"My lord," Stannis's breath hitches and his jaw clenches at the voice of Davos Seaworth from behind him as he pulls the saddle from the horse and hands it to one of the brothers of the Night's Watch.
"I am not your 'lord' anymore," Stannis growls without turning to this ally of his and friend of many years. "I've forsaken my claim to the crown in order to keep my life.
"And your daughter?
Stannis knew it was coming, but in the end he still flinches and freezes as he stares into the hide of the horse before grunting, "Dead. And Selyse. Everyone except me." Suddenly, the man turns about to face Davos, blue eyes adamant in what he commands, "I am not asking you to forgive me for my errors. I am not asking for you to understand why I did what I did. I am not asking you for your sword. I am asking you to forget all that I intended and to follow Jon Snow forward."
"Not Lady Stark?" Davos asks with raised eyebrows.
"Where Lady Sansa goes, Jon will follow," Stannis reminds him. "It's the Northern way."
But as ever before, Davos sees past the firm composure of his previous lord to see the irritation beneath. "And Lady Baelish? What about her? Last you spoke of her--"
"I was honest about many things: how she's manipulative and fierce. But I've come to see now that she's loyal to the Starks and to the rightful ideals. Unlike her father," the man grunts again before walking away.
But Davos calls after him, "So, House Baratheon pledges for House Stark?"
Stannis pauses in his escape, back straightening into his full and tall posture before he turns his head, and not his body, to Davos Seaworth. "House Baratheon pledges for House Stark."
//////////////////////////////////////////
Gabrielle could not remember the last time she sat by a fire to simply enjoy the heat rather than to deafen eavesdroppers to her intentions. She supposes it was in Winterfell five years ago, or so she remembers, as she passes her fingers through the lengths of Ghost and Summer's fur, both particularly enamoured with her—as much as the other three who rest around the remainder of her body. Looking at them piled together, her heart swoons at the reunion she made possible--five here and only one missing like the Starks are still alive and not butchered across the middle of the country.
"This is good soup. Do you remember those kidney pies Old Nan used to make?" Sansa reminds Jon of their times in Winterfell.
"With the peas and onions?" he questions in response, and she mutters the affirmative with a small sound in her throat. Jon smiles at the quirk in her, and how much she's grown in their years apart: a truly beautiful woman with obvious strength. But all the same, he'd wished he could have been there to see her grow, to save her from the wickedness down South—voicing as much, "We never should have left Winterfell."
"Don't you wish we could go back to the day we left? I want to scream at myself, 'Don't go, you idiot!'"
Jon smiles softly at her, "How could we know?"
"You couldn't have," Gabrielle responds, prompting their eyes to flicker to the woman who'd rarely spoken in the past hours of conversation. Her blue eyes gleam in the fire, and her lips look the color of Dornish cherries as her voice imparts, "We're just lucky to be some of the survivors."
Sansa nods solemnly at her point before turning to look back at Jon, reminding herself of the one thing she'd always wished to tell them in their time apart: "I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. I wish I could change everything."
"We were children."
"I was awful, just admit it," Sansa rebukes and Jon chuckles, the happiness he radiates like a contagious illness with his eyes crinkling in the most innocent of forms.
"Remember when Arya threw the peas at you during King Robert's visit, Sansa, and you just about wet yourself in anger?" Gabrielle reminds the female and suddenly, Sansa bursts into laughter at the distant memory, prompting Gabrielle to follow as she shifts closer and presses her side into Sansa's, like family.
Looking over to the very close female who leans her head on Sansa's, the female asks, "And what were you doing then?
"On my way out the door. Jon was not the only one who left early that night," Gabrielle smiles at Jon from beneath Sansa's chin, an expression he returns softly before returning his gaze to the fire where stories play out before their minds.
A few moments pass in silence as Sansa drinks her soup and remembers all the times in Winterfell. And suddenly, she remembers something rather ridiculous on her part, laughing loudly as she repeats, "Gosh, I was awful."
"You were occasionally awful. I'm sure I can't have been great fun. Always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played," Jon easily admits and Gabrielle grins at the rather typical setting of Jon brooding in corners.
Sansa's eyes crinkle, "Can you forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive," Jon denies.
But Sansa presses playfully, "Forgive me."
And he laughs with her, "All right. All right, I forgive you."
Sansa holds out her hand for the ale in Jon's, the man's eyebrow quirking before handing it to the female who chokes upon sipping it, nose scrunching wildly. Jon laughs at her as she hands it back, remarking bluntly, "You'd think after thousands of years, the Night's Watch would have learned how to make a good ale."
"You would," Gabrielle reciprocates, leaning forward and closer to the fire in order to meet Jon's eyes from around Sansa, asking, "Is it true the Wildlings drink goat's milk as a form of liquor?"
"Aye, and it's the strongest drink I've ever had. Couldn't tell you if it were real ghost's milk or not," he affirms and she smiles with a nod, turning to the fire as Sansa voices her pressing question to Jon, "Where will you go?"
"Where will we go?" Jon emphasizes the collective as her eyes sparkle with a deep gratefulness for his persistent care. "If I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and murder me.
Sansa's eyes shift over to Gabrielle who subtly shakes her head at the silent question—should we tell him?—before turning back to Jon with that kind and accepting question, "Where will we go?"
"I can't stay here, not after what happened. We could go to Essos," Jon offers, his eyes shifting to Gabrielle who looks at Sansa with knowledge of the girl's intent.
Jon's brown eyes shift to his sister and the strength she's placed in her convictions, remarking upon her own plans, "No, there's only one place we can go. Home."
"Should we tell the Boltons to pack up and leave?" Jon quips.
But she's intent in her mission, "We'll take it back from them."
"I don't have an army."
"How many wildlings did you save?" Sansa asks, prompting Jon to sigh warily at the army people believe he has, but certainly does not.
"They didn't come here to serve me."
But Gabrielle makes the potent point of human guilt, "They owe you their lives."
Sansa stands to her feet and steps over the direwolves to place her bowl on the table across the room. Jon and Gabrielle's eyes follow her, and Lady picks her head up with a whine of confusion, as Sansa stiffly asks, "You think they'll be safe here if Roose Bolton remains Warden of the North?"
"Sansa," Jon pleads with her to understand.
But he does not know of her pain and the hardship of being a woman, emphasizing why they must do this, "Winterfell is our home. It's ours and Arya's and Bran's and Rickon's. Wherever they are, it belongs to our family. We have to fight for it."
"I'm tired of fighting," Jon suddenly stands with a shout, turning to face Sansa from across the room as Gabrielle slowly rises and watches as the siblings quarrel plays before her eyes. "It's all I've done since I left home. I've killed brothers of the Night's Watch. I've killed wildlings. I've killed men that I admire. I hanged a boy younger than Bran. I fought and I lost."
"You killed the men who killed you, Jon," Gabrielle chooses her side, stepping forward to stand beside Sansa and face Jon in agreement of the female's plan. "An eye-for-an-eye. And those wildlings...it wasn't your fault the White Walkers came. You're the reason many of them are alive."
Sansa nods at Gabrielle's point as her eyes bore into Jon's without fear, "If we don't take back the North, we'll never be safe. I want you to help me. But I'll do it myself if I have to...with Gabrielle at my side."
And the Mock Queen nods.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Melisandre looks upon the courtyard of Castle Black that has laid witness to much tragedy in the past few years. And though the wind is sharp, the storms about the Keep have lessened greatly in the past day alone, and she doubts they will linger on the horizon tomorrow even with Winter coming. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she hears the feet of Davos behind her, rather typical in his step and approach as he stands to her side and looks at the place where Jon once lay, dead.
"My lady."
"Ser Davos."
She does not look at him as he turns to gaze at her rather pale profile, marked only by vibrant blue eyes, his voice no different in his address as he asks, "Will you stay here at Castle Black now that Stannis has returned?"
"I will do as Jon Snow commands," she responds shortly.
But his eyebrows spring up in surprise, "You serve Jon Snow now?"
"He's the prince that was promised," Melisandre finally turns to him with her full attention, her eyes like a mystical veil through which one might see fateful knowledge if only looking.
His eyes narrow, "Forgive me, my lady, I thought that was Stannis."
She doesn't offer any explanation as she passes down the stairs nearby and Davos chases after her.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Littlefinger's eyes bore into those of Yohn Royce, corrupted in their swirls of grey as he voices the true power he has over the Vale, commanding loudly, "Our lord has spoken. Gather the Knights of the Vale. The time has come to join the fray."
//////////////////////////////////////////
Gabrielle tries to take strength in her need to regain weight by shoveling down the soup in the bowl, but with such strange pieces of meat floating about, she's finding herself more nauseous than hungry, and even her skinny form seems to reject any promise of fat if this is it. So, she takes to just swirling it around and quietly passing some of it to Grey Wind underneath the table, not nearly as sly as she supposes as Jon keeps sending her looks. But she ignores him and watches the others with due humor as Tormund makes sexy eyes at Brienne between gobbling down his meal and the woman squirms at the expression.
On Jon's other side, Sansa stirs the chunk of meat in her bowl rather thoughtlessly, prompting Edd to offer his apology from across the table: "Sorry about the food. It's not what we're known for."
"That's all right," Sansa smiles kindly in a way that could make most men swoon. "There are more important things."
Gabrielle looks at the meat in Sansa's and then at the chunks in her own, wondering at once if knowing is better so she asks Edd, "What's in it?"
The man's eyes rise to her and then look away at her rather casual expression, a blush blooming on his cheeks as Jon tries not to scowl. "Carrots, root, water, uhh—deer?"
Rage overcomes her, and before he can so much as move, a fork is being stabbed into the table between Edd's fingers, Gabrielle's eyes glaring into his own in a massive shift from the friendly woman to a ferocious vixen. And all the while Edd flinches away, Brienne stares dumbfoundead at the depth Gabrielle pierced the wood with her blunt fork. The Mock Queen growls likes the wolf beneath the table, "If you killed any of those deer waiting for me outside, I'll cut your balls off."
"Sorry, my lady," Edd blanches and looks down with his apology, but only Jon can save him as Gabrielle goes to launch herself over the table and strangle the man before her.
But Jon grabs her waist and forces her back into her seat before she can so much as touch Edd, sending her a rather humoured expression as she glares at the man, and Jon asks, "And where do you suppose we hunt instead?"
"North of the Wall would be fine," she grunts.
"Animals are waiting for you north of the Wall as well," Jon's grin lengthens as he lets her know the unpleasant truth.
And as expected, she groans loudly then like a buzz in her ears, exclaiming a sharp, "Fuck me," before turning to Edd in her tense command, "Just hunt for the smarter ones still hiding in the forest. Damn beasts."
The wildling lets out a bark of laughter at her brazen actions and crude words, looking at Jon whose eyes almost shine in the girl's presence, remarking, "Told you I'd like her."
Jon has the gall to blush under Tormund's taunt as the Mock Queen winks at the wildling before attempting to remove the fork from the table, buried to the hilt in oak. From behind Tormund, the door cracks open and the wind sweeps in, preceding a brother of the Night's Watch who enters with a letter for Jon, "A letter for you, Lord Commander."
"I'm not Lord Commander anymore," Jon grunts pointedly at the man before taking the letter and rolling it about to see the Bolton seal upon its front. His eyes meet Sansa's from across the table before popping the wax and unwinding the parchment, reading aloud and with a rough voice: "To the traitor and bastard, Jon Snow. You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard. Come and see.
"Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon. He waits for you, day and night. Come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride north and slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You—"
Jon's words hitch in his throat as his eyes skim the rest of the note, not allowing either Sansa or Gabrielle to see, though the former presses, "Go on."
"It's just more of the same," Jon mutters, throwing the note on the table. But from the ghosts in his eyes, both females recognize the letter as more.
Sansa picks it off the table and continues the threat: "You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs eat your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
"Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North," Jon repeats as Sansa places the letter back before Jon, brown eyes locking on blue.
"His father's dead," Gabrielle concludes quickly, "Ramsay killed him."
"And now he has Rickon," Sansa sighs worriedly and with an expression that reveals the depth of her aging as far too quick and unheeded in this war.
"We don't know that," Jon tries.
But she denies it, "Yes, we do."
"How many men does he have in his army?" Tormund asks from down the line, and the blue eyes of Jon's sister fog over before reminiscing, "I heard him say five thousand once when he was talking about Stannis's attack."
Jon turns to Tormund with a sudden understand as to why he is asking such things—propositioning Jon to use the army of bedraggled wildlings who've seen more than the southern folk. Eyes wishing, Jon asks him, "How many do you have?"
"That can march and fight?" Tormund considers, "Two thousand. The rest are children and old people."
Sansa nods, turning to Jon in her seat with a look of stunning conviction upon her, knowing she must have Jon to have their army, "You're the son of the last true Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal. They'll fight for you if you ask."
"Not the Umbers or Karstarks—the largest two," Gabrielle rebukes, watching the confusion in their eyes before explaining, "They've declared for Ramsey."
Sansa sighs, but she takes Jon's hand all the same, and presses it in the space between them, "A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell and save them both."
And though worries cross his mind, Jon Snow nods not a moment later, accepting this call to action and not knowing how it will play out.
//////////////////////////////////////////
Since his death, Jon Snow's found it harder to sleep at night, from the moment he tries until the moment he goes under—waking at the smallest creak of the floor or blow of the wind in fear of the Night King's army or the hauntings of the brothers who killed him. And though sleep on this night is not as fleeting as before, with much to consider in the depths of subconsciousness, his eyes crack open at the sound of his door, creaking open to reveal no greater light than the burrows of his quarters. And though lacking, he can just manage to witness the figure moving about the room, his hand shifting beneath rough fabric to grasp upon the knife beneath his pillow. His muscles tense and he prepares to pounce on the intruder as they slip quickly into the bed beside him—only to recognize those blue eyes and blonde hair for who they reveal.
Jon sighs as Gabrielle looks imploringly and amusedly upon him, as if knowing the dragonglass daggers hidden beneath his pillow. He wonders if the darkness has become part of him as the lacking light of the room does not hinder his vision of the woman before him, adorned in a thick and long fur coat, tied about her waist. The clothing reveals nothing less than a night venture on her part, but Jon knows she'd meant to be here as she gazes down upon him with such intent, and he cannot help voicing his sentiments as he reminds hers, "You shouldn't be here."
"Says the man who's risen from the dead," she scoffs, seemingly put at ease by his characteristic warnings as she settles into the pillow beside Jon's, never breaking her eyes from his own as he turns his head to face her words, "We've barely spoken in private."
Jon looks deeply at the woman he'd known long ago and come to understand and adore from afar, so very different from what he remembered, though years tend to do that to the human mind. Looking over the porcelain of her skin—from the break of her hairline to where the skin hides beneath the cloth of her chest, he's drawn back to her presence, here and with him, after so many silent years of pleading with the gods to bring them together again. His firm composure quakes a bit as he relaxes into the furs, asking, "What do you wish to talk about?
"Is that how you won Ygritte? Asking if she wished to talk? I did hear that woman like to talk about their feelings," she counters in that sharp tongue Jon does remember from letters and Winterfell, drawing a soft smile from him, which she breaks as she asks, "Or was it the sex?" Before her eyes, the man's cheeks erupt in a deep and red blush as his eyes dart about and to the ceiling, prompting her to rise and lean over him, laying a heavy slap to his upper arm. "Stop! You're not supposed to be a blushing maiden anymore."
Jon's chuckles sound from the depths of his lungs as his eyes move back from the shadowed ceiling above those red cheeks, the expression warming her heart and further setting her ablaze as he responds rightly, "It probably was the sex."
This time, it's the girl who laughs with that bell-like chime of the high tower in Winterfell and across the country, so evidently beautiful and reminding Jon of why he wants to return home—the laugh of this woman so deeply Northern and that of Winterfell. And though he wants to listen to it forever as she leans over him on her elbow and her eyes crinkle, Jon's content to simply watch her recover with a deep smile pressing down upon him as she admits, "Seven hells, I missed you."
"I missed you too," Jon mirrors, naturally laying a hand on her arm as she smiles and shifts slightly closer to him so that her feet just touch his ankles and send shivers down his back. Feeling the connection between them that he'd not known before today—maybe from mutual tragedy and maybe it's been there all along--Jon asks the question that's pressed upon his mind, "How did you convince Stannis to forsake his cause and declare for the North?"
"Told him he was a sinner and needed to repent," the girl responds with mirth gleaming in her blue eyes, taunting Jon to send her a disbelieving look. She grins, " Alright that's not exactly what I said, but that was the gist of it."
Jon returns the smirk with, "Silver Tongue strikes again."
"Silver Tongue's been dormant for some time, but if it is war we face, I shall return to my role to gain you favor."
"And the Mock Queen?" his brown eyes shift at the pronounced loyalty of the powerful female to his and Sansa's cause, so overcome with her body pressing into his side that he has to wonder whether they need allies at all, or if this woman could destroy the Boltons herself in one fatal swing.
"The Mock Queen will die with Cersei Lannister," Gabrielle responds rather bleakley, revealing her potent hate of that name, though he wonders why. "So the Mock Queen still lives, if only in title."
"And the Most Beautiful Woman in All the World—" Jon reminisces on the last of her titles, gazing into her winter-like facade, "—well, I know for a fact she is still here. Right by my side."
Gabrielle grins at the compliment Jon's been known to give—still feeling the warmth of it—as she taunts him, "Many men would be jealous if they knew."
"Yes. Half the men wished to rip off your clothes when you appeared yesterday, and the other half would've done as much if I was not there," Jon voices what she already knows—for men are relatively the same at all corners of the world. And though she'd seen it before with the Hound—and slightly Oberyn—Gabrielle almost beams at Jon's protectiveness over her, different with a man she's not seen in half-a-decade, as he seems to see her for what she is: a good person.
"They think you a god," Gabrielle responds like Tormund once said, her eyes falling to the ceiling as her voice takes on that tone of a storyteller, "The most beautiful mortal and a god amongst man..." Her blue eyes turn back to his before he can miss them entirely, "...it sounds like some story I'd conjure, does it not?"
"It does," Jon smiles at her, letting his hand shift up and down her arm in what she feels as comfort and relaxes into.
From the depths of stories to their reality in Castle Black, her eyes turn to his with sincerity and serious inquiry, asking, "What is the plan for gaining the Northern favor?"
"We'll head north to the Mormonts and elsewhere as you hear of the people's whispers—those that are loyal to the Starks and those that aren't."
Her eyes gleam at his words, not something he'd expected to see, but he finds himself drowning in the cerulean depths that are so like Sansa's, yet not, as she questions, "You trust me with that?"
"I trust you with my life," Jon responds, and though he meant for it to warm her heart, there is little softness left as her expression falls into the depths of despair.
"You lied to me, you know."
Jon's eyebrows quiver at her words, brown eyes crinkling in confusion, "How?"
"You said you wouldn't die—that you wouldn't die before I returned," Gabrielle just barely stumbles over herself in a moment Jon has never seen from the eloquent speaker before him, overcome with emotion. "Then you did."
"But I came back," Jon reminds her.
And yet, she pushes back harder, "But what if you hadn't? I owe the Red Woman a great debt that will not be easily paid." Her unattended hand rises from the depths of the fur to brush against the scar on his eyebrow like she'd done prior, and Jon remembers how she'd seen him attacked by Orell's eagle and later killed by his brothers, suddenly understanding why she's so changed. To witness death across the realm like no woman prior. Jon's eyes shift with the knowledge he now possesses, heart swarming in compassion for her and great praise for the strength she's managed with all the brutality of Westeros. He finds himself falling deeper.
But she's not quite finished with the revelation before her, meeting his eyes from the look she paid to his scars, offering out her heart and trust to him as she admits, "You are my weakness, Jon Snow, and I only hope those who want me dead never figure it out." With the break of her words, she smiles, leaning up on her elbow to lay a soft kiss on Jon's forehead, his eyes fluttering shut with the surge of emotion, "Rest now."
He stays there as he feels the bed shift, the warmth on his forehead not extinguishing but like a brand to protect him against all those who attack their ranks. The furs do not feel as warm and his bed does not feel as comfortable and pangs of hardship hit him like a rock when he hears the door creak open. Suddenly sitting up straight, he locks his eyes with her own before admitting, "You're my weakness too." Gabrielle seems to think it rather awkward for the passing of time between their separate revelations, quirking an eyebrow as he blushes at her grin, though pressing on against the current of her walls, "I'm sorry I died, but I swear to live again for you and Sansa. For my family."
She smiles simply and softly at his promise—hiding the inner storm of emotion at all she's ever wanted, now offered to her—before promising him, "Goodnight, Jon."
"Goodnight, Gabrielle." It is some time later, many minutes after she's left, that Jon pulls his eyes from the door and lays back into the furs, suddenly overcome by exhaustion and then sleep as the brand on his forehead lulls him deeper, the first night he sleeps fully.