Chapter 17 — The River Between
The sky screamed with fire.
I soared above a broken world, the wind roaring past my ears, my fingers clenched in black scales slick with blood and heat. Beneath me, the land writhed, a tapestry of flame and shadow. Villages burned like kindling. Forests became seas of smoke. A thousand voices cried out at once, swallowed by the roar of wings and ash.
I flew alone on a dragon as dark as midnight, massive, ancient, furious. Its breath was flame, its heart beat with mine.
Winterfell smoldered in the distance, its towers crumbling, its godswood ablaze. The White Knife ran red through White Harbor, which cracked and sank beneath a rising tide, its domes shattering like eggshells under the weight of drowning. I turned north, but found no solace, Moat Cailin burned too, banners torn, corpses strung like broken dolls from the ramparts.
Then I was not alone.
To my left, a great beast of emerald, gleaming, regal, eyes aflame with pride. To my right, a pale silver dragon with streaks of crimson down its neck. They circled me in silence… then they screamed.
They came at me, fangs wide, talons extended. My own mount roared in defiance and met them in the sky. Flame collided with flame. I was thrown from the saddle, spiraling through smoke and blood. The earth rushed up to meet me.
And in the smoke, I saw it—
The weirwood.
White bark, red leaves. A face carved in sorrow.
Watching. Always watching.
I struck the ground—
And gasped awake, breath ragged in my throat.
Snow-frosted air slapped against my skin, cold and damp. Ghost's tongue was rough against my cheek. His eyes, red, knowing, were the first thing I saw. I pressed a hand to his thick fur and tried to remember where I was.
The longboat rocked gently beneath me, gliding upriver through morning mist. Pine trees lined the banks like sentries, their branches crusted with frost. The water whispered alongside us, endless and calm.
Just the slow thrum of oars and the quiet breath of men sleeping or murmuring low.
I sat up. My tunic clung with cold sweat. My pulse still raced.
It was only a dream, I told myself.
But the scent of smoke had been too real.
The sorrow in the weirwood's face too familiar.
Was it a warning? Balerion never burned Winterfell… An alternate history? Why would Bloodraven show me that? The emerald one was Vhagar so the other must have been Meraxes… Dragons attacking dragons?
Ghost whined low in his throat, nudging my side. I scratched behind his ear, my eyes fixed on the distant bend of the river. The banks narrowed there, cloaked in fog. Somewhere beyond lay Winterfell, Robb, truth, war.
War was coming. No, that isn't right. It has already begun.
I leaned against the desk and let the wind coming from the window bite at my cheeks. I should have done more. Should have moved faster, spoken louder, struck harder. How many days had I hesitated, playing the game of lords and heirs, while Eddard Stark rode to King's Landing and planted the match on the powder barrel?
I'd known the truth. Gods help me, I had known everything. Jaime and Cersei. Their incest. Bran's fall. The rot in the crown. I could've unmasked them, stripped their lies bare before the court, forced Ned's hand before it was too late. Or... I could've had a knife put in Joffrey's throat one dark night. Slipped poison into Cersei's wine and blamed the gods for justice. Sent assassins after Varys and Baelish. I had the knowledge. I had the means.
But I'd done nothing. Or worse, I'd done just enough to change the future, not prevent it.
Perhaps I had even quickened the spiral. That is what made the most sense, they were calling for a Targaryen head after all. The crown was marching. And I was here, floating upriver toward Winterfell.
A part of me had believed, naively, stupidly, that with enough planning, enough foresight, I could outmaneuver the storm. That I could be a dam against the flood. Now I knew better. The tide was rising with or without me, and for all my visions and memories, I was still just a boy with a sword and a name that wasn't mine.
A butterflies wing can change the course of a tornado… or start it, in this case.
Ghost whined softly beside me, sensing the dark turn of my thoughts. I didn't move. I let the weight of it sit heavy in my chest.
The war had started. Maybe even because of me.
And all I could do now was ride the current and pray I still had time to shape the ending.
Stop whining idiot! And keep as many as you can alive.
The barge groaned beneath me. I had planned for something else.
I had dreamed of quiet years. A slow rot spreading through the southern court while I built my own strength. I would have whispered poison in ears when it served, fed coin to spies and grain to starving towns. I would have bled the Reach of its merchants and tied the Vale with trade. I would have waited, slow, cold, deliberate, until the game was mine to finish.
That path was gone now.
I had hoped to keep Robert alive, warn him of the Lannisters, of the rot inside his bed and small council. A letter here. A loyal whisper there. Delay the clash. Push the war years down the road, when I had armies, when I had ports and fleets and food and allies to push the realm into kneeling.
But Robert was dead. Ned was probably dead.
Now, I had no time. No quiet. No patience left to spend.
Plans made in silence had to be rewritten in the thunder of hooves and steel.
This wasn't the game I wanted to play. But it was the game on the board.
So I would win it.
Not with coins and parchments and clever lies. No, this would be won with burning fields and shattered hosts. With discipline and blood. With victory so complete that no maester could deny it, no lord could resist it, and no pretender could hope to outshine it.
I had to make them believe.
Make the lords see me not as Rhaegar's shame, not as Ned Stark's bastard, but as the man who crossed rivers with his armies, who broke Tywin Lannister's power, who brought the North to the doors of King's Landing.
There would be no coup now. Only conquest.
And if I could not stop the war, then I would win it.
The cold had teeth that morning, sharp and clean. I rose from my bedroll and stepped carefully over sleeping bodies and coiled rope, Ghost trailing me in silence, as always, the only times I heard him was in my mind. The wind off the river carried the smell of pine, mud, and distant smoke. I made my way to the bow of the longboat, where the prow cut the water like a knife through silk.
The White Knife glittered in the early light, pale and sinuous as it wound its way north. Snow still clung to the banks in patches, white against the dark earth. Behind us, the sea was only a memory. Ahead, the heart of the North waited.
We passed a cluster of farms tucked between low hills, smoke rising from thatch roofs. Past that, a timber camp buzzed with quiet movement, men hauling logs, oxen trudging through slush. Farther upriver, children stood on a wooden dock, pointing at our ship, their laughter chasing us until we rounded a bend.
Arren joined me after a while, his cloak drawn tight. He offered a waterskin, which I took with a grateful nod. "You looked troubled in sleep," he said. "Restless."
"Bad dream," I muttered, not quite ready to explain dragons in the sky or the godswood watching as the world burned.
We stood quietly for a time, listening to the oars creak and the river whisper around us.
"This river feeds the North," I said at last, gesturing to the water winding beside us. "Without it, there's no White Harbor. No trade. No bread."
Arren followed my gaze. "Aye. And no coin, either. Every barge of saltfish or grain that leaves this water buys another winter's worth of firewood."
I pointed ahead, where the Snowmelt forked westward from the White Knife, carving a gentle V into the land. The soil there looked dark, rich. A low rise hugged the far bank, but the land beyond was flat, stretching to the treeline.
"There," I said quietly. "That's the place."
Arren raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"For a future." I traced the air with a gloved finger. "Shallow slopes, stable ground. A place for canals, locks. Granaries. Irrigation. We could build mills to harness the flow—grind grain, press flax, spin wool."
He followed my eyes for a while, thoughtful. "You'd build it yourself, wouldn't you? Brick by brick."
"If I must." I drew in a breath. "For the people. The ones who will never ride to war, kneel at a lord's feet, they still need to eat. Still need warmth. This place…" I shook my head. "This place could be an industrial center many times the size of the Blackworks, the power of the river harvested to make steel, clothes, glass."
Arren let out a long breath, mist curling from his mouth. "Do you think they'll let you?"
"The lords?" I shrugged. "Some might. Some won't. But they'll see the value soon enough."
We stood there a little longer, watching the land drift by, quietly imagining futures in the form of hills and the curve of a river. Behind us were secrets and ashes. Ahead of us, banners and war.
It was near dusk when the longboat slid to the muddy bank, and the smell hit me before my boots touched solid ground. Coal smoke and burnt iron, the sharp tang of forge oil, familiar, bitter, and oddly comforting. The Blackworks. The great chimney stacks looked like giants breathing smoke into the sky. Busy. Alive with the sounds of hammering steel and roaring fires.
Ghost leapt ashore ahead of me, sniffing the riverbank and the wind. The rest of the men followed, some stretching their legs, others loading gear onto waiting carts. Arren rode up beside me, squinting at the horizon.
"Ah, home sweet home." he muttered.
"It smells like war." I said.
"Always did, Jon."
We mounted our horses and began the slow ride north, toward the shadow of Winterfell. The Blackworks faded behind us, but its rhythm echoed on, steel on steel, the anvil's song, tireless and grim.
The land around us had changed.
What once were empty pastures and scattered crofts were now tent cities. Banners snapped in the cold wind, Hornwood's moose, Cerwyn's battle-axe, Tallhart's tree, Flint's mountain. I even saw the lizard lion of the Reeds among them, green on green, impossibly far from their swamps.
So they'd come. He came, I thought. Howland Reed had answered the call.
How did he get here so fast? The raven must have arrived only a few days past.
The men moved like ants in the cold light, fetching water, mending armor, drilling in muddy yards. Pigs squealed from pens, fires burned low under iron kettles. It was the smell of a host preparing for war. Woodsmoke and shit, leather and stew.
But also, silver. There was coin flowing, even here. Merchants from White Harbor, Stonehaven, and even Barrowton had set up trade along the old roads into Winter Town. Wagons groaned under sacks of salt beef and grain. Furriers haggled with warriors over cloaks. A boy offered me hot wine from a clay jug as we passed, for a copper.
War breeds hunger, and hunger breeds profit.
Arren turned in his saddle, frowning at the bustle. "That's a lot of men here, does Winterfell have to feed them all?"
"Yes," I murmured. "But we're still feeding off summer's bounty. The real test will come with snow."
He nodded, and we pressed on.
Beyond the camps, Winter Town had grown. The streets were packed with people, some shouting, some singing, some simply watching us pass. I saw old men with wooden swords play-fighting in the frost, children with ash-smeared cheeks selling dried apples. A smith's hammer rang in a corner shop, a priest of the Seven cried omens on the steps of an abandoned hall.
I saw a girl, maybe ten, sitting atop a cart, eyes wide as our horses passed. Her fingers clutched a rag doll with a wolf's face stitched in.
They're already building songs, I thought. Songs for a war that hasn't even begun.
It chilled me.
I flexed my fingers around the hilt of my sword. The leather grip felt worn, familiar. And yet strange. Everything felt that way now, known, yet different. Like coming home to find your home changed shape.
Arren must've seen something in my eyes. "You've been thinking ever since we landed," he said.
"I never stopped," I admitted.
"About the war?"
"Yes, and about what comes after."
He smiled at that, tired and sharp. "You were always like that. Even in the mountains, when we were rationing turnips and cleaning snow-mud off ruined grain stores, you'd talk about roads. Aqueducts. Stone ovens for baking bread."
"The war is important, but someone need to think about the next steps. What matters is the harvest after."
"Jon, the farmer Prince, a good song!"
And just like that, Arren took me out of my own mind; he had a talent for that.
The path ahead rose into a ridge, and beyond it I glimpsed Winterfell's towers, grey against the evening sky, crowned with banners. Robb was there. Catelyn, perhaps. Maybe Theon, still. And little Rickon…
I felt Ghost tense beside me, then let out a low growl.
"What is it?" Arren asked, reaching for his axe.
I followed the direwolf's gaze.
Riders, fast, coming down the road from the gates. Not armed for battle, but their pace was quick.
A horn sounded once from the nearest camp, and figures began to stir in earnest. My presence was no longer rumor. No longer a shadow.
I had returned.
"Jon Stark," someone said behind me, a whisper, but loud enough to reach my ears.
I swallowed hard.
Jon Snow.
Jon Stark.
Daemon Targaryen.
Or just a corpse.
Who I would be... depended on what came next.
Winterfell rose before me like a memory carved in stone. Grey towers, smoke curling from the chimneys, the scent of pinewood and hot spring steam wafting on the air. The walls were the same, but they felt higher, colder. Less like shelter, more like judgment.
Ghost padded beside me as we rode through the gates. No laughter in the yard, no boys at practice with wooden swords, no Septa Mordane scolding Arya for her muddy hem. Just silence and the weight of eyes. And ghosts. So many ghosts.
I will never see him again, will I?
The hot springs hissed faintly beneath the keep, the warmth misting in the cold. I had dreamed of that steam when we were freezing on the Wall. Now it curled like breath from the past.
I dismounted slowly, my limbs stiff from the road. A steward bowed and said nothing, only gestured toward the inner stairs. "The Lord Stark is waiting," was all he offered.
Robb, I thought. Not just my brother now. Lord Stark. And more than that.
I climbed the steps with my cloak heavy on my shoulders, each footfall a drumbeat. The solar door loomed, dark oak, iron-banded. I paused a moment, then knocked once and stepped in.
He was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back. Dressed in Stark black and grey, a cloak of wolf fur on his shoulders. His red-brown hair was longer, his jaw harder. His eyes, blue, sharp, and shadowed, met mine, unreadable.
"Robb."
"Jon." He said, like a question.
We stood there for a long time. Neither of us moved.
He broke the silence first. "They want your head."
He didn't say welcome home.
He turned and reached for a scroll on the table. The wax seal was broken, the handwriting on the outside was unmistakable.
"I read it," he said. "Three times."
He handed it to me.
I unrolled the letter and read.
By the command of His Grace King Joffrey Baratheon, Protector of the Realm…
High treason…
Execution...
Targaryen bastard…
Conspirator with Eddard Stark…
Coup attempt…
Kneel before His Grace...
The words were brittle things. Dead things.
Execution? That is not what the rumor says...
When I looked up, Robb's gaze was already on me.
"So?" he asked. "Is it true?"
I held the letter for a moment longer. Then I folded it, slowly, and set it down on the table.
"Yes."
His jaw clenched. I could see it, the fury, the hurt, the disbelief. He looked like he wanted to strike something. Maybe me.
"I'm not Ned's son," I said. "Not by blood. My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father was Rhaegar Targaryen."
He didn't speak.
"She loved him," I said. "She went with him willingly. They were wed in secret as far as I know. When she died… she gave me to Ned. To protect me. From Robert. From the world."
Robb's fists curled. "And you knew this. How long?"
"Long enough."
"And you kept it from me?"
I met his eyes. "Would you have wanted the truth if it would've gotten you killed? If it made you a traitor by knowing it?"
"That's not—"
"I am Daemon Targaryen. But I have never worn that name. I have bled and fought and worked beside the North. I took the Stark banner higher than ever before, for Winterfell, for you. I am your brother, Robb. In every way that counts."
He looked away then, his breath ragged.
"We've lost too much," he said quietly. "Father. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Mother barely speaks. And now, now this."
"I haven't betrayed you," I said. "But I am sorry I lied."
"You didn't lie. You stayed silent. And I get it, I do. But gods, Jon…"
His voice cracked. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be. Father is dead. I am Lord Stark now, I speak in courts, I issue orders, and everyone calls me 'My Lord.' But I feel like a boy in a borrowed cloak."
"You're not."
He looked at me.
"You are Robb Stark of Winterfell, and the North is with you. I'm here to help you hold it."
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the fire crackling behind us. Then Robb stepped forward, slowly.
"I don't know what the hell we're supposed to do, Jon. We are just boys!"
"Daeron was younger than us when he took Dorne. We gather the lords," I said. "We tell them the truth, as much as they need. We march south. We take back our sibilings. We avenge Father."
"We're truly doing this," Robb said quietly, eyes on the flames. "War. It's not a game anymore. Not some dream in the yard."
I didn't answer right away. The wind tugged at my cloak. Ghost lay beside me, ears twitching.
"I never thought it was a game," I said. "But I did think we'd have more time."
Robb gave a short, bitter laugh. "Time. I used to think that meant a father's advice. A lord's hall. Maybe a good match."
He looked up at me sharply. "What does time mean to you now? No more lies Jon. What do you want."
I met his gaze. My brother. My best friend. A Stark of Stark blood, born to this land. And I— I couldn't stop my words.
"I thought I would take years building it," I said quietly, almost ashamed. "Influence. Trade. Quiet power. I would've worked behind curtains, whispered truths and plotted carefully. When the realm was tired, when it was hungry and broken… I would offer it something better."
"And now?"
"Now I don't have that luxury. Now I'll take the throne with war. I'll win battles so bloody they'll echo for generations. Make the realm see me as the one who ended chaos."
Robb stared, frowning. "You want the throne. You truly do."
"I have to," I said. "I… hunger for it, Robb." No more lies. "Gods know I do. But I know what I can do with it, you know what I can do with it. The lies in courts, the cowardice of kings, and the treachery that festers like a wound in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. I can end it Robb, I can—" Robb raised is hand, calling for my silence.
"So you'll rule," he said flatly, "because you believe only you can make a better realm."
I nodded. "Yes."
My thoughts raced, but my voice was trapped somewhere deep inside. I watched the sparks rise, twirling into the dark sky like fragile ghosts, each one a reminder of how fragile trust could be.
I couldn't read Robb's expression, his jaw clenched, his eyes steady but unreadable. The space between us felt heavier with every passing second. I wondered what he was thinking, anger? Betrayal? Disappointment? Or perhaps something else, something deeper, harder to name.
The silence dragged on. My hands itched to speak, to explain, to justify, but the words would only sound hollow. I was waiting, waiting for the verdict, for the fracture or the acceptance.
"You could've told me earlier," he said at last. I couldn't describe the amount of relief that I felt with those words.
"I didn't know if I could trust myself," I said. "And I wasn't sure if you'd understand. Losing you scared me..."
"I understand now."
Robb's gaze softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He let out a breath, half a chuckle, half a sigh.
"You're a stubborn, dramatic idiot sometimes," he said, shaking his head with a faint smile. "But you're my brother. And I'll always stand by you. Always."
The weight in my chest lightened, just a little. His words, simple as they were, carried more strength than any promise forged in gold.
"No matter what comes," Robb continued, "you won't face it alone, you moron." He laughed, a dry, broken thing, and pulled me into an embrace. "You looked on the verge of crying!"
"Shut up! I don't cry!" I laughed. Gods what a relief, this was it? I didn't tell him for years, and this was it? I truly am an idiot.
We stood like that for a moment, two boys raised in the snow, wrapped in wolfskins and an uncertain future.
"We were raised as brothers," He said, "and that's what we are. Whatever the blood says."
Robb pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes.
"Always, Jon. Always."
Robb poured the wine with a heavy hand. His fingers trembled slightly, though he tried to hide it. The fire in the hearth crackled, but it did little to warm the cold that hung between us.
"I had a dream," he said at last. "A stupid boy's hope. That Father would come back from King's Landing. That we'd ride south, find him in some cell, beat down the gates if we had to."
He passed me the cup. I took it, but didn't drink.
"But the ravens came. First one. Then another. All of them lies, or half-truths. 'Treason.' 'Execution.' I still don't know what's real. Blood in King's Landing streets, a coup, some tell me Renly is King, some tell me Joffrey is. Some say Stannis is."
I stared into the fire. "He's dead, Robb. Even if they haven't sent his head yet, they are lying to confuse the realm."
He nodded. "Aye. That's what I believe too. But it doesn't feel real, not here. Not with the snow outside and his chair in the hall."
We both fell silent. The weight of that name, Eddard Stark, settled like a mountain on the air.
He laughed, bitter. "When I called the banners, I thought it'd be like the songs. Men cheering, swords shining, the North riding proud."
"And it wasn't."
"No." He looked away. "Cerwyn sent a hundred fucking idiots and two carts of grain. Glover didn't answer at all yet. The Flints nearly came to blows with the Tallharts over a sheep. And everyone wanted to know who I was to command anything. And not even half the banners are here yet."
"And what did you say?"
"I told them I was Robb Stark of Winterfell. And that we ride to bring justice for our father. That I don't give a damn what they think of me only that they stand with me. That we stand together, or we fall apart. I was trying to sound like you, really…"
I laughed. Drama is contagious.
"I keep waiting for someone to tell me what to do half the time."
"That's the truth no one says," I told him. "The ones in charge are just the ones who kept standing when everyone else fell. The ones who were too stubborn to run."
Robb leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you think I'm doing the right thing, Jon?"
I met his gaze. "There's no right thing left. Only necessity."
He nodded slowly. "We have to march. Cross the Twins, cross into the riverlands. If we're fast, we can meet the Lannisters before they burn Riverrun to the ground. There is already talk of skirmishes. Maybe… maybe even save Arya, Bran and Sansa." His voice cracked on Sansa's name. I reached out and set my cup down beside his.
Gods please let them be alive… they weren't even mentioned in the letters…
Robb sat down by the hearth, rubbing his hands together though the fire blazed high. I joined him on the bench across, Ghost settling by my feet. For a while, we just stared into the flames.
"Remember when I stole that honeycake Arya had hidden under the loose stone near the kitchen?" I added. "Father just said, 'If you're going to steal from your sister, at least don't be caught with crumbs on your tunic, Jon.'"
We both laughed at the impression, quietly, and it hurt, in the chest, in the throat, but it felt right too.
"Do you remember Bran always climbing where he wasn't supposed to?" Robb asked.
"I remember you daring him to do it," I said with a smirk.
"He was so small. I thought he'd bounce."
"You nearly fainted when he slipped on the roof."
"That's because I thought he'd tell Father it was my fault."
"He did," I laughed.
Robb grinned. "And Arya, gods, she used to punch like a mule. Do you remember the day she bloodied my lips?"
"She came back to the stables with that little wooden practice sword like it was Ice itself. Said she'd knighted herself."
"She said she was going to be Arya the Brave, Defender of the North."
"She always was," I murmured. "Still is, wherever she is."
We both fell quiet at that. The warmth faded. The world outside these walls rushed back in, the war, the South, the weight of crowns and names and dead fathers.
But even in the silence, the echoes of our childhood lingered, laughter in the halls, the crack of wooden swords in the yard, Rickon's shrieks, Sansa singing in the sept, Arya racing through the corridors, Bran's delighted yells from the tower tops.
He stood, walked to the window again. Snow was falling outside, soft and slow.
"I want them back, Jon. All of them."
"We will take them back."
"And if they are gone…"
"Then woe to the lions for they won't survive our fury"
And in that moment, I knew we would march south for the family we had lost. For the family we still hoped to find.
Sleep did not come after a letter was quietly given to me by a courier from the Moat.
The moment I closed my eyes, I saw fire. Dragons twisting in the sky... The dream clung to my skin like sweat. That is what it meant... So I rose, dressed in silence, and stepped out into the cold.
The wind bit through the cloak, sharp and clean. It tasted like pine and snow and memory. Ghost padded beside me, his white fur dusted with frost, red eyes glinting in the dark. Together we climbed the tower steps, and I found myself once more atop the walls of Winterfell.
Below, the North slumbered, but not in peace. Hundreds of campfires blinked across the fields like fallen stars. Hornwood, Cerwyn, Tallhart, Flint… and there, tucked near the western wall, green reeds on grey. The Reeds had come. That surprised me more than it should have.
They'd all come, for Robb. For Winterfell. For war.
I leaned on the cold stone and looked south. Past the white forests and hills, past the Neck and the green lands beyond. I imagined King's Landing, cloaked in gold and rot. I imagined Dragonstone, cold and ancient, its stones steeped in fire and salt.
Word spread slowly across the sea and information came too late.
I thought of the men I had quietly sent to Pentos, loyal souls who carried my words across the Narrow Sea. It had been moons since they left with those letters for Daenerys and Viserys. Words urging patience, caution, waiting for the right moment. I had hoped they would reach them safely, that they would understand the slow, careful path I planned.
But now, the truth settled like a weight in my gut. The Dothraki had found them first. The men never made it. Their fate was sealed in blood and fire, lost in the wilds beyond the sea. The letters never arrived. No message came back. Silence was their only answer.
A bitter taste filled my mouth. How many lives lost in the shadow of plans half-formed? How many chances wasted before the war even truly began? I clenched my fists, the ache of failure sharper than any wound. Another plan in tatters before it had even begun, was I destined to fail in everything?
Viserys must be dead by now.
I drew my cloak tighter. The wind was loud tonight, or maybe it was only my thoughts.
"I never asked for this," I said softly. Ghost flicked his ears but didn't move.
"I am Stark," I whispered. "I am Snow. And I am Targaryen, whether I want it or not."
The words felt heavy in my mouth. Strange. Not quite mine. But I said them anyway.
"What I choose to be… that's still mine." I said it like a prayer. Like a promise.
Choice… Aemon was right.
I turned my gaze back to the fires.
They would march soon, these men of the North. Some for Robb. Some for revenge. Some for glory.
Anxiety was eating me up.
Northmen would never give me up; I am one of them.
Ghost pressed his head lightly to my hand. Solid. Present. Loyal.
I looked up at the stars. Cold and distant. So unlike the warmth I once thought the gods could offer.
"This wasn't how it was meant to be Ghost," I said. "But it's what we have."
And what we have must be enough.
-END-