Meera's wishing, as she bolts through that cave, that she had been better prepared for an escape at any time, especially with monsters at their back and only held back by a magic now absent. Ahead of her, Hodor lumbers with Bran and behind her, thousands of wights chase them with no relief in sight but a door somewhere ahead of them but currently lost to darkness. Leaf rushes at her side in the small and lithe form of the Children, but suddenly drops back as Meera then forces herself into a stop.
"What are you doing?" Meera's voice carries through the tunnel and to the last remaining Child whose green eyes are heavy with sacrifice and duty.
"Go!" Leaf shouts as she palms the weapon in her hand. "Tell Bran—tell him that the Children have waited many years for him, and that everything relies upon his knowledge!"
And though she should move, Meera just watches as Leaf's overcome by the bloodthirsty wights of men, holding the bomb to her chest and voicing her pain before clenching her fist and they go up in an inferno—the last of the race to peer into the hearts of men and live through their tales.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"The crown and the faith are the twin pillars upon which the world rests. Together we will restore the Seven Kingdoms to glory," Tommen recites to the gathered crowds of King's Landing as he stands upon the steps of the Sept of Baelor with Margaery beside him and the High Sparrow nearby. And below him, his uncle Jaime Lannister glares heatedly upon the latter man as the voices of the common folk cheer and Olenna recognizes defeat for what this is.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Bran stares at the mysterious man before him—the one that had saved his and Meera's life in the endless forest outside the weirwood tree, the last place he expected to be saved from death but he's seen too much to doubt such miracles. And slowly—but surely—the man begins to unwind that scarf to reveal skin of a continued white blemish and swelling, but even then, Bran knows who this is: "Uncle Benjen. The last letter Jon wrote me said you had been lost beyond the Wall."
"I led a ranging party deep into the North to find White Walkers," Benjen reminisces on the mission that led to this change of fate. "They found us. A White Walker stabbed me in the gut with a sword of ice. Left me there to die. To turn. The Children found me. Stopped the walker's magic from taking hold."
"How?" Bran asks.
"The same way they made the Walkers in the first place. You saw it yourself."
"Dragonglass," Bran nods in understanding, remembering that story far better than the rest. "A shard of dragonglass plunged into your heart."
Benjen nods as his eyes take on something deeper, like a father bequeathing his own lordship to his son, "You are the Three-Eyed Raven now."
"I didn't have time to learn. I can't control anything." Benjen stands at the worry in Bran's voice, crouching over the handicapped boy who has the potential to same them all.
"You must learn to control it before the Night King comes," Benjen Stark presses him, those grey eyes like his father's that gleam in the sight of snow. "One way or another, he will find his way to the world of men. When he does, you will be there waiting for him. You will have his weakness, and you will be ready."
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"You'll be the last of the Free Folk if we lose. The Boltons, the Karstarks, the Umbers, they know you're here. They know that more than half of you are women and children. After they finish with me, they'll come for you. You're right. This isn't your fight. You shouldn't have to come to Winterfell with me. I shouldn't be asking you. It's not the deal we made," Jon presses as he eyes the leader of the wildlings with his endless depths of brown that seem less passionate but more powerful than before his death. "But, I need you with me if we're gonna beat them, and we need to beat them if you're going to survive."
As his voice gives out and his plea comes to an end, Jon's eyes waver to Tormund at his side. Gabrielle watches from behind Jon and beside Sansa as the red-headed wildling steps forward and to his people, the loyalty he holds for Jon Snow potent in his expression, and making the female admire him all the more. "The crows killed him because he spoke for the Free Folk when no other southerners would. He died for us. If we are not willing to do the same for him, we're cowards. And if that's what we are, we deserve to be the last of the Free Folk."
The silence lingers at the end of the sharp progression, leading to a rather stiff battle of wits from the two sides of the fire—those of Westeros and those from north of the Wall. Gabrielle wants to yell at the lot for their rather stubborn way, but even she understands—not a military mind—that sacrificing men for another man's land is a bit illogical. With that reminder, her heart shivers as she knows the denial coming, stepping closer to Jon when the giant suddenly stands from his log porch and voices his side, "Snow."
The giant stomps away as the other wildlings nod at Jon in acceptance of his charge, the leader of which shakes the bastard's hand before returning to his camp on the hill precluding their eyes. Jon turns around as the others scatter to various places, some to camp and others to write, but the bastard of Winterfell is adamant in his expression on Tormund, worried as he questions, "Are you sure they'll come?"
"We're not clever like you southerners. When we say we'll do something, we do it," Tormund promises and Jon lets a sigh of relief part from his lips at the trust he has in Tormund.
"Wun Wun!" Gabrielle calls from nearby as their eyes shift onto hers, and the giant turns about with a confused look to his face. "Can you give me a boost to your shoulder?" Jon watches with worry as the giant eyes the lovely female before them, her grin challenging the giant to deny her wish—which he doesn't as he shrugs and grabs her, raising her to stand on his shoulder.
"Woah!" she shouts as she places a foot down and almost slips but then catches herself as Jon jolts forward with the intent to catch her if she falls. But she doesn't even mind, raising her hand above her eyes to gaze at the horizon to the south.
Tormund chuckles at Jon's worried expression, "Wun Wun won't let her fall." But Jon does not look comforted by this comment at all.
"Hey, Jon!" she calls down and his eyes dart to hers with worry, though all he sees is mirth in sea-like orbs as she points to the south with her long arm, "I think I can see King's Landing from here!"
Jon rolls his eyes at her childishness before shouting back, "Get down from there, and stop pestering the giant!"
"Do not break me from my kin, Jon Snow!" the woman shouts back before stepping closer to Wun Wun's head and whispering in his ear, the giant's hand grabbing her again.
But Tormund's more startled by the woman's words, asking Jon with a deep look, "She has giant's blood in her?"
"No," Jon denies with a grin as the woman's placed before their feet and she calls her thanks to the 'lovely' giant. Shifting the gaze, she meets the look in Jon's eye, his eyes crinkled slightly and making her heart beat faster. "You are a child."
"The stages of our lives vary so greatly with learning and experience. And yet, the past is not so absolute when it comes to children—we all have that childish spark in us. I've just found mine," Gabrielle smirks with her wise tongue before turning on her heel and walking away—towards Sansa's tent as far as Jon can tell.
Both men watch after the rather radiant female, her hips swaying in that dress and showing the curves she's regained as she eats a healthier diet—not of berries and roots. A moment passes in which he lets Jon's eyes sink into her, before Tormund roughly asks, "You fucked her yet?"
"Tormund!" Jon shouts as his eyes rip from the woman to the mischievous wildling at his side, stuttering a bit under the heat of a knowing expression. "It's not like that between us."
Tormund scoffs at the blind man, shaking his head as if he's disappointed, "You've fucked a woman and you're still blind to them. I'd get her before the others do. Most men don't like to wait for something that pretty."
And for the second time in two minutes, Jon watches as a figure turns and moves away from him, leaving him with many thoughts, but this time, with a far less pleasing picture.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Days pass as the weather holds steady with a light dusting of snow in the mornings but rather beautiful days that turn into flurries at night. And even as they move south, the weather does not warm with them, but shows the extent of the coming winter that's accelerating southward in due fervor. The party forgets the small hope of not having to adorn their cloaks, and they stay bundled in their tents for more hours of the day than not. And even then, a cold sinks into the depths of their bones, like a stiff constraint on movement as the days pass by.
Gabrielle breathes lightly as she sits in front of the fire in Jon's tent, a night not many later, as Grey Wind's head presses into her lap and she runs her lean fingers through his thick and warm pelt. Between the wolf and Jon beside her, she's warm enough without the thickness of her cloak, appearing only in a dress she'd bought a day prior in a village—warm but nothing of great worth. Reaching out, she takes the ale from Jon's hand, taking a swig of the bitter drink that they've decided to share so Gabrielle doesn't have to go find her own somewhere outside.
"We should arrive at Bear Island tomorrow?" she turns her bright eyes on the man beside her as he grabs the horn from her hand.
"Aye," Jon affirms, taking a drink of the liquor as he gazes into the fire tiredly, "the speed we've been travelling has made the road longer."
Gabrielle sighs as she easily recognizes what that means for their intent, "And Ramsay will sooner know we are compiling men to fight against him." Grabbing the drink from Jon's hand, she takes a longer swig of the alcohol before passing it back to him, feeling no relief except in the small grin on Jon's lip. "There is not enough ale in this world to take my edge off. You think Tormund has some of that goat's milk?"
Her grin is small but Jon still laughs, adding, "You could always ask him, but I don't think drinking a stronger drink will help. You need to get your mind off of today, tomorrow, and the near future."
"You still haven't told me your full story. Of course, I've heard its bits and pieces, but I wish to know everything, if you will," she proposes after a moment of thought that constantly diverges to reality. And though Jon does not want to relive the pains of his past, the deep look of pleading in her eye has him opening his mouth first and releasing the load of trauma and trouble that's weighed heavily upon him for years. Many hours pass before he finishes, but even then, she's not one to break a deal as she delves into her own story of less bloodshed but so many layers of intrigue and politics that Jon's again reminding of her utter intelligence. Eventually, even the nocturnal Grey Wind retires to sleeping with his brothers and sister on the nearby rug, all piled together in furs of various shades and colors.
By the time she finishes, Jon's barely able to keep his eyes open, although her words shine enough to keep him a-lit as loyalties are shown and feelings are ignored. His brown eyes turn to hers as her voice wavers off into the light crackling of the fire, "You support Daenerys Targaryen?"
"For the Iron Throne, yes," she admits before shifting her gaze onto the man before her, grabbing the hand that lays between them both, "But the Starks are meant to rule the North. The time has come for a split between the folks who differ so greatly—northerners and southerners. I would see you as my King in the North, and Sansa as my Queen."
Jon's eyes widen at her words of royal promise, but he's not struck by the titles—just her intent. "You mean to stay? "
"Does that shock you?" She looks deeply into his eyes with the intent to know what he is thinking, but Jon's eyes don't shift at her question so she moves closer to him so that their legs press against one another and she cradles his hand to her heart. Like the poet she is, and a devout woman of folklore, her words spin into silk in his very ear: "Jon, I've gone far and wide to bring about change to the realm—and even further to get back to you and Sansa. I will never leave again, as long as I have a choice."
Although his face is still masked with confusion, his hand tenses within hers and he shifts to lace their fingers together in a tight embrace. "And if this Dragon Queen were to decide she wants the North as well? What then?"
"Then I keep to you," Gabrielle declares with her heart on her tongue and her mind all-seeing. "She may be right for the southern throne, but you are of the North. I stand by you, today and for every day after."
Jon eyes her with something of acute feeling she's seen and felt from no one else before, like a mirror to her own emotions as he lays a hand on her cheek for the first time, the calluses gentle as he brushes his thumb against the softest porcelain he's ever known—perfection incarnate. From blue to brown, everything seems to dive away at their locked eyes, and nothing less than anatomy and the floor beneath them is known as she presses herself into his chest with a need and want to be so close, but escapable now and for some time. He pulls her closer into him as her legs shift to cross over his lap, and she listens to the heartbeat of his chest that's only blocked by cloth and the scar that'd once parted them. Knowing that she can't physically bear to lose him again, she sinks as deep as possible into his chest before pushing away from the conscious shore and sailing deep into the realm of sleep.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
"Ramsay Bolton cannot be allowed to keep Winterfell, my lady," Jon steps forward from the Sansa's side and closer to the Lady Mormont of Bear Island whose strength is palpable to all eyes present in the room—including Gabrielle and Davos who stand behind the two Starks. "It is our duty to stop him. Even more so because he holds our brother Rickon Stark as prisoner. What you have to understand, my lady, is that—"
"I understand that I'm responsible for Bear Island and all who live here. So why should I sacrifice one more Mormont life for someone else's war?" Lyanna interrupts the rather pushy address of Jon Snow as the man startles back and the room is basked in tense silence. As a moment passes between Sansa and Jon where neither knows what to say—and Gabrielle rolls her eyes—Davos finally steps forward and past the other two with kindness in his old eyes and wisdom on his tongue.
"If it please, my lady, I understand how you feel."
Lyanna's dark eyebrows on alabaster skin crouch together in question at the strange man, and she remarks, "I don't know you, Ser...?"
"Davos, my lady, of House Seaworth," the man bows his head a bit and watches sharply as the girl leans into her maester—and yet he already knows her intent. "You needn't ask your maester about my house. It's rather new."
The girl's eyes, unsteady at the stranger's name, stay firm with their narrowed expression as she sits back into the chair and raises her chin, "Alright, Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how I feel?"
"You never thought you'd find yourself in your position. Being responsible for so many lives at such a young age," Davos calls out correctly, and the girl's eyes gleam. "I never thought I'd be in my position. I was a crabber's son, then I was a smuggler. And now I found myself addressing the lady of a great house in time of war. But I'm here because this isn't someone else's war. It's our war."
Small and slight like the girl herself, Lyanna smiles, "Go on, Ser Davos."
"Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made that man his steward," Davos points to Jon who chooses then to take the form of a humble wolf amongst the flock, brown eyes rising slow to Lyanna's. "He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew had the courage to do what was right, even if it meant giving his life. Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow both understood that the real war isn't between a few squabbling houses. It's between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady, the dead are coming."
Lyanna's brown eyes stare into those of Davos for a moment longer before turning back to Jon Snow with the question, "Is this true?"
"Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost," Jon's eyes spark with the scars of the battles he's seen, something the girl knows to not be lies but a true account of horror marching towards them.
"We've found some weaknesses of theirs," the last of the quartet steps forward, the blonde female with stunning eyes, "—namely dragonglass and valyrian steel—but unless the North unites, we'll all die a cold death. They come for the living and will stop at nothing until we're all the frozen and walking dead. Children, women, men, animals—we're nothing to them but an obstacle to shatter and a nation to slaughter."
The poetry of the woman's words and gentle sharpness of her voice allows Lyanna Mormont to know this woman's identity before even her maester—eyes harsh in their analysis of the tall woman whose beauty is rather potent and seducing, even to the female eye. Lyanna calls, "You're the Mock Queen."
But unlike the young Lady's expectations of the southern woman, Gabrielle Baelish does not cower at the tone or expression, but raises her chin with the dignity of Northern blood and replies with strength,"I am Lady Gabrielle Baelish, commonly called the Mock Queen or Silver Tongue, yes."
Davos steps forward and beside the blonde who's made her way before him, looking at Lyanna who stares between the two with a sense of respect. He relates, "As long as the Boltons hold Winterfell, the North is divided. And a divided North won't stand a chance against the Night King. You want to protect your people, my lady. I understand. But there's no hiding from this."
"We have to fight, and we need to do it together," Gabrielle presses with a firmness to her breath that almost illustrates the desperation of their cause when regarding the monsters up north.
The maester leans over to whisper thickly in Lyanna's ear, but she raises her hand to stop the man with the decision already made and no need for council if these are the leaders of their plight. Voice loud with the tone of a leader, Lyanna grants their request: "House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years. We will not break faith today."
"Thank you, my lady," Jon sighs with relief at the first success of hopefully many as Gabrielle and Davos slink back into line with him and Sansa. "How many fighting men can we expect?"
Lyanna leans over to the commander of the Mormont forces, regarding his opinion before rising in her posture and offering, "Sixty-two."
"Sixty-two?" Jon asks without qualm to hide his disappointment in the number.
"We are not a large house, but we're a proud one. And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of ten mainlanders," Lyanna growls at the seemingly ungrateful commander, prompting Davos to grin in almost adoration of the child leader before them.
"If they're half as ferocious as their lady, the Boltons are doomed," Davos voices his thoughts and Gabrielle laughs as the Mormont smiles with a nod in their direction.
But her eyes turn back to Jon and Sansa's, "You're welcome here while we prepare to march south at your side."
"Thank you, my lady," Sansa's voice echoes sincerity as the four bow and curtsey before leaving the hall with Lyanna behind.
Gabrielle sidles up beside Davos as they walk, the man smiling down at the cunning woman whose rumours cannot communicate how sharp she truly is. She grins back as he says, "We make a good team, my lady."
"We do. And it's Gabrielle. If we're to recruit men for the Starks, we ought to be on a first-name basis," the girl responds before slinking gracefully off in pursuit of Sansa, and Davos continues on after Jon.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////
It's a not such a long trek back to the ocean and across, but one that seemingly winds into eternity as watches are posted with fear of a Bolton attack—something Stannis is adamant upon when victory is still their pursuit. Worn with wind and chaffed pink by the rather rough seas, the men and women of the North experience the beginnings of Winter that has passed many times in the century—but never as bad as this. Tents become the only refuge for a premise of warmth when a small fire can be built and furs can be layered upon crude beds. But, of course, it helps to have the direwolves with one for each Sansa and Jon, and another three for the lonely Baelish.
The night after the talk with Lyanna Mormont, Jon's woken rather roughly from his flighty sleep as he feels a burst of cool air beneath his furs, eyes opening wide to gaze upon Gabrielle crawling into his bed. Shifting a bit to ensure the airlock from the slight wind, she begins to curl herself into Jon's body as he gulps thick with realization that she's wearing nothing more than a shift against her soft skin.
"If you keep doing this, people will begin to talk," Jon manages to keep his tone rather flat and entirely unrepresentative to the emotions and blood raging through him at the pretense of very little between their bodies.
She shrugs and moves closer to him, winding her leg between his, "Only if they see, which they never do."
Jon shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, sending a rush of amusement down Gabrielle's spine at the typical reactions of men. But he's only trying to retain composure before the rather experienced female, focusing on something—anything—but her body pressed to his. Finally turning his eyes onto hers, he asks, "Why do you keep coming?"
"Because you bring me comfort, and I know I comfort you," Gabrielle responds before tucking her nose into the hair he rarely lets loose, closing the conversation before he insists that she leave. And despite what he should do as a noble man, Jon faintly remembers her words from long ago—you would never forsake nobility unless it was for the most true of love—and he pulls her closer beneath those furs so that they cannot be differentiated if any horror were to come looking.