Hey folks, new story here.

A bit of a darker concept. Focused, again, on the aftermath. Though, admittedly, much worst. Basically, the Children of the Forest weren't good people. Bloodraven wasn't a good guy. Although good or bad depends on the perspective. Huh.

Disclaimer: I do not own ASOIAF or its adaptations, GRRM rules all that.

ENJOY!

The sun blazed against the green plains outside Winterfell. It was almost unbelievable, though, that such a warm and fine day was possible. After such a harsh winter. After winter has come. After they had come. Jon almost shuddered at the thought, but he held it down with a slight shake of his head.

It had ended. The Others were no more. The Children of the Forest were no more. Bloodraven was no more.

A light chuckle came from behind him, though Jon chose to ignore it.

They arrived at a small holdfast in the hills, close to the ancestral home of the Starks. About twenty men had come. Amongst them were Greatjon Umber, Galbart Glover and others. Tormund was there too, and Ser Davos. All men Jon learned to trust.

On his right treaded a giant white beast, bigger than their horses. Silent as always, Ghost throttled just as stiffly as Jon. He could feel the direwolf's dread, just as much as he could feel his own.

On his left rode Howland Reed, just as quiet. The man had been a close friend of his father, though Jon has never met the man. Until the war, of course. He met almost everyone during the war. They were all there. The Lord of Greywater Watch had his eyes focused, hardened. He never took a glance behind, at him. At them. He had been fooled as well, and his children. Now he had none.

They reached a small clearing, a white tree stump at the centre of it. Jon almost doubted his decision, but he pushed forward. They all circled the area, dismounting. The whole trip had taken much more time than needed, but there was a clear and recognisable cause to their delay.

Horses are faster than chairs with wheels.

Jon took a deep breath, scanning the area around them with mild recognition. He had been here before, he thought.

"Yes." Said a low voice, sounding almost amused. He turned to the boy, in his exquisite chair, the faint clues of a smirk on his face. His red hair had been all cut, though his face hadn't been shaved. They thought it wouldn't grow so much. He was just a boy. Only one and four. But both Jon and Robb had the beginnings of a beard as well, in his age. He should've known.

But in truth, the reason for his carelessness was that he had avoided the boy. He left him confined to his room, alone. Every time they both stood in front of each other, Jon felt guilt, grief and even fear.

The voice shook him from his thoughts, and those blue eyes sent a child down Jon's spine.

"This is where father executed that deserter." He said simply, nostalgia lacing his voice. It was rougher now, not anything like the eight-year old's Jon remember.

"Don't call him that." His voice came out harsh and croaked, in response. Bran Stark merely stared him in the eyes, Tully-blue on Stark-grey.

"He is our father." He said, serene.

"He is Bran's father." Jon replied, which earned him an amused smile from the boy.

"We are Bran Stark."

Rage flooded Jon's body like adrenaline, wanting to rip off that smirk and burn it up. He wanted the sweet and innocent smile back. He wanted Bran back. He grinded his teeth, much like Stannis Baratheon. He closed his eyes, trying to subdue his wrath. Ghost was also becoming more and more aggressive, but Jon told the direwolf to calm down.

He motioned for the men to position the boy atop the trunk. They did it warily, fearful of what the boy could want to do. He didn't, though. Only smiled faintly, thanking them.

He stood still, awaiting Jon.

The bastard of Winterfell then called for his sword. Tormund was the one to bring it, sheathed on a heavy bear pelt. Jon took hold of the hilt and pulled. The sword left its container with ease, seeing as it had been meant for Ice, not Longclaw. But Ice was long lost. Just as the Starks were about to become.

He rested the tip of the sword, while holding on its hilt with both hands. He had seen Lord Eddard perform such duties since he was a kid. He knew the rituals.

"In the name of Robb of House Stark, last King in the North, by the word of Jon Snow, bastard son of Eddard from House Stark, Regent of the North, heir to Winterfell, -" his words almost failed him then. He didn't those titles, not like this. "- and appointed as next King in the North, I do sentence you to die."

It had been almost a whisper, words for only them both to hear. The boy was quiet, eyes on the white tree trunk under his face. A weirwood, he knew. A sinister thought passed through his head then, but it was pushed down. There was no reason to fear. It was over. They were over.

When Jon didn't move for the execution, Ser Davos approached him slowly.

"You don't need to do this." his voice was laced with concern. This was the third time that the Onion Knight had tried to talk Jon out of this. This was the third failure.

"The man who passes the sentence-" he started.

"-should swing the sword." finished Bran Stark.

Ser Davos eyed the boy slightly, worried. He then turned to Jon again.

"The North passed the sentence. All these men did. The people alive did. Why can't you let someone else do it?" he was desperate now. Jon understood why. It would break him, he knew. But he had decided on it.

When Jon didn't respond, the mand sighed in exasperation. He backed down, murmuring about the stubborn nature of northmen.

"Any last words?"

The last Stark finally looked up, as much as the position allowed.

Jon Snow fixated on his eyes then. He didn't want to murder his own brother, not after losing everyone else. But inside those bright blue irises was not the third son of House Stark. There were many more people there. All of them, who wanted to be together with those living, yet for that, they had to die. They had to die.

"We helped all along. You survived because of us. You had a partner because of us. You became Lord Commander because of us. We even tried to stop your death, but you were just so stubborn. Just like then. Just like now." He said simply, disappointed. He then faced back down, allowing Jon a clean view of his neck.

Jon adjusted the valyrian sword on his hands, testing its weight. He once again stopped, eyeing Ghost with so much grief. The wolf nodded, barely. Jon sighed.

"Don't look away. Father will know if you do." said Bran Stark, and Jon rested the blade on his brother's neck, ready for a strike. "And now it begins."

Jon lifted the sword and in one swift movement, he brought it down hard. The hairless head of Bran of House Stark tumbled over and rolled down, bumping on Ghost's paws.

The direwolf looked at it for a second before turning to Jon, who stood still, watching the earth suck the blood slowly. The direwolf howled and charged, jumping at the bastard of Winterfell.

"No. Now it ends."

Jon spun and opened his arms, facing the wolf head on. Ghost bit his shoulder then, a thick splash of blood flowing from it. But Jon put a hand on its head and pressed a knife to its throat.

The direwolf tried to bite down hard, but it couldn't. The conscience that was inside Bran had taken control of the body, but Jon's partner was still there, holding back. Enough for Jon to slit its throat, soaking himself with wolf's blood. It whimpered, silently, red eyes fading to nothing.

Though the teeth of the beast were not on Jon's shoulder anymore, the man held his friend hard. He when to his knees and kept his face buried on the wolf's white fur.

For how long he stood there, mourning? Jon couldn't tell.

When he finally let go, his eyes were deep red. The night was gathering, and most men were already atop their horses. His little brother's body was buried under heavy pelts, ceremonial pelts.

Tormund helped him stand, while the Greatjon and others took care of Ghost's body. Longclaw was in the possession of Ser Davos, who hadn't sheathed it yet. He mounted his ride and they all returned to Winterfell, with the sun bidding them goodbye.

They buried Bran Stark down the crypts, between Arya and Rickon. Ghost was a different story, though. He was skinned, so his pelt could remain with Jon. The latter wasn't the one who requested it and was extremely angry when they handed him the white furred pelt.

But in the end, as morbid as it could sound, the 'gift' made him feel a bit better. They had supper that night, though there was no joy. Jon retired to his chambers shortly after. He slept alone, cold and hollow.

The next day, Jon held a council. He had been chosen by Robb as his heir but felt extremely unfit for the role of king. He voiced his concerns and asked that all lords present voted for the new king.

The news struck oddly with most lords, some even contesting the idea. Jon gave them a stern look, reaffirming his intention to have them choose.

In the end, they chose him. All smug and coy, they looked proud of their cleverness, even if it wasn't it at all. When he protested, they told Jon that he was the heir, he had proved he could rule and be trusted. To reinforce their argument, Tormund, Sigorn and other Free Folk's chiefs stated that they would not follow the orders of a stranger as a king.

A whole week of negotiations and councils after, Jon finally gave up. They crowned him a fortnight from then, in a party much more humbled than previous ones.

At the end of it, Jon excused himself, and wandered thorugh Winterfell. He finally stopped, at the crypts. He stood in front of each member of his family, even Catelyn, who received a place of honour. He told them what they had been to him, and when he finished, eye to eye with his father's statue. He felt a bit of hope swirling in his heart.

The Weirwoods have controlled Bran, they sent dreams to confuse and misdirect his siblings. They had Arya believe she was the most skilled fighter around, when in the end she was still a little girl of four and ten. They had Sansa trust the wrong people, they had Rickon become beastly. They had done things to Jon too.

Perhaps all he did, was their plans as well. Maybe he wasn't Jon Snow. Someone else could be having these thoughts.

'Winter is coming.' rung through his head, then.

Jon understood the words different now: it was both a boast and a warning. Warning that there is always danger, lurking somewhere, growing, waiting. But boasting that it could come, because Starks were wolves. They ruled the Winter.

He smiled sadly, before nodding, and walking away, white pelt on his shoulders and a bronze crown atop his dark hair. He was later found on the godswood, Longclaw on his lap, a washcloth sliding up and down the blade. In front of him was a lake. And behind stood a tall, white tree, who once had eyes on its trunk. But now two dragonglass knifes were stuck in its eyeholes.

Their watch had ended.

I'm thinking of creating a second chapter, focused on Jon's life as King in the North. Not long though, just a quick summary of what occurred until his death. Tell me if you want to.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this story. Tried to make it more mysterious, though maybe it didn't work. Oh well. And as always, rate & review.