Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He was dying.

Everything hurt. His men stepped on his injured leg. A kick in the stomach took the breath out of his lungs. His head bashed hard into the ground, over and over again. He raised his arm with an attempt at shielding his head but found no relief, ever aware of the heavy sword in his grip.

Don’t lose it again.

The sword was one thing. His life was another.

Yelling out at the pain, his men rushed over him, paying no heed, their own survival bypassing any attention to those beneath them. Breathing became ragged as more feet crushed his chest, the scars beneath his leathers burned with the onslaught. Others succumbed to the chaos, falling beneath the confined crowd of soldiers. His ears ringing, the sounds of battle became muffled. But he still heard the screams and gasps of the dying around him, stealing one last breath before it all turned to nothing. The terrifying nothingness of death.

If I do, if I fall… don’t bring me back.

His life was slipping from him, each inhale weaker than the last. If he let himself go, what would happen to the North? Was he brought back just to die again without doing more than fight for Winterfell?

The rush of feet slowed, calming to a still silence, enclosing the space around his head. Vision blurred, head spinning, he gasped, gulping in air. Men crammed together, shoulder to shoulder, cramped and caked in blood and shit and grime.

He closed his eyes.

He could stay here.

It could all end.

Let it end.

Let go.

No.

He wanted to live.

Jon opened his eyes.

He blinked against the sun shining down through a gap above him.

It beckoned to him and filled Jon with the oddest sense of relief.

He hauled himself up, grabbing at arms and legs, laboring, squirming and twisting, craving air in his lungs. He crawled between them, squeezing free.

Jon heaved in as he broke through, inhaling the stale air of the North. Pushing himself above the shoulders of his men, he slowly regained oxygen, breathing deep. He took in his surroundings.

Wun Wun had spears and arrows lodged in his side, swinging angrily and loudly at the Bolton infantry. He turned to see Tormund fighting a brutal one-on-one battle against Smalljon Umber. Jon glanced over at Ser Davos in the sea of remaining men, trapped and surrounded on all sides.

A sad look passed between them as they each turned away, both helplessly searching for any way out of this mess.

Jon had been warned by Sansa about Ramsay’s schemes and cruelty. Rickon paid the price for it.

He shouldn’t have been surprised at how quickly his forces were surrounded.

Jon looked toward Winterfell, finding Ramsay smirking his ridiculous psychotic smile, watching the slaughter from the hill, clean and untouched.

Jon’s face twitched, his fist tightened around Longclaw. Jon wanted nothing more than to punch the smirk off his face until his skull was bloodied so much it was unrecognizable. But he wouldn't be going anywhere stuck between his forces, surrounded by Bolton infantry with a seemingly impenetrable wall of shields. Their demise marching closer, ever closer.

A horn blasted off the southern ridge beyond the Kingsroad. He swung his head around and smiled triumphantly.

A massive horde of hooves rose like a wave ready to crash upon the shore. 

They came!

Northern forces from Manderly, Reed, Tallhart, Ryswell, Dustin, Mollen and countless others led the charge! Both cavalry and foot soldiers!

But his smiled faded into a look of confusion.

Behind them were more he was not expecting.

The white falcon and crescent moon flapping in the wind at the front of a sea of thousands of mounted soldiers.

The Knights of the Vale?

A group of men and women sat atop the hill as the knights flew by them. Sigil carriers revealed a mixture of North and Vale gathered as one. His sister's red hair caught his eye amongst the others.

“Sansa,” he muttered to the wind, shaking his head with an exhausted, uneasy sigh. Something had happened for the Vale to be in the North. But there was no time to ponder it now.

The North and the Vale divided forces. Coming from the Kingsroad to the south, the Vale charged north toward the battlefield, sweeping away Bolton’s forces, while the Northern cavalry and soldiers headed west for the gates of Winterfell.

Jon raised Longclaw and shouted with all the breath he had left, “For the North!”

A roar of exultation rose all around them. Hope renewed and breath restored, Jon clambered up the mound of dead and injured bodies, men around him following his lead. Reaching the top, clutching his sword with an iron grip, his eyes bore into Ramsay, adrenaline and rage surging through him.

Before the bastard had recovered from his shock, riders bearing the Dustin battle axes and the Ryswell black horse rushed straight toward Ramsay. As fast as he could manage, Ramsay steered his horse and guardsmen around for Winterfell, yelling and cursing out orders as he attempted to flee like the coward he was. They were no match for the Ryswell's fastest riders. With each moment, the gap between them grew smaller and smaller, while Jon’s satisfied grin grew larger and larger.

With a scream of agony, Ramsay’s horse violently threw him as spears pierced its heart. Soldiers pounced on Ramsay like a pack attacking their prey.

It felt like time had slowed around him, yet it was done in an instant.

Jon tore his gaze from the sight of Ramsay bound and gagged. If he looked any longer, he didn’t think he could stop himself from pummeling the man to death then and there.

“Wun Wun to me!” Jon shouted behind him.

As the giant lumbered towards him, Jon sighed with relief seeing Tormund run up next to him, victorious in killing Umber, his core group of Freefolk fighters by his side. Davos arrived with other soldiers freed by the Vale cavalry. 

Jon gave various orders to his men. With the new houses joining them with fresh foot soldiers, they didn’t need everyone for capturing Winterfell itself now. The additional Northern forces had routed their attack to the West and North Gates and were already pouring in to secure the castle. Soon the Boltons would be swept from Winterfell and the North forever. 

The men around him sprang into action with their orders and spread the word to other commanders.

Wun Wun arrived next to him, breathing labored and heavy, but still alive.

Jon shouted up his command.

“Go North! Tell them we’ve won!”

  ---------------  

"Rickon!"

Jon ran quickly across the battlefield, dodging wounded and mounted soldiers.

"Rickon!"

He wasn't sure why he was calling out for him when he knew no reply would come.

Jon looked at each end of the field. Rickon had run in between the burning crucified bodies almost directly in the middle. The only problem was trying to find where exactly he had fallen. There were countless bodies on the ground now. Most with armor, some with wildling furs. All with blood that colored the mud a dark shade of crimson.

Jon came to where the dead and wounded were scattered and sparse. None of them were his youngest brother. Sighing heavily, he slowed and turned back towards Winterfell. The sight of the entire mess of battle left a sour taste in Jon’s mouth. There were hundreds lost. 

Forcing himself to look away, his eyes scanned the ground for the arrows that Ramsay had sent earlier forcing Jon to move. His choice to ride further towards the enemy lines and leave their initial strategies behind was exactly what Ramsay had wanted. The memory of a wall of horses running at him flashed before his eyes.

"RICKON!"

Movement just ahead of him caught his attention. Past the scattered arrows, a young man with a mop of curls struggled to support himself on his right arm. His head swung back towards him, sending Jon’s heart to his throat. "Rickon," Jon breathed. His feet rushed forward. 

"Rickon! Rickon, I'm here! Rickon, I’m so sorry. I had you, I just… He struck you and I… I’m here, brother," Jon blabbered on as he slid on his knees next to him, dropping Longclaw as he moved to support his brother's upper body, " Rickon? Rickon, talk to me."

"Jon?"

"Aye, it's me," Jon grinned, tears at the corners of his eyes, "it's Jon."

Ramsay's arrow had pierced through Rickon's left shoulder, not his heart. Jon inspected the wound, which looked as if Rickon had managed to stall the bleeding with a spare piece of fabric over the front. Jon yelled at the nearest living soldier to find him a maester and Sansa immediately. 

Rickon kept his left arm still. His right hand gripped Jon tightly. 

"Does it hurt?"

"A bit."

"Any other arrows hit you? Anything else hurt?"

"One grazed my arm and a horse ran over my leg."

"Which leg?"

"The right one. Above my ankle."

He lifted Rickon's torn pant leg to see. It was starting to bruise, a ring in the shape of a hoof raised and angry red, but otherwise it didn't look too serious. Jon had seen much worse trampling injuries at the Wall.

"You'll probably limp for a while before it heals but you won't lose your leg."

Jon carefully lifted Rickon's upper body to peer at his back. Blood had pooled and hardened around the wound. There was a break where the arrowhead must have snapped off after Rickon hit the ground. If they moved the shaft at all, both sides would start bleeding again. They would have to wait for a maester to do anything. 

Jon shifted with a grunt to sit on the ground. Holding on to him with his arms, he eased Rickon back down so they were facing each other.

"Where did you learn to treat wounds?"

"Osha," Rickon managed, breathing heavily, "the wildling that took care of me and Bran. She taught me."

That explained why Rickon was wearing furs like one.

After seeing him pierced with an arrow and thinking him dead, Jon was still in disbelief that he was holding him at all. Everything about him had changed, yet it was still Rickon, just an older version of him. He'd been a child when Jon had left for the Wall. Now he looked almost the same age Jon had been when he'd left. His hair was like Robb's, long and curly, but more brown than red. His face was longer, reminding him of Father's face. His voice was rougher, but not as deep yet.

Rickon glanced past him nervously. "Is Ramsay gone?" 

"Aye. They're taking him to the dungeons as we speak." With his right hand, Jon took out his knife and they worked together to unbind the ropes around Rickon's wrists. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not too badly. Just threatened and taunted mostly. Hit me a few times when he heard of all the houses joining your side."

"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have been his hostage in the first place. We got here as soon as we could."

"It's alright. I've been through worse."

Jon shook his head, “Worse than an arrow to the shoulder? Worse than Ramsay?"

Rickon gave a faint smile, "Not as bad as that, but still worse."

Jon's mouth thinned, pained at the thought of what Rickon had gone through over the years. Jon’s hand grasped the side of Rickon’s face and neck as Jon’s face darkened.

“I can’t promise that you won’t have to endure harsh circumstances again, but the bastard will pay for whatever he did to you and your friend with his life. I’ll see to that,” Jon assured him, steel in his voice.

Rickon’s eyes widened and emotion clouded his face. Silently, he nodded.

"Rickon!"

The moment passed as they turned to see Sansa halting her white mare. She dismounted and ran to them, kneeling in the mud. Jon released him in time for her hands to clutch either side of Rickon's face. Streaks of tears flowed down her cheeks. For a moment she simply stared at their youngest brother, panting from her rush to get there.

"I thought we couldn't save you. I was sure Ramsay would... I can't believe you're alive!"

Rickon gave a tired yet proud smirk. “I’ve lasted this long,” he rasped, “He couldn’t get rid of me that easily.”

"Course not,” Sansa brushed a curl off his forehead, “I was sorry to hear about Shaggy Dog. I know what that’s like." 

“They took his head like they did Greywind.”

“We know,” Sansa nodded, “It was how we knew he really had you.”

Jon watched Rickon struggle to contain his emotions.

“He told me they would do the same thing they did to Robb with me. My head on Shaggy Dog’s body...” Rickon trailed off, his eyes far away, wide and glassy with unshed tears.

Jon’s gaze hardened once more, anger boiling up inside him. “Then he won’t keep his.”

That brought Rickon back to them instantly.

“Good.”

His face was as stony as any of the statues in the crypts. Whatever emotions he barely contained a moment ago now sealed tightly in place.

Somewhere deep inside Jon’s mind, he mourned that Rickon had needed to grow up so quickly and dealt with so much pain and grief at such a young age. The evidence of it was heart breaking. Yet Rickon was more relatable now than he had ever been as a child because of it.

It was as if Jon was looking at himself, which made it even more painful.

Ahead of them, a Maester approached their little reunion. Beside him were men from House Mollen carrying a stretcher. One of them was a muscular man with a full brown beard.

Jon's eyes widened in recognition. "Hallis Mollen?"

"Jon Snow. Lady Sansa. Lord Rickon," he nodded to each of them, "Winterfell is ready for you."

"Already?" Rickon croaked.

"Aye. I wasn't captain of Winterfell's guard for nothing," he replied with a bushy grin and gestured to the older man beside him, "Lord Reed has personally sent his Maester to see to your wounds. Is that agreeable to you?"

Rickon's eyes turned to the man in dark grey robes and cape. "Were you the Maester for Jojen and Meera?" 

"Aye, lad, I was," the Maester replied gently as he approached, "I heard you were friends with them."

"Aye," Rickon replied sadly. 

Hallis and a few men came near, one taking Jon's place supporting Rickon as the two continued to speak of the Reeds and the Neck. The Maester inspected Rickon's shoulder and arm. 

"May I have a word, Snow?" Hallis asked lowly.

Jon nodded and walked with him a few paces off. Sansa stayed by Rickon's side holding his hand in both of hers.

Taking his eyes from them, he gestured to his gambeson. “Mind helping me out of this? The layers of mud and… whatever else are starting to harden.”

“Of course.”

Coming forward, Hallis began working on the buckles at his sides while Jon unstrapped the vambraces on his arms.

Hallis kept his voice low, “It’s good to see you alive. Just the glimpse from the ridge of the Boltons surrounding you like that nearly knocked me over! Quite a spot you found yourself in there.”

“Aye. You have no idea how relieved I was when I saw the reinforcements. I wasn’t sure if you would make it in time.”

“We weren’t sure neither. The White Knife was swifter with the snows we’ve had and the Cerwyns took some convincing to assist us. The Valemen helped sway them.”

“I didn’t realize the Vale was on our side. How –?”

Hallis moved to Jon’s other side, his back to the group helping Rickon as he lowered his voice further.

“I’ve been with the Reeds since Lady Catelyn tasked me with bringing your Father’s bones back to Winterfell and stayed hidden there after the Boltons took part in the Red Wedding,” Mollen began undoing the buckles at his shoulders, continuing, “We saw the Knights of the Vale marching through the Neck a few months ago and sent word to the Manderlys and Dustins to meet us at Moat Cailin. Gave them a surprise Northern welcome. They were garrisoned there under orders of a Lord Baelish."

Jon swore, squeezing the vambraces between his fists. 

"The man wasn't there when we surprised them and there were plenty of Lords of the Vale willing to talk. It was there that we received your ravens. Much and more you should know about the situation from Lord Reed and Lord Manderly. And your sister. Makes my head spin, if I'm honest.”

Jon glanced at Sansa and shook his head. She was too focused on Rickon to see his look of disappointment. “Fix one problem and three follow."

"There’s always something. Time as a castle guard and in Robb’s army taught me that," Hallis said. He lifted the dirty leather armor off Jon’s shoulders.

Jon failed to stifle a grimace when he leaned too hard on his right leg.

Folding the armor so the filth was inward and laying it over his arm, Hallis laid his other hand on Jon’s shoulder. "Let's have someone see to that leg and we'll get you home."

He gave him a half-hearted smile.

Jon hadn't thought of Winterfell as home in a very long time.

Chapter Text

“He’s strong. Hard muscles, good footing.”

Jon walked around once more.

“Fully trained, battle experience. Never shies at blood and heals quickly. He’s the best I have.”

“He didn’t fight today?” Jon asked.

“No. I’ve kept him out of sight at my parents’ small farm half a league from here. I went and got him to help after the battle.”

Jon’s newly named master of horse, Jason, handed him the reins. Jon led the dark horse across to Winterfell’s innermost gatehouse and back again to the large primary stables. He kept in step with him while observing the horse’s movements and reactions to those passing by them. The horse kept his head even and steady as he finished the walk.

“I’d like to ride him a few times, but I think he’ll do.”

“Excellent choice. If you’d like to see the others I have, you can come back in a day or two. They’re all in use on the field pulling the wagons.”

“There’s no need. I only need one,” Jon said, brushing a hand on the courser’s black mane, “Dareon will be all I need.”

“I’ve trained horses since I was a lad of fifteen and he’s the finest horse I ever did see,” Jason said with a proud grin.

Jon handed Dareon’s reins back to Jason, who led them inside the stables.

The taller man was at least forty if not older. His hair was brown in long, thin, curling whisps that extended past his broad shoulders and his face was clean shaven. He wore a simple grey tunic, brown fur cloak, and light brown boots.

As they entered the stables, some close to the entrance quieted and turned, equal amount of eyes on Jason walking Dareon to his stall and on Jon himself.

The stables were filled to bursting with horses this late in the day. Various sigils and arms from the North and Vale displayed on both horse and riders. A few clusters of lords and knights conversed in pairs and groups down the aisle toward the opposite doors and many were still entering in, adding to the numbers. The stables were alive with the vast array of colors and life compared to the grey clouds and dismal reality of the battlefield beyond the walls of Winterfell.

The battle had concluded hours ago, yet felt like days had passed with all the goings on. Bringing their belongings from the war camp into Winterfell, accommodating all the additional forces and houses, caring for the wounded and organizing the fallen. They’d burn the dead throughout the next coming days.

Jon remained at the opening of the stall as Jason began removing the harness off. “Do you think it would be possible to enter an agreement with the Ryswells and Dustins to supply more horses? There’ll be a heavy demand after the fight today. I’d be happy to make negotiations if you’d connect me with the right lord.” Jason hooked the harness and reins on the wall.

“I don’t see why not,” Jon agreed, “If you don’t hear anything by the end of the day tomorrow, come and find me. I hope to ride Dareon regularly and train with him, so I’ll be around.”

“I look forward to it,” Jason replied, shutting the stall door with a smile.

Dareon shifted his position to face the opening. Jon naturally lifted a hand to rub his nose.

He was sorry that the battle had cost him his faithful horse from the Wall. But he was confident this new horse would fit his needs perfectly, especially since Jason had Dareon in mind when he had mentioned needing to find a new one.

Ser Davos rounded the corner, commotion behind him drawing Jon’s eye.

“There you are!” Davos exclaimed, breathing heavily, “Your direwolf is causing a stir in Wintertown.”

Jon bolted out of the stables.

Running across the bridge spanning the moat to the southern gatehouse, he dodged the people heading in the same direction. His injuries ached severely as he ran.

At the top of the southern gatehouse ramp, he spotted Ghost walking along the main road. His white fur stood out against the houses of wood and stone in Wintertown. As Ghost walked silently, those in his path backed out of the way, yelling a warning at others to do the same.

“He’s enormous!”

Jon turned to see Jason beside him, staring in shock.

“Not quite as big as a horse… yet,” he responded.

“There are mules and donkeys his size. Ever try riding him?”

“No,” Jon offered a tired grin, “No, I have not.”

Davos came up next to them, “Would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold. Might cause more gawking than he has now.”

Inwardly, Jon agreed. All around the wide market square, people stopped what they were doing to stare at the albino direwolf. There were many mixed reactions. Some of the North recognized him, smiling, others in shock and wonder, more reacted in fear with weapons ready. A majority of the latter wore Vale emblems of various kinds.

At the well in the market’s center, two boys huddled close to one another, one slightly older and taller than the other, unsure of what to do. Jon noted the smaller one anxiously looking at a group of women and children to the right. One of the ladies was looking helplessly between the boys and the wolf.

"Ghost!" Jon shouted, running down the ramp to the left side of the center well away from the women and children, “Ghost, to me.”

Ghost rushed over to him instantly, nearly knocking him to the ground when his fore paws landed on Jon’s shoulders.

"Easy boy!” Jon grunted and offered a mixture of smiles and grimaces against a barrage of rough licks as he rubbed Ghost's neck and ears.

“Hey! Aye, I get your point!”

Ghost relented the harsh affection to gaze down at him with red eyes.

"Hey, you're okay," Jon murmured, “I'm alright, Ghost. It's me."

With a final lick, Ghost got down and started sniffing Jon's chest and leg.

"It's just a couple of bruises and a sprain," Jon insisted, ruffling the direwolf's fur with one hand and wiping at the slobber on his face with the other, “I'll be fine."

Ghost had grown in the moon turns since leaving the Wall. The freedom to run and hunt as he wanted was good for him in every way, just like it was beyond the Wall in the real North. It made Jon even more relieved for their freedom from the Night’s Watch.

Now, on all fours, Ghost's head was level with Jon's upper chest and about as wide as Jon’s torso.

He had last seen him a few days ago before Ghost had ventured into the Wolfswood on the eastern side of the Kingsroad, thankfully staying far away from the battle against the Boltons.

"Is he your wolf?”

The boys to his right were still there, eyes wide and mouths ajar.

“Aye, and he won’t hurt you,” Jon said, his hand deep in Ghost’s fur.

Then raising his voice enough so those watching from second floor windows and atop Winterfell’s walls could hear, he added, “Any friend of mine is a friend of his.”

He looked at Ghost, “Right, boy?”

Ghost remained silent, but his eyes were steady with his.

“Come on, then.”

They walked together through the open square to the southern gate. The spectators on the ramp parted the way for them to pass. Jason and Davos followed behind them across the moat bridge. Once they were within the second gatehouse, more people paused their work and conversations to look at them.

Before Jon could say anything, Ghost pushed straight ahead for the inner gatehouse.

“Hey! Ghost!?” he called.

Jon followed as best he could with his injuries. Ghost led him through the inner courtyard, passing the area where maesters and healers continued to aid the most severely injured soldiers.

Ghost went directly up the steps to the Great Keep. Inside, through the high ceiling entrance hall, they climbed the grand stairs up to the old family wing, Ghost’s claws clicking and clacking against the stone floor.

A few doors were open with servants and soldiers clearing and cleaning the rooms for new occupants. Any objects from the Boltons were to be gathered and dealt with in the next few days.

At the second to last door on the right, Ghost sniffed underneath the door and looked back at Jon.

“Alright,” Jon said knowingly, “Hold on.”

Jon knocked softly then opened the door. Ghost immediately went inside.

“Ghost!” Sansa looked up in surprise, setting aside a quill and scroll she’d been writing.

Rickon was slightly groggy from milk of the poppy but awake enough to greet them.

“Hey, Ghost. You’re so big,” Rickon murmured, petting him with his right hand.

“He came straight here,” Jon explained, “He’ll keep you company for a while.”

“Thanks, Jon,” Rickon said, his eyes heavy, “It’s good to see him.”

Ghost rested his head on the mattress and Rickon’s eyes slowly closed, his hand resting on Ghost’s head.

Jon hovered at the door, unsure whether to stay or go. There was so much that needed done in the castle to get it functioning under their leadership. Jon was grateful that Hallis was taking care of the armory and barracks, but he still needed to find a steward and a castle smithy, plus meet with Winterfell’s Maester when he could spare time away from the wounded. Maester Waldan. Or was it Wilkan? He couldn’t recall.

“Jon?” Sansa got up from her seat, interrupting his thoughts. She walked over quietly to the door, “We should talk.”

He nodded. That was another important conversation that needed to happen, and now was as good as ever.

Jon gave her space to pass into the hallway. He looked back at Rickon whose chest steadily rose and fell in sleep. Jon met Ghost’s eyes, nodded with a small smile before shutting the door.

Sansa leaned on the opposite stone wall. 

“He wasn’t able to fall asleep until now. I was starting to worry he wouldn’t rest at all.”

“This is the first he’s slept in a real bed in years, if I’m guessing right,” Jon said, crossing his arms, “How did it go taking the arrow out?”

“The Maester told me it was a mostly clean puncture, though the arrow tip of Ramsay's other arrows had spikes along the shaft, so he may have internal cuts that we can't see. He was able to stitch it without major issue. We’ll keep watch over him to make sure there isn’t infection. But Rickon will need training to regain full range of motion in his shoulder once he recovers his strength.”

Jon ran a hand over his beard, nodding, “I’ll find someone.”

Sansa turned her gaze to the large east-facing window at the end of the hall. The clouds covering the sky were a mix of cool and dark grey.

“He’ll be Lord of Winterfell now.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, “We can help him, until he’s ready. I’ve already started filling the positions we need. You can take care of the things your mother handled as Lady of Winterfell?”

 She agreed. “I’ll see to it. Maester Wolkan can help me.”

“Wolkan. That’s his name,” Jon muttered to himself, “Good. You trust him?”

“I think so. He was always kind and seemed timid around Ramsay.”

“I need to speak with him soon,” speaking his thoughts aloud, “We need to get ravens sent out.”

“Aren’t most of the houses here already?”

“Aye, except the ones who fought with Ramsay, their households should be informed of the outcome. The Umbers, Karstarks, Lockes, Slates and a few other smaller houses who didn’t fight on either side. We’ll have them swear fealty to Rickon.”

Sansa made a face.

“What?” Jon asked.

“Is it worth it? Give their lands to those loyal to us.”

Jon gave her a confused look. “I’m not going to strip their families of their ancestral homes and lands just because of a few reckless sons. These houses have been in the North for centuries. You want to take it away from them after one battle against a Bolton usurper to retake our own home? Umber and Karstark just died in battle a few hours ago, they paid for their disloyalty.”

“Smalljon betrayed us by giving up Rickon and Shaggydog. You expect his surviving family to be loyal to our brother now?”

“You forget that the Greatjon was the most loyal to Robb and was killed. Smalljon was getting his revenge for losing his father. He chose wrong and he’s dead for it. We’ll see who’s left, find someone loyal and support them, same goes for the other houses, and if need be, we can take wards or hostages. You said yourself that Ramsay was vindictive and unpredictable. It was a dangerous decision either way. Lord Glover for example...”

Sansa shook her head, “I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. This is Northern politics not southern revenge. We need the North united going forward. There are enough enemies to think about now as it is. The last thing we need is more internal squabbling. And that includes between ourselves,” he gave her a pointed stare.

She rolled her eyes, “I wouldn’t squabble if you gave me a chance to contribute something and listen to my insights and opinions, such as what I said last night.”

“I did! I do!” Jon countered, his eyebrows raised, his voice sharp and biting, “That doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything you suggest. Last night you told me that I shouldn’t underestimate Ramsay, which I admit, I was taken aback by his ruthlessness, but what else could I do? I’m sorry I’m not a mind reader, but I didn’t know he would do all that he did. I can only control my own response.”

Sansa pushed off from the wall, pointing a finger at Jon, “That’s exactly what I meant; control your response; think before taking action. You were impatient and overconfident, and look what it cost,” she gestured to Rickon’s door.

Jon flinched. His voice went low and dark. “Rickon’s alive. That’s better than the fate he would have had if I had listened to you and done nothing. Next time you take the field and try to stop yourself from saving your own blood. If that’s impatience then I’m guilty of it. And overconfident?” Jon sneered a silent laugh, “You have not seen my previous battles, sister; the odds for those were far worse than today; laughable even. I was optimistic for once because we had the southern houses’ support. Thousands would have died instead of hundreds if not for them. Half of the dead are because of Ramsay anyway,” Jon shook his head, “What more do you want?”

She inhaled deeply, “I want us to be smarter than our family who made mistakes and paid dearly for them. Father and Robb and my mother. I love them and miss them, but they made stupid mistakes and lost their heads for it. That cannot be us. And I’m not saying that going after Rickon was wrong, it was just… on the edge of stupid… and could’ve gotten you both killed.”

Jon waited a beat, “Then why didn’t you tell me about the Knights of the Vale?”

Sansa’s eyes widened and her jaw tightened.

“It was your choice not to mention the small detail of having the Vale in your back pocket. All you needed to say was, ‘We have more allies on our side to plan for.’ But you didn’t.”

She stood there, red faced and clearly battling to hold in her immediate response. Glancing back over her shoulder down the hallway, Sansa moved away from him to the window, posture rigid, clutching her arms tightly. After a moment, she lowered her head and shoulders, letting out a hard sigh.

“I didn’t tell you about the Vale because I didn’t know the whole situation. You wouldn’t have liked how I got the information either.”

Jon stepped closer, kept his voice low.

“From Lord Baelish?”

She snapped her head up in astonishment.

“Hal mentioned something about him. When?” he asked, hard edged, bracing himself for the answer.

She hesitated. “At Mole’s Town. Before we left the Wall.”

His face fell, livid, “You knew all that time? For months?”

“Jon, I’m sorry.”

“Sansa…” Jon ran a hand over his face,  rubbed at his temples and pinching the bridge of his nose to stem a headache. Seven Hells. He looked at her in bewilderment, “And you’re worried about me being on the edge of stupid? Telling me to be smarter?”

It was her turn to flinch.

“I know I deserve that… When we received that note from Lord Manderly, I was as shocked as anyone. Baelish hadn’t mentioned anything about the other Northern houses to me. I promise that I didn’t know about them before you. But Manderly’s messenger didn’t hint at or mention anything about the Vale so I had no way of knowing if they were at Moat Cailin or if Baelish was lying and trying to manipulate me.”

“Aye, but we could have asked them to verify it if you had said something. It all changed when we knew we had Manderly’s trust.”

“But this was from Littlefinger. You don’t know him or the way he plays the game. I didn’t know if he was involved with the southern houses joining us. I still don’t know.”

“He’s not,” Jon stated firmly, “The Reeds were the ones to inform the other houses that the Vale was in the North in the first place.”

“Did Lord Reed tell you this?”

“No, Hallis did. He’s been with them since the Red Wedding and they saw the Vale marching through the Neck.”

Sansa lowered her head, “Regardless of what we know now, Brienne was the only person who was there with me at Mole’s Town and she was already south by the time we heard from Manderly. Once she left to petition the Blackfish for help, I decided it was too dangerous to trust anyone else with the information until I knew the Boltons would be defeated. I figured as long as we had reinforcements of some sort, we wouldn’t need them and could investigate Littlefinger’s claims after we settled in here, secure at Winterfell. I hadn’t thought of the Reeds helping us.”

Jon paused. Recollections from that first strategy meeting at Castle Black replayed in his mind.

“And knowing about the Blackfish. That was Baelish too, wasn’t it?”

She nodded sadly.

Jon turned and sat heavily on the window sill. Took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He chose his next words carefully, “I’m glad that you feel safe enough to tell me the truth now, but it would be much simpler if I had known everything from the start.”

“I know that, and I’m sorry. But anything connected to Petyr Baelish is never simple," she insisted.

Jon mulled that around in his head while gazing down the hallway.

What would be extremely simple would be taking the scheming man’s head in front of the heart tree. But he didn’t think that would be the right thing to say aloud at the present moment.

“What are we supposed to do with him since he is not simple? We are indebted to him because of their help in battle. You realize that.”

She sighed and joined him on the window sill, “I know. It depends on what Manderly and Reed know about the situation, I think. But I do have some ideas about Littlefinger. I’m still waiting on Brienne’s outcome with the Blackfish to decide what is best.”

“After you know all your options, all I ask is that you keep me informed. I won’t be able to help if I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

She sighed, then nodded.

After a few moments, Jon added, “Are we even now? We’ve both been on the edge of stupid. Can we agree to less stupid actions going forward?”

She rolled her eyes, yet her smirk overpowered her annoyance, “Yes, I’d say we’re even. I agree if you agree.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, shaking his head. He covered her hand with his, adding, “And I am sorry that my going after Rickon scared you.”

Her eyes and mouth squeezed tight, respectively. He imagined she was thinking of the alternative possible outcomes, like he was. She looked at him, shifted her hand to hold his, glassy eyed, emotions clouding her reply. “He’s alive, and we’re here, that makes it worth it.”

They turned their heads toward the hallway as a few servants and soldiers approached and entered the rooms surrounding Rickon’s. They kept the doors open as Jon and Sansa remained silent for a few moments. He released her hand.

“What will you do with him?”

Jon glanced at Sansa; brows raised.

Sansa's emotions had been packed away, without a trace that they had been there at all. Her expression was now far away with a mask of indifference.

Ramsay.

Jon lowered his head; his grip tightened on the wooden sill.

“We’ll speak with the Lords and gather a full list of his crimes. We can discuss it further with them.”

“I wish I could just set his hounds on him and be done with it.”

Jon cautiously turned to look at her again. Her mask of indifference revealing only slivers of emotion beneath. Cold and harsh. Jon would be lying to himself if he thought he wasn’t concerned by it.

“Even if we wanted to take care of it ourselves, I think Lady Dustin would have our heads if she wasn’t there for it,” Jon paused, recalling his fierce reactions during battle, which were equal to, if not more concerning in himself, “If I had gotten any closer to him today, I probably would have pummeled him to death.”

Jon shook off the returning feelings of consuming anger as he turned to see Sansa’s equally assessing and questioning look in her eye.

Glancing away, he shrugged, “Taking his head will be just as satisfying.”

“Make sure whatever guards are around him either put cotton in their ears or are indifferent to him or are ruthless as he is or unmovable. He will manipulate his way out or kill his way out if he finds any cracks in their resolve. Until he’s dead…” Sansa trailed off, stood up from the window sill, “We should make sure that Rickon can be there for it. It will be good for all of us to see that he’s dead with our own eyes.”

Jon knew exactly what she meant.

“Aye,” Jon said. His next words rumbling deep in his chest. “I couldn’t agree more.”