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An icy wind whistled meekly through the trees. It was cold, even for the North, biting at his face and freezing in his beard like the drops of widow's tears. Jon Snow pulled his chin to his chest, bustled his furs closer around him, and continued his trek.

The stairs creaked below him, an ominous and comforting sound. His gloved hands brushed against the stone walls of the tower as he went on his journey up, up to the top of the world, his father used to say. But Jon had stood on the top of the world, and this view did it no justice.

The sun had not yet risen over Winterfell, and the trees looked like black, macabre claws, pulling against the moon. Plumes of smoke rose in the west, gray against the black of the dawn. The scent of the burning dead men had long been carried away by the wind, and before he had gone to give himself to sleep, a man had asked him if he should crush out the embers. "Best to leave it, just to be sure," Jon had said. The man had nodded and left, and Jon paused until he was sure he was alone to shudder. Yes, he would leave the embers burning until every bone is blackened to dust, to be safe.

His boots crunched softly in the snow as he slowly meandered the battlements of his home, his eyes peeled for any movement. The castle would begin to wake and stir soon enough, but he was glad for the few moments of peace. The dawn was quiet, but as the pink of the sun began to show through the forest, he heard a rustling by the open door.

Ghost padded out to greet him, silent as the grave. He was so quiet that Jon scarcely believed him real, save for the prints his monstrous paws left in the snow. Real spirits did not leave footprints, he thought, and he knew Ghost had made a ruckus as not to frighten him. Jon pulled off his glove and reached out a hand, and his wolf met him with the top of his head. Jon's fingers sank into his fur, warming them instantly. Ghost did not make a sound, but Jon could feel the vibrations of his contentment. "Come to say good morning before you run off again?" Jon murmured softly, his voice sounding hoarse. How long had it been since he had last used it?

Ghost shuffled closer to him, lending his warmth, and staring out across the parapets with his master. His ears swiveled this way and that, his nose tasting the morning. He was alert, on edge, watching the horizon, but for what?

"What is it, Ghost? Is something coming?" Jon cleared his throat so that he may sound stronger. His wolf turned to look at him then, and red eyes burned into black. An understanding passed between them. No one knew what came for them at Winterfell, but the two of them would face it together.

"Go on, then," Jon said, smirking and pulling at Ghost's ear. His wolf looked at him again, and he seemed loathe to leave. "Go on," Jon said again, waving him away, "go and have a good romp. Kill something for me." Ghost leaned into his master once more, and then he was gone, slinking down the stairs like a great white shadow. He appeared again, far below, darting through the broken gates and taking half the field in a single bound. Jon watched him disappear into the trees as a flock of crows ascended into the sky, screeching their displeasure at being disrupted.

Jon smiled slightly and leaned out on the battlement again. He felt the sun spill over his face, welcoming its slight warmth, but soon another chilling breeze came and washed it away.

Jon flexed his shoulders, an uncomfortable feeling twisting in his gut. His hand traveled to his chest, and down, skimming over his black leathers. One, two, three, four, five, he counted, feeling the slightly raised skin of his scars. I did what I thought was right, and I got murdered for it.

Jon shuddered and gasped, gulping the frigid air into his lungs, as his own words came back to him. He wondered how many more times he would make the honorable choice, and another voice in him questioned how many more times he would be killed for it.

Soft footfalls woke him from his reverie, and Jon turned to see his squire fidgeting in the doorway of the tower, hands clasped behind his back. Dennas Mormont was a slight, weasel of a boy, nigh on fifteen years old and cousin to the Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Isle. Lyanna had asked Jon herself to give the honor to her cousin, and he could not say no to the little Lady. The boy's mouse brown hair was tousled, flat on one side and poking up in all ways on the other, his eyes blurred with sleep. He was still nervous around Jon, so he smiled, his eyes gentle.

"Good morning, Dennas," Jon said, his tone like he was speaking to a feral cat, "does someone have need of me?"

Dennas shivered, his hands still clasped behind his back. Jon imagined his knuckles white.

"A raven came for you this morning, y-your Grace," Dennas stammered, focusing on Jon's face, somewhere around his nose. "It was given to Lord Seaworth, he awaits you in the throne room." It was all Jon could do not to snort. If Davos had heard himself called 'Lord Seaworth', the frightened boy would never live it down.

"Thank you Dennas, that will be all," Jon said in a more clipped tone, "fetch my breakfast from the kitchens, would you, and pick something up for yourself as well."

The boy bowed, and turned on his heel, jumping down the stairs two at a time. He was growing on him, Jon thought, though Dennas was a little too submissive for his taste.

Jon took one more long look at the land before him. The sun had risen fully and was shining over the snowy hills, giving them a sheen like a million million diamonds rotating in the light. The beauty of it was short lived, as thick, black clouds soon came to devour the sun and what little warmth it brought with it.

He walked slowly across the yard of Winterfell, his boots kicking dust from the frozen earth. Everywhere he turned, the people bowed, inclined their heads, muttering "your Grace" in his presence. They had named him King, but he felt no more than a forlorn bastard in this place he had called home.

The castle of Winterfell was always warm. As Jon meandered through the twisting halls, he pulled his furs from his back and slung them across his arm. The doorway to the throne room loomed over him, and before he entered, he took pause.

The little light of the morning shone through the great iron windows, glancing across the rough wooden longtables that lined the sides of the hall. The great chandelier was lit with a hundred candles, their flames dancing across the walls like shadowcats chasing their prey. Jon drank in the familiarity of the place, feeling evermore the outsider, looking in on what should not be his.

His throne, for lack of better name, was but a tall wooden chair with sloping sides, and a roughspun cloth to cushion it. It seemed to stare at him from across the long room, foreboding and inviting.

Jon felt a hand on his shoulder and turned, too fast. His sister was standing there, her blue eyes wide with caution, lips parted in surprise. "Sansa," Jon said in a breath, his shoulders sagging in relief, "forgive me, you caught me by surprise." Her fiery red hair was twisted away from her face, held in place with black iron pins. The rest of it was braided in a thick plate down the middle of her back. The dress she wore was of blue fabric, with the gray wolf of the Stark house emblazoned across her chest. Sansa laid an ungloved hand on his arm. "Of course," she said, placating, "no, forgive me, I should not have approached so quietly, the Gods know you've been jumpy as of late."

Her smile was dazzling, surely she meant it only in jest, but Jon realized that his sister was right. He had been tense, on edge, flinching at every shadow for the last several days. Everyone moved about him with the air and ease of safety, but Jon knew better; their safety was only temporary, and more danger was to come.

But for Sansa, Jon smiled, and offered his arm to her, which she gladly took. "Did you sleep well, sister?" He asked, escorting her past the long tables, under the blazing chandelier, to the head table. She paused for a moment and then said, brightly, "I did, yes. And you, brother?"

Jon wondered idly if he should lie. Sansa, however, got there first.

"Or, perhaps, did you spend your night wandering the keep again?"

Jon smirked, eyeing Sansa briefly. He knew by her grin that he need not answer.

Jon released her, pulling the throne-chair out for her to sit. Sansa paused. "That is not a chair for me, Jon, as I am not a king." Her tone was playful, but he saw a flash of something else in her eyes. Before he could decipher what he was seeing, Sansa grinned again, pulled out the smaller chair to his right, and sat. She patted he arm of the throne-chair, willing him to take it.

With an air of reluctance, Jon sat in his throne-chair, and almost immediately Dennas was there, placing his food in front of him. The rough metal plate was filled with bread soft from the oven, the crust still steaming. The cooks has outdone themselves. Blood sausage swam in a thick gravy, and a rasher of bacon float atop it like a raft. Jon nodded to Dennas in thanks, and began to pick apart the crust of the bread. They ate in silence for a few moments, Sansa delicately tasting each food in turn, complimenting the cooks as they came round to ask if the she needed anything else with which to break her fast. Ever the highborn lady, Sansa refused. When asked, Jon let out a garbled "it's good" through a heaping mouthful of beans.

Davos Seaworth came to him then, ever the bedraggled middle aged man he was. He stopped at the head of the table, bowing both to Jon and Sansa, before he spoke.

"Your Grace, my Lady," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. Jon nodded at him as he fit another hunk of bread slathered in gravy into his mouth. Would he ever become accustomed to being addressed as so?

"A raven came this morning," Davos said, his voice uncertain. Jon looked on at him, exasperated. "So I've heard," he said after he had swallowed his mouthful, "give it here." Davos gave pause, his brows, peppered with white hairs, drew together. His reluctance put Jon on edge. He sat straighter, his hair standing on end. When he turned to his friend again, Jon's eyes were stern.

"Ser Davos."

The smuggler sighed, deep in his chest. From his maimed hand he produced a sealed ravenscroll, but before Jon could take it, he spoke again.

"You should know, your Grace. This scroll comes from King's Landing."

Jon felt his teeth turn to stone and his blood to ice. It was then that Jon saw the seal, pressed into wax red as blood.

The lion of Lannister.