, his reputation humiliated in order to protect the life of his sister's son. It was the kind of thing Jaime had always claimed he'd done in killing Aerys, but Ned Stark had not let one good deed, despised by the people of Westeros though it was, make him bitter. He'd gone on as he always had; as a good man. And he'd raised his sons, real and adopted, to follow in his footsteps.

Jaime dropped heavily to his knees, hearing the murmurs start up through the Hall and ignoring them. He knew what he had to do in this moment – what Ser Arthur Dayne would have done – and drew his sword, one half of Ned Stark's own greatsword, holding it up above his head as he dropped his eyes to the stone floor.

"I served your father, Rhaegar, once long ago. He was…the best of the Targaryens; a man worth following to death and beyond." He looked up and met the king's dark, watchful eyes. "And I would have done so," he said, and hoped that for once, just once, his word was believed.

Jon Snow nodded, but he did not interrupt. Jaime had seen but not realized the resemblance between Rhaegar and Jon, too taken as he had been by the Stark looks the boy had obviously inherited from his mother.

"I offer you my fealty, Jon Snow, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and son of Eddard Stark." The Hall was eerily silent save for the howling of the winter wind. "I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

He could not look away from Jon's gaze. Those dark eyes – so like Rhaegar's and yet so very different – gave nothing away as he looked down at Jaime. Queen Sansa made to interject, say something to her husband and king, but Jon's soft hand on the tips of her fingers forestalled her, like as not, objections.

"And I vow," the king said slowly, never looking away from Jaime, "that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

And Jaime believed him.

"Arise, Ser Jaime of House Lannister," Jon said, but Jaime remained on his knees.

"This sword is yours, my king. It was your father's before you." Widow's Wail was a ridiculous name for a sword. Jaime didn't mention it and hoped Jon would feel the urge to rename the blade.

Yet the king made no move to take the sword from the Kingslayer's grasp. "It is yours," he said, to the astonished murmurs in the Hall. "My father would say that you have earned it." He did not specify whether it was Ned or Rhaegar to whom he was referring. Jaime decided that it might be nice to believe that both might think he had done something right this day; that perhaps he was on the right path at last.

"No get up," Jon Snow said in that direct northern way Jaime thought he'd never get used to. "We have work to do and winter his here."

And for the first time that he could remember, the Hall resounded with cheers for Ser Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer.

It was awhile before Jaime could escape the press of people in the Great Hall to escape outside. The queen, a far cry from the girl Jaime remembered, had been gracious, if still steely-eyed, and Brienne's smile and hug were warm and welcoming. But it was his brother that Jaime most needed to see and, at the first opportunity, he fled the Great Hall in search of him.

Bonfires had been set up around Winterfell's main courtyard and many people were still hard at work despite the rapidly approaching night. Guards patrolling the ramparts called down towards the sortie parties coming back and forth and horns occasionally blew, echoing the calls of wolves that seemed to encircle Winterfell.

Jaime could find no one who had seen his brother though until he came across Arya Stark seated along one of the walls, a blazing bonfire next to her, and three men Jaime did not know surrounding her. She was laughing at something a fierce, red-bearded man was describing, something definitely not fit for a lady's ears as it involved both bears and bollocks, and the red-haired man was definitely a wildling from his attire. A younger man, broad-shouldered with piercing blue eyes that Jaime felt he had seen somewhere before, had an arm slung over her shoulder and was smiling tolerantly.

It was the older man, grizzled and with a hand that was missing several fingers, who saw him first. "If yer lookin' for yer brother, he's up there." The man nodded towards a secondary level to the north. Jaime turned to look.

"Keeping an eye on that dragon I expect," the red-headed man said, his action strange even compared to the northerners.

They have a dragon? Jaime thought.

His surprise must have shown in his face because Arya rolled her eyes, for the first time looking her age. "Jon is a Targaryen after all," she said, "and Rhaegal liked him better than…" she made a face. "Her." A sudden dragon call sound, followed by a rush of wings, and Jaime almost flinched back as a huge, leathery winged beast flew so close past the walls that he could feel the air from its wings. There were cheers from the men-at-arms stationed along the ramparts.

Jaime could see to figures on its back, one with dark hair and one with flaming red.

"Jon's taken Sansa riding," Arya Stark explained, unnecessarily.

Jaime nodded to her, eyes moving back in wonderment at the sight of a dragon over Winterfell, before he nodded at the others and took his leave.

He found Tyrion along a quieter part of the walls – peeing off the edge.

"Some things never change," he called, amused despite himself.

Tyrion didn't even turn around at his approach, finishing his business and then zipping himself up before facing Jaime. "Why break with tradition," he said, and although his eyes looked said his smile was genuine and Jaime dropped to his knees before him and embraced his little brother. The wind was quieter now and the snow had ceased falling for the moment. Even a few stars were visible in a purple-black sky.

"I'm glad you're still alive. When I heard that Daenerys Targaryen flew south again, I worried you'd be going with her."

Tyrion's grip was a bit too tight on his tunic, but Jaime decided not to mention it. "She didn't want me too," the younger Lannister admitted. "Said I'd betrayed her too many times. Jorah went after her, and Varys." He was stiff and avoided Jaime's eyes when he pulled back.

"She was worried you'd betray her?" Jaime asked, surprised. Tyrion's service as Hand of the Queen had been sincere and exemplary as far as he'd been aware, as Cersei had been fond of expounding upon.

Tyrion Lannister's eyes followed Jon Snow and his Stark queen as the two soared on dragonwings through the dark, winter sky. "Strange where we end up in life," he mused at last, meditatively. They could hear Sansa's delighted laughter as they swooped past again and Jaime could see Tyrion's grin, his fond shake of the head, even in the gathering dusk.

"You've always been fond of the Starks," Jaime said, half in accusation and half in comfort to his brother.

"I hold a special place in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things," Tyrion reminded him, and Jaime thought of Tysha and Shae, and even of Daenerys Targaryen and himself.

A cold wind blew from the North, icy in its promise. The Lannister brothers stood there, facing towards the oncoming darkness together. "Do you think we stand a chance?" Jaime asked at last.

The dragon – Rhaegal, Tyrion had informed him – had landed, and Sansa slid off its huge back to be greeted by a host of northern ladies while the king extended a hand to his other sister. Arya jumped up easily, grabbing Jon around the waist and yelling imprecations against him as Rhaegal jumped straight up into the air and took off like a shot.

The queen, her eyes following her siblings, saw Tyrion and Jaime standing together on the wall and she began to move towards them, a politician's knack for spotting potential hearts to win in her regal gaze; Jaime had seen enough of them to know. It reminded him of Margaery Tyrell, and he was reminded that this Stark had been trained in the Southern court, not just in the Northern one.

Cersei was, surprisingly, right to be concerned about these Starks.

Tyrion was watching him with a knowing gaze. "Surprising, aren't they?" he asked, sounding grudgingly amused at his brother's expense.

Jaime shrugged. "I came here expecting to find…." He trailed off. He didn't know anymore what he had expected, only that for the first time since leaving King's Landing he felt a little something like hope.

Tyrion watched Jon Snow fly past once more, the dragon calling and Jon's direwolf, white as the snow, waiting patiently below. Ice and fire, Jaime thought, remembering some of Rhaegar's overhead talks with his first wife, Elia Martell. The flame-haired northern queen joined them and Tyrion turned to smile up at her.

"Yes brother," he murmured, for Jaime's ears alone. "I think we stand a very good chance indeed."

End Notes: I had no idea that Edmure Tully was going to be such a large part of this story, but Jaime has had a lot to do with the Tullys of Riverrun and so I think it fits well with his character growth to aid Edmure and then journey with him north. His meeting with Arya and the wolves also came to me as I was writing it – the only thing I was certain of when starting this chapter was that I wanted to see Jaime arrive at Winterfell and realize that Jon Snow was Rhaegar Targaryen's son – how would he respond given his complicated relationship with Rhaegar, as well as three generations of Stark men, and his derision of them but also this strange need he has for their approval, mixed with a constant search for his own lost honor – and to eventually have him talk with Tyrion again – and so everything else just flowed from that.

And yes, I crafted Jaime's scene before Jon to mirror Brienne's before Sansa in Season 6. I liked the parallels.

Tyrion has also been on the periphery of the past two chapters, but I wanted to bring him back for the end. Strangely, in the show, the Lannisters became as much the main characters as the Starks, and I always adored complicated relationships between siblings.

I think the ending was a bit rushed and too…sentimental? ... Probably. If, after reading it over later, I still think so I'll edit it a bit, but here it finally is.

Thank you all so much for reading! An epilogue set nine months later, will be coming eventually. It will feature Sansa's POV, with Tyrion and Sam as main characters alongside her.