Bran's never seen as much blood as the crimson that covers the length of Lyanna Stark's body, sodden in saturation and pressed against her skin as the darkness of her facade is blanched of color at the extent of her blood loss. Her palm rises to press against Ned's cheek—red with blood as he stares between the bloody hand and his sister's face, her words a whisper in his waiting ear, "Please. Listen to me, Ned. If Robert finds out, he'll kill him, you know he will. You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me."
From behind him, Bran watches the one handmaiden pass softly against the stone floors of the Tower of Joy, carrying a bundle of cloth that's swaddled about a form—Bran startling as he recognizes the form of a baby. Stepping forward and watching as his father stares dumbfounded, Bran moves into the vicinity of Lyanna's pleas—"Promise me, Ned. Promise me"—and peers over his father's shoulder as the baby opens his eyes for the first time.
And he suddenly knows the baby from the dark brown eyes that could be mistaken as no one other than Jon Snow—the child of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, the last dragon.
But—just as suddenly as he'd been drawn here by touching that weirwood tree—Bran's losing his grip on reality as the stone floors fall out from beneath him and the bodies and colors blur together in a mess of nothingness, alone again. Bran's heart beats heavily at the revelation and panic races through him at nothingness, before his feet are suddenly back on the ground, but this time, it's snow. And the stone of the ceiling is replaced by the massive red and white boroughs of a weirwood, the walls now forgotten as stones jut up in that spiral pattern Bran knows from before—and he realizes he's back with the Children of the Forest, millennia ago.
But this time, the firm peace of a ritual and screaming of the Night King are absent with all face of this memory. The grasses no longer blow green, but are covered in thick Winter snows, and the weirwood tree's grown taller and more vibrant since the last time Bran saw it. And the shouting of before is now the crying of a babe in the background, like a screech in Bran's ear as he approaches the only familiar sight—a collection of Children huddled together and thick in the tension of a hushed conversation.
"Where will it go?" one of them asks as Bran gazes down upon them—unseen.
"It cannot stay here," another says with a shaking head. "Not when he knows. He sees it as a betrayal."
But the first one disagrees, "He will search for her even if we take her away."
"She only needs to grow," a third one presses as she palms a dagger of dragonglass in her hand. "She'll be the most powerful of us to ever live, a safeguard against their innate evils."
Bran's eyebrows deepen in a frown at this scene now echoing in his ears, confused as to what they seek and consider, but drawn instead to an approaching Child he knows well—Leaf. In her arms, a baby's swaddled to protect it from the cold, rather large in Leaf's arms as she approaches the others with a firm and unfeeling expression like that of a leader before her people. Bran tries to see past the swaddling—to see if they've made another White Walker—but Leaf sways before him so that he cannot see, her eyes locked firm on the other Children before her. She reminds them, "We all know she is not one of us. She cannot stay here—this is not her time."
The others look at Leaf, and it seems to validate Bran's presumption of her leadership as said Child walks away and Bran rushes after her. Hurriedly, she passes around the swirling grey stones that belie the godswood tree before suddenly turning towards Bran as the others' conversation drones out behind them in the distance of the winds.
Suddenly pulling back the swaddling of the child, Bran's struck by the sight before him—a baby with the light-green skin of a Child, appearing as one of the race and newborn, before it's black eyelashes flutter against the greenery, falling back to look at the weirwood branches before them and revealing the unnatural blue color of White Walker eyes.
"Now you understand, Brandon Stark," Leaf says, Bran stumbling back at her words and the sight of the baby before him—but locks eyes with the seeing Leaf as she speaks to him from twelve-thousand years prior, before his known existence. Pressing her finger to the baby's forehead, the infant begins to cry loudly in Bran's ears as the green skin washes away into an alabaster porcelain and white blonde hair sprouts from the crown of the child's head. The blue eyes of the Night King dim in the infant's sockets to reveal something less magical, but still striking in the cerulean color. The child wails in pain at the process imposed upon it.
And suddenly, the bundled child is being shoved into his arm as it wails loudly with fright. Bran realizes then—at the stiff cold of the cloth—that the child is not swaddled to keep it warm, but to prevent her from burning Leaf's arms at a White Walker's touch. Leaf meets his widened eyes and urges sharply, "You need to go. Knowledge is power, and only you can tell her. If she is to save Westeros by destroying her father, she will need the power of knowing her heritage."
The Child of the Forest reaches out and clutches Bran's arm, sending him into another tailspin through time as the child cries in his arms and sends pangs of pain into his heart. But like before, right as he begins to accept the nothingness of blurred color, Bran's suddenly thrown back to a distant reality as his feet press into stone and he stumbles to stay upright. Brown eyes darting about, his ears are quickly assaulted by screaming and the clash of swords as well as cannons from somewhere close. Ducking into a corner to avoid notice—not willing to risk it—Bran recognizes the city of King's Landing from the Red Keep towering above him...and the crying to be none other than the child still in his arms, as she squirms and warms with each assault on his ears.
"You had no mother—you had nothing. Your only companion was your sadness when I picked you up from outside the door of the Red Keep. Your screams—like those of Aegon and Rhaenys—were silenced by my presence," Petyr Baelish hissed.
"She is of a Northern line. The blood of the First Men flows through her veins," the Three-Eyed Raven had said.
And Gabrielle Baelish taunted and teased the young boys called Robb Stark and Jon Snow, "I was born on the Night of the Sack of King's Landing. They say the screams of the Targaryen babies and myself were what drove the Mountain mad."
And—in that moment—Bran Stark realizes that the child in his arms in none other than the Lady Gabrielle Baelish—a Child of the Forest and a White Walker in the shell of the Mock Queen. Realizing what he must do, Brandon Stark bolts out into the crowds of swarming chaos, through the depths of the capital as women scream in pain and men are butchered like cattle. He tries not to look, but it's everywhere before him, ignoring the shouts of people—they can see him—as he shoves through them and towards the Red Keep where the Mad King may still reign.
Minutes pass but they feel like hours before Bran reaches the front gates of the Keep, eerily absent from soldiers as all defenders fly into the city center. But from the other side of the doors, he can hear voices, walking slowly and unsurely as Gabrielle Baelish continues to scream in his arms, up towards the gate and a door that looms silently.
His breath hitches as he comes to a stop, looking at the screaming infant before crouching down and softly placing her at the door of the Red Keep. His eyes span the distance around him as he tries to remember anything else that she said—anything else he must do. But suddenly, the door begin to open before him, and he's forced to leave the screaming child as he bolts away and turns a corner, silencing his breath as he peeks back around the wall.
From the doors steps a young but recognizable Petyr Baelish, the man gazing around before noticing the screaming child at his feet. Leaning down slowly, the sounds of the girl silence as the man picks her up from the unyielding stone beneath her back. Looking about confusedly, the man's eyes finally turn back to the suddenly content and beautiful child in his arms as she cooes and buries herself deeper in his arms. As the man seems to make the sudden decision and turn on his heel, the colors dissolve around Bran again and he's pushed into the current of nothingness—one last time.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Jon watches the lot before him with unyielding brown eyes of firm strength, listening as the lords of the North shout at one another in utter disagreement at everything Jon says. Sansa sits beside him with a silent conviction in her eye as she equally surveys the lot, and Davos breathes heavily beside Tormund from the wildling table near the front. Off to the side, Jon keeps a warning eye on Petyr Baelish, but finds himself—more often than not—darting a glance at Gabrielle as she leans against the wall, opposite her father, and behind Davos Seaworth.
"You can't expect Knights of the Vale to side with wildling invaders," one of said knights rages and his men follow with a cheer that pounds in Jon's ears, rising with waves of chatter as Tormund stands angrily at his table.
"We didn't invade," Tormund reminds them with an overloaded of air of frustration and amusement. "We were invited."
"Not by me," the Vale knight responds, and Gabrielle's entirely tempted to hit this man's head against a wall until he sees sense or is entirely unconscious. Only Littlefinger would command such a lot of fools.
But her eyes waver as Jon finally has enough, standing to his feet at the front of the Hall and as empowering as Ned Stark in their rough conviction, "The Free Folk, the Northerners, and the Knights of the Vale fought bravely, fought together, and we won. My father uses to say we find our true friends on the battlefield."
The houses stir before another man pops up from his seat, looking at Jon with avid eyes and the rest of the lot before him, "The Boltons are defeated. The war is over. Winter has come. If the maesters are right, it'll be the coldest one in a thousand years. We should ride home and wait out the coming storms."
"The war is not over," Jon shakes his head at the murmuring of men as strength surges in his eye with honest convictions that convince men of monster. "And I promise you, friend, the true enemy won't wait out the storm. He brings the storm."
The chattering rises again and Gabrielle sighs, suddenly wishing to be anywhere but here—no matter how much more entertaining this is than the politics in the capital. And though she's tempted to escape, Gabrielle's glad she doesn't as Lyanna Mormont suddenly stands to address them all: "Your son was butchered at the Red Wedding, Lord Manderly. But you refused the call. You swore allegiance to House Stark, Lord Glover, but in their hour of greatest need, you refused the call. And you, Lord Cerwyn, your father was skinned alive by Ramsay Bolton. Still you refuse the call.
"But House Mormont remembers. The North remembers. We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark. I don't care if he's a bastard. Ned Stark's blood runs through his veins. He's my king from this day until his last day."
The chattering begins again as Lyanna sits and Gabrielle grins at her, going unnoticed by the girl who needs no reassurance to know she is right. Across from her, Lord Manderly stands with a hint of sorrow about his shoulders, "Lady Mormont speaks harshly and truly. My son died for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf. I didn't think we'd find another king in my lifetime. I didn't commit my men to your cause cause I didn't want more Manderlys dying for nothing. But I was wrong. Jon Snow avenged the Red Wedding. He is the White Wolf. The King in the North."
Gabrielle watches expectantly as the man suddenly unsheathes his blade before pounding it down onto the ground and kneeling before a startled Jon. But then, Lord Robett Glover stands and Gabrielle cannot help the rush of anger running through her, the man suddenly shivering as a chill wracks through his body but he continues on, loyally eyeing Jon: "I did not fight beside you on the field and I will regret that until my dying day. A man can only admit when he was wrong and ask forgiveness."
Jon's eyes flicker to Gabrielle—as she smirks with victory—before turning his gaze onto Lord Glover with a small grin to his lip, "There's nothing to forgive, my lord."
"There will be more fights to come. House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousands years. And I will stand behind Jon Snow." The man draws his sword like his Manderly counterpart and kneels with a proud shout, "The King in the North!"
And then, like it happened to Robb Stark many years ago, all the men are standing and chanting that same call to arms: "The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North! The King in the North!"
Jon stands slowly from his seat as his eyes widen with stunned feeling at the sight before him, the naming of a king...of himself. His eyes flicker across the entire lot of men—from Davos and Tormund to the unnamed others—before locking silently on Gabrielle who winks knowingly at him, leaning back into the wall as her face reflects deepset intelligence. And while Jon stares down at the love of his life, Sansa looks across to gaze upon the stiff smirk of Petyr Baelish—meeting her eye with a taunt of calling this action. But unlike he expects, there is nothing of consternation in Sansa's expression, but a deep set loyalty for Jon as she turns back to the men before her and plans develop in her sharp mind.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
"I now proclaim Cersei of the House Lannister First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms," Qyburn proclaims as his Hand of the Queen pin glints—arms raised with the stiff gold crown to press into the top of her head. No cheers are heard from the nobles, but a stiff silence of stirring hate for her as Cersei's eyes lock with Jaime from across the room, hate blooming in her green eyes and foretelling the wars to come.
"Long may she reign," Qyburn calls, and all the nobles echo, "Long may she reign."
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Gabrielle takes comfort in the close embrace as she finds herself, days later, cuddled in Jon's lap in the chair he'd secured within his own solar, wearing very little between them. She can hear the winds of Winter blowing against the window behind them as daylight illuminates the gold in her hair like a fire lighting a torch. Jon's hand brushes down the side of her shift as she leans lazily into his bare chest, tracing the cuts of his death with ever increasing familiarity after the Battle of the Bastards.
"Why must we hide?" Jon asks as he brushes his fingers through her hair, as soft as rabbit's fur but as warm as the pelt of a bear. "Why can't I just proclaim my love for you in front of them, fall down on my knees and ask for your hand?"
Gabrielle's eyes shift from the window to look at him with soft laughter on her lips, "Because they'll expect you to marry a high-born girl who can strengthen the North around her."
"You've done that. You are the strongest woman I have ever known."
"But I am a southerner to them," she counters with a soft smile, turning again to look at the window as he stares passionately at her beauty—at all times of the day and in all states of their war.
"So, what shall I do when they come forward with proposals?" he asks with small amusement as she turns again to him, slightly surprised he's so adamant in speaking now. "Deny them all for no purpose?"
"Your purpose will be that war is no time for marriage—Robb learned that the hard way," Gabrielle responds with a slight chuckle as Jon eyes her deeply, not feeling the humour. "That should shut them up real quick."
"After the war then? When our enemies are no longer on our doorstep and alliances don't need to be reassured, will you marry me then?" Jon asks.
But she just stares at him for a moment, sinking into the depths of the brown eyes that seem to light with passion and love whenever they sit like this. Feeling her heartbeat thump louder, she tries to make light of this minute struggle before them, "You're steadfast in your dreams."
Jon will not take her denial to heart, as he knows she wishes for lasting love as much as he—pulling her closer to him as she gazes lovingly into his eyes with potent sorrow. He presses her, both physically and emotionally, as he admits, "I want to be able to hold you, kiss you, and take you whenever and wherever without fear of being caught. I want them to bow low for you, sing praises of your beauty, only for me to shut them up because you are mine. I want to show them all how much I love you."
"We'd be a fitting pair, I think," Gabrielle says after a moment of deep breathing—at the greatest thrill her heart has ever felt—wishing to just accept his folly and run with the ignorance, but being far too intelligent and logical to ever accept. "You'd be the nobility, and I'd be the sense."
Jon's eyebrows furrow at her words, "Sense? Are you saying I'm nonsensical?"
"You trust too easily," she says off-handedly, "Even now. It's best to trust no one."
"No one? Do you not trust me?" Jon echoes, his eyes flashing with a sort of betrayal.
Which she tries to extinguish without lighting a fire, "I trust you enough to protect you."
"You're lying to me," he accuses her.
"I will never lie to you, Jon," Gabrielle shakes her head at the man's insistence of her fault—knowing that the world will be easier for him if she extinguishes some of the evils behind his back. "If you ask me a question, I will answer you truthfully and fully. But if you do not ask, I may not share. It's for your own protection."
"What is it that I could know that would hurt me, beyond what you knew of Shireen Baratheon and Littlefinger's army?" Gabrielle looks away at his words, not so guilty but unsteady as he tempts her to reveal all—if only to bring that smile and contentment back to his eyes. But then, he's grabbing her chin like she rather dislikes, and pressing her eyes into his own as he begs, "I want you to confide in me."
She sighs and then breathes out, "Then ask and you will receive."
"What is it that you aren't telling me?" Jon questions, and she grins widely at the traits he's beginning to adopt from her.
"Sly, Jon Snow, but not specific enough."
"You are enjoying this too much," Jon calls the truth for what it is, not knowing where he can start that'll reveal all her secrets to him alone. "But I'll play...we may be here forever."
"Oh, I sure hope not. The Northerners may soon think that the prude and righteous King in the North is not so," she returns with that wicked and mirth-filled grin of hers.
And he smiles, thinking quick at one of the more imperative instances of their travel, before he asks, "Why do the animals follow you?"
"I do not know, but I wish I did. I cannot make any sense of it, especially since it only happens when I come North," she replies. "Maybe I give off the scent of being in heat."
Jon barks a laugh within her soft smirk, "I doubt that sincerely."
"Wish to check?" she questions cheekily as her eyebrows jump up charmingly.
"As tempting as that is, my 'prude and righteous' label would surely be tainted by your screaming."
"You can gag me if you want," Gabrielle offers, but Jon just sends her a sharp look that tells her to never consider such a thing. So, she just sighs and shifts in his lap lazily, "Fine, but ask more. This is boring me."
"Who was your mother?"
"Baelish said a whore, but he doesn't know since he's not my father," Gabrielle reveals, but Jon's eyes do not jump since she'd reassured him of this days ago after seeing Littlefinger stalking Sansa. "Again, I do not know...either my mother or father."
"Do you not wonder...?" Jon asks as his eyes take on a rather lost look and drift away towards the far grey wall, then dart back to the striking blue of her own. "I do. Did Littlefinger or anyone ever speak of my mother? Did anyone know her?"
"Strangely, I heard nothing," she shakes her head. "No one ever referred to you. I mean, other than Ned—"
Jon's body perks up, at the reference to his father, shifting her slightly away before pulling her back into his chest, "He talked about me? What did he say?"
"That he is proud of you. He said that you are as much a son to him as Robb ever was," Gabrielle replies as her eyes take on a guarded look that foretells her lurking secret, not that Jon sees this emotion. "He said that he loves you."
Jon gazes at her with a deep and thick shock and emotion—hurting in his heart—as he asks, "When did he say this? Was it after he was arrested?"
"No, it wasn't," she shakes her head and drops her eyes to her lap.
But that avoidance of eye contact pushes anger into Jon's veins as he stiffly asks something they never addressed, "Did you even visit him before he died?"
"Of course, I did!" she shouts and returns her eyes to his in a blazing, blue inferno. "I told you, I'd look after him, and I keep my rare promises."
"You didn't then," Jon grunts and a second of silence passes before their eyes, Jon only then noticing her lack of guiltiness as she stares at him—pleading with him to understand. And suddenly, he thinks he does as his eyes widen in confusion, "...Or did you?"
"I always did," she responds stiffly.
"He's not dead?"
"No," her head shakes firm in revelation, "he's not."
But Jon straightens and grabs her fac, pressing and insistent and wondering where his father's gone. "Where is he?"
"Either in Meereen or crossing the Narrow Sea, I suspect," she shrugs, but his eyebrows furrow with confusion, stumbling to ask, "Why—why is he there?"
"Because he is the advisor to Daenerys Targaryen," Gabrielle responds—drawing the breath from his lungs in shock of her choices and secret she's hidden from their enemies for many years. "Has been since I sent him away on the night before his beheading and replaced him with another."
Jon's rough touch on her chin becomes softer as he cups her cheeks and smiles wide with the crinkling of his eyes and tears, "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell the North? The Lord of Winterfell is alive."
"You cannot tell, Jon," she presses then, and Jon realizes why she's not so jubilant to confess this treason to the world. "He forwent his claim to the North when he left. You are the Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, and the one he acknowledged in his last letter. Everything I did is to protect you. The other houses would kill you for taking his heeded seat. This is where you belong, even when he returns."
Jon just looks at her then, overcome with the depth of her treasons for him and love-based actions, even years ago when they barely knew each other. And his heart beats with guilt at the accusations he made and distance he tried to create between them, knowing now that this woman would go to the ends of the earth if she so promised. And Jon begins to cry in relief and deep love as she pulls him into her chest and lets him heave heavily with pent up emotion at the past tribulations and miracles.
And though his face is pressed tight into her soft porcelain skin, she just barely manages to hear his words: "Thank you, thank you so much."
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Sansa has to wonder why so many people find peace in this place—the battlements of Winterfell that look over the vast stretch of land to the south. She supposes it might be due to the protection they now represent—a home and fortress that shall keep company with their allies, while the enemies are forced into the cold outside. And maybe—then—that's why she finds Stannis upon them later in the day as the sun's dimming on the horizon, his blue eyes focused on the field where his army once was slain—his position so radically reversed in the past year.
"Lady Sansa," Stannis nods his proper greeting to her as she comes to stand at his side, the firmness in his jaw now easily representing the returned character of the commander as he stands tall above her head, looking down.
She bows her head to him in response, "Lord Stannis."
Almost in sync, both turn back to the horizon that seems to draw the eye of all conversers when present on these ramparts. The wind blows about them as she pulls her cloak tighter against her body, Stannis not so much as wincing beneath the thickness of his cloak. Moments pass in silence with the howling winds from the North and howling of the direwolves on their hunt.
"I am sorry about your daughter," she finally offers as she turns to him, with the sharpness of her blue eyes bearing into his profile that refuses to turn about.
He shakes his head at her, "No you're not. You think I should be dead for it."
"Yes, but the gods are not merciful like the stories say," Sansa admits as she continues to stare at the man before her, feeling her past but showing nothing in her expression. "The stories never say anything of truth, really."
Those words seem to evoke something in Stannis's brain as he remembers the tales his daughter told, as well as the rumours of the Northern beauty who had marched South with her father, five years before. His voice picks up in the wind, "When I last heard of you, I heard you were a girl of fanciful dreams of marrying the prince."
"When you last heard of me, my father was alive and the Starks weren't traitors," Sansa returns sharply without breaking her eyes from his, revealing that inner strength he'd been hesitant to see in the Stark woman. And yet—as he now looks at her—Sansa Stark seems to shine in a new light of a woman grown—a woman who has seen and experienced the horrors of the world, much like himself. Hearing the silence, she continues: "I meant to ask why you swore to serve the North? After all you've done, why not just die?"
"I've faced greater odds, and looked death in the eye many times. When I saw Lady Brienne, I thought that was it—that I couldn't just look death in the eye, but that it had to be death in the facade of a woman. And yet, Lady Baelish—a woman I once hated—arrived in the form of a godly messenger with promises of salvation. Maybe I'm still mind-warped by the Red Witch, but her words and the guilt...." Stannis stutters for the first time as his eyes waver from hers, and then return back with Baratheon force. "I would not give up the second chance. I am a man of logic, and the fact that she appeared proves that I need to be alive."
"And you would not swear yourself to her—a single woman—so you swore yourself to the North instead," Sansa explains to him as he already knows. "She did not give you that choice because she knew you would not take it."
Stannis's firm eyes travel down Sansa's face as he takes recognition of the intelligence hiding behind the blank expression of the Stark. Rather tall for a woman, he still looks down upon her, the red of her hair fluttering in the wind and like the fire she's rare to show—but now does. He truly sees her, in that moment, for what she is—and tries to hide—as he rarely admits, "Lady Sansa, you might just be smarter than the rest of us."
"You're the first person who hasn't attributed my intelligence to Gabrielle's education," she responds with a smirk that barely manages to hide a hint of irritation at the gall of most men when addressing her cunning.
"People can be educated all they want, but only the truly intelligent can see information hidden within real context," Stannis responds, and her eyes gleam in deep agreement of this wisdom. But with that glint he's seen so little of, Stannis feels his heart quiver at the reminder of her youth—not her innocence—and the danger she's creating for herself before his very eyes. Feeling nothing less than pressured, he warns her, "Beware of Lord Baelish."
The glint is gone as a large snarl wraps across her stinging eyes, the girl stepping forward without hesitation as she reminds him, "I am not an imbecile, Lord Stannis. If I hadn't heard it from you, I've heard it from others. You claim me to be smart, but perceive me to be blind?"
"My apologies, my lady," he bows his head with a breath in his heart as Stannis looks at the woman, "but Littlefinger is perhaps the slyest man in Westeros and has tricked even the best of men."
"Yet you forget the only two people who have ever tricked him," Sansa hisses, and he immediately tenses in realization of her words—understanding now that there's a game being played before him by the best actors Westeros has ever seen. "You are smart too, Lord Stannis, so let me warn you like you warned me: beware of Lady Baelish and Lady Stark. If you do, you might just survive the battles to come."
The girl turns and leaves in a swirl of grey, the danger she poses lurking around Stannis for some time before being swept off by the wind and fluttering into the South. But even then, Stannis is left with a lasting impression of Sansa Stark that requires his attention in the wars to come.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
As the dragons screech above the boats and the voices of Dothraki, Unsullied, and those of Westeros echo in her ear, Daenerys gazes before her armada at the raging Narrow Sea that will lead her home. Her eyes twinkle with promise as Ned and Tyrion stand on her either side, Varys and Missandei behind her and the rage of the Targaryens at their back like the tailwind of dragons, high in the sky before them.
//////////////////////////////////////////////
Gabrielle gazes out from the battlements in the stark silence of the winds streaming southward, her eyes directed nowhere in that direction—but antonymous as she looks North and tries to imagine the Wall between them and monsters. Feeling the winds on her arms and cold about her, a sense of calm patience and anticipation sets about the body of a woman who's grown into maturity through the stretches of warfare and political deceit, trips to faraway lands and tragedies back home. It all seems a bit surreal in the darkness before her—a turning point in their battles now that they've reclaimed Winterfell and united the North—as previous struggles with family and the Southern crown rest on her shoulders with decisions needing to be made.
Suddenly, arms are being wrapped around the most narrow curve of her waist, and Gabrielle relaxes back into Jon's cloaked chest as he rests his face on her shoulder and she sinks into the embrace. Sighing softly as she fiddles with the missive from Valyrion, Gabrielle informs him, "Varys has written: Daenerys Targaryen sails for Westeros with many ships and even more men. Cersei Lannister has taken the Iron Throne."
"Their battles do not matter," Jon's soft voice presses as his grip tightens about her waist, "It's why you're looking North, not South."
His ears echo as she breathes slowly and lets the wind whistle past them, her heart heavy and even Jon can feel it. She asks, "When do you think they'll come?"
"Winter is here, and the Dead won't be kept long. We can only hope Sam writes back of a miracle soon," Jon replies as his words echo and draw her gaze to him with the bright blue seas of her iris almost sinking into the brown of his own.
"Bran is coming home, I can feel it in the wind," Gabrielle tells him and his heart stirs with joy, watching softly as her eyes dart back to the dark wild that lays north of them. "And with him, he might bring knowledge of the White Walkers—how we can defeat them."
"We can only pray," Jon replies and she nods her head against his own as she presses her soft hands onto his gloved ones about her waist. Like a whisper of the wind, his voice sounds in her ear, "What will happen should the Wall collapse and the Dead march on?"
"The Wall would tumble upon our shoulders, chipping us away until we are nothing more than the savages that overtook these lands millennia ago," she responds rather stiffly but with that tone that once sang songs to the little birds of King's Landing and told Jon of the monsters in the North. "Only those who are perfect may remain."
"But no one is perfect," Jon reminds her.
But she turns then to crumple herself into his arms with hers between them, her blue eyes on his with the insistence of a promise he knows she'll keep: "Apart, we are not. But together...well, if I know anything, it's that only humanity has a chance to survive. We are just one step behind perfection and deeply engrossed in sin, Jon Snow. But together, we can be perfection, march on against the current, and we will survive."
Jon smiles softly at her words, his heart thrumming with belief as he brushes his hand down her bare arms—only then noticing that she's not wearing anything more than a thin pink shift. His eyes fall to the smooth, porcelain skin and then back to her eyes with the lowering of his worried brow, "Are you not cold?"
"No, I haven't been in some time," she responds dazedly at the feeling of his hands across her skin, but her eyes bear deep into his own. "Fire flows beneath my skin...my skin that's made of ice."
Jon smiles at her poetry and almost laughs—but instead, he begins to pull her towards the door into the Keep from which they both escaped some time ago. She follows along lazily, but grins softly as he whispers mischievously in her ear, "Sing me one of your lullabies, little songbird. Sing me the song of ice and fire."
The smile lasts longer on her facade—and even when she's parted from the welcome cold, her eyes only gaze back to eye the darkness of the Northern terrain as something builds in her veins. But it's a battle for another day, as the grin does not waver and she follows behind her lover, deeper into the heart of her identity and the Winterfell keep.