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“They say you forget,” Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death. “When the man’s flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains.”
- Prologue, A Dance with Dragons
oOo
The King in the North, they hail him, the Northern lords, the mountain clans, the smallfolk who have now flocked back to Wintertown.
Azor Ahai they proclaim him, Melisandre’s fellow worshippers of the Red God back at the Wall, who saw him arise from the flames of the pyre.
Jon, the Undead, the freefolk call him, the wildlings who marched with him onto Winterfell. They refuse to kneel to him, but swear him their loyalty as they once swore to Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall.
The King in the North, the King in the North – the words follow him everywhere. Men, women and children take a knee to him, The Norrey declares that the blood of the Starks of Winterfell runs strongly in him, Old Flint stomps his cane against the ice, observing that Eddard Stark fathered four sons not three, and a wizened old woman from Wintertown thanks the Old Gods that there is finally a Stark in Winterfell…
But when they think he isn’t listening, he hears the whispers: more wolf than man, they say, more ghost than wolf, more dead than alive…
He tries to remember, when he walks over the snow-clad grounds of Winterfell, the voices that once filled the walls of the castle with childish laughter, the clash of wooden swords, the thumps of a little boy’s feet jumping on the rooftops, six little wolf pups yapping in the courtyard. But try as he might, he remembers nothing, the faint memories of the sounds fading with each new day, all except one: the sound of her voice.
Stick them with the pointy end
Arya, Arya, Arya
He knows he once had three brothers he loved—cousins, a betrayed voice reminds him, but he remembers nothing of their faces, of their Tully colouring or their bright smiles. He thinks he even had a sister once, with red hair that shone in the sun, and a voice as sweet as honey. But memories of her hair slip through his fingers before he can even begin to reach out to them.
He knows of Lady Catelyn, slain along with Robb at what the smallfolk call the Red Wedding, but he remembers nothing about her, only a pair of eyes that followed him wherever he went, always asking, always demanding why he was here, with her trueborn children, the ones to whom Winterfell truly belonged.
He remembers nothing of Father—Uncle, that voice reminds him again. He remembers nothing of Lord Eddard’s long face, the smile his grim face always had for his children, even for the one child that wasn’t his, the nephew he claimed as his own bastard, forever sullying his own honour.
But he remembers Lord Reed’s voice, telling him that Jon was never the seed of Winterfell, but of the Dragons, that he was never Eddard Stark’s son, but Rhaegar Targaryen’s, that the blood that once ran red in his veins wasn’t just the ice that he thought it was, but ice and fire.
But when he tries to summon the image of Lord Eddard’s face, to rage at him, to demand why he did this to him, dishonoured himself to protect a child he owed nothing to, let Jon believe and take pride in being Ned Stark’s son, to shout and lash out and just sob like he once did when he was refused the name of his mother, he finds that he cannot remember his Uncle’s face at all.
It pains him to the very depths of the abomination that is his heart, that he cannot remember the only father he ever knew, the only father he ever wanted, the only man he shall ever consider his true father.
But when some of his men demand that Ramsay Bolton should be offered to the Red God, his thrashing, struggling, screaming body consigned to the flames to please R’hllor, he remembers a voice, stern and soft at the same time, familiar yet unknown, a voice that drifts away with the cold wind, leaving behind only an echo: The blood of the First Men still flows in the veins of the Starks, Jon. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.
Ramsay Bolton begs for mercy before the sword strikes. He pleads for his life, the craven. He promises Jon riches and lands, titles and women. When they drag him to the chopping block, he cries that he is better than them all, the Lord of Winterfell and Hornwood and the Dreadfort. Yet, his head rolls all the same, his blood staining the grounds red as would the blood of lesser men.
Jon stares at Longclaw, its blade red with blood; and he remembers another head rolling off the block, severed by this very sword. But the boy, the Lord Commander who had taken off Janos Slynt’s head, isn’t the ghost of a man who stands above Ramsay Bolton’s headless corpse, with the gathered smallfolk and lords alike cheering for the King in the North who had justly punished the Boltons for all their wrongs.
The North remembers, the Starks endure, Winter is coming, Winter has come – the once-familiar words follow him everywhere, in his council meetings with the lords, on the streets of Wintertown where he inspects the fortification of the town (a wall is only as strong as the men who man it, a distant voice reminds him), on the snowy grounds where men repair the damage wrought on Winterfell’s ancient walls during the bloody battle between the Bolton’s men and his own.
But when he walks around the castle alone on sleepless nights, whether as man or wolf (more wolf than man, the voices whisper), a different voice echoes in his mind, a voice that pricks at him every waking moment, that haunts every step he takes, that pains him with every breath that he breathes in: Stick them with the pointy end.
Stick them with the pointy end.
The words are an unending chant, reverberating in his ears in the silence of the night, with every wind that ruffles through the leaves of the Heart Tree, with every slash of Longclaw as it parries the thrusts of the stray remnants of Bolton men in the Wolfswood, with every drop of black blood he sheds while sparring with Alysanne Mormont.
Arya, Arya, Arya
He doesn’t remember her face, nor how she was always underfoot, nor how they sneaked to the First Keep, her skinny body tucked under his arm as they whispered secrets meant for no other. But he remembers how grey her eyes were, he remembers how her hair felt under his fingers as he mussed up the dark locks, and he remembers the bright smile that had warmed him all the way to the Wall.
Arya, Arya, Arya
Her name never leaves him, not when he haunts the place where he once trained under Ser Rodrick’s watchful eyes, where he now looks for memories of the brother he loved most, for the voice that shouted I am the Young Dragon as he came running towards him with a makeshift sword, the boy he raced with to the bridge, the man the boy turned into, the Young Wolf who legitimised his bastard brother, never knowing that he wasn’t his brother at all, only a cousin who should never have been born, a boy who brought destruction to the realm , death to the mother who bore him, death to the thousands of brave men, all perishing in the war that had its roots in his foolish father’s belief in prophecy, in his foolish mother’s yearning for freedom unmindful of the loss it caused House Stark, the loss it caused the realm as a whole.
Arya, Arya, Arya
Her name never leaves him, not in Lord Eddard’s erstwhile solar, with his table burnt, his maps and books destroyed during the Siege of Winterfell, and not in the Godswood, the one place his feet always turn to, whether as man or wolf, where he remembers nothing of the one time he had fallen off the tall oak and Old Nan had fussed over him, or of Robb and him swimming in the pool, of swinging Rickon up in the air under the tall pines, where he searches and searches but finds no sign of the children who once played and prayed there, of the man who cleaned his ancestral longsword after every life he took, of the woman who felt like she never belonged there.
And the one time he hears the blood red leaves of the heart tree rustling, the ancient red eyes staring at him, all-knowing, the leaves whispering Jon, Jon, Jon, in a voice that was once so very familiar to him, he only finds his words uttering her name in response.
Arya, Arya, Arya
Her name never leaves him on sleepless nights, when dreams and memories and visions haunt him: of green lands suddenly covered in blinding white snow, of corpses walking towards him, of his hand burning as he flings a ball of fire at a blurry monster in the distance… He dreams of Ned Stark, but where there should have been grey eyes, he finds only blue. He dreams of a woman, her face distorted, her hair kissed by flaming fire, her lips moving, though he can make out only one word: nothing. And when he moves to touch her, he finds her hit with a hail of arrows, before she dissolves into smoke, a huge crow swooping down on her.
He dreams of the Wall, he dreams of dragons. He dreams of ice and he dreams of fire, but above all, he dreams of finding her.
Arya, Arya, Arya
He prepares the defences against the threat looming beyond the Wall, he spars with the smallfolk boys, wildlings and warriors alike, decreeing that every man, woman and child be armed with the arms that scatter the site of the battle against the Boltons, that every house have torches ready to be lit to vanquish the Wights who may appear. He holds court like his father—Uncle!—once did. He counsels with his lords, listening to all but never trusting, watching the way they defer to him, but wondering how many of them and their smallfolk secretly consider him an abomination, a dead man resurrected by the Red God who yearns to claim the weirwoods where the Old Gods dwell, a man they dread and fear, but a man they need to battle the Others, to keep the ever-increasing Wights away, to fulfil the prophecy which names him Azor Ahai.
They tell him they should go South, some of his lords. Many of their men remain captive at the Twins, as does the Greatjon. He listens to their counsel, particularly that of Lord Reed’s. But something tells him never to leave Winterfell, never to leave the castle that he fought to reclaim, that he needed to reclaim, even at the cost of giving up his allegiance to the Night’s Watch – an allegiance that was owed by the Jon Snow who died of the wounds inflicted by his own brothers, but an allegiance that a real son of Eddard Stark would never have renounced even in the face of death.
When word arrives of a massacre at the Twins, during the wedding of Daven Frey – a massacre led by a lady calling herself Stoneheart, followed by a huge pack of wolves tearing into every Frey in the castle – he finds his quiet joy at the decimation of most of House Frey only a mere shadow of what Jon Snow would have felt. His relief at not having to leave Winterfell, at staying back at Winterfell waiting for the sister his heart yearns for, is far greater than the joy at the justice dealt to the Freys.
“When Lady Melisandre revived you, you lost a little of yourself, Jon,” Lord Howland Reed tells him quietly one night, and Jon is secretly glad to hear the Jon and not Your Grace. “There is always a price to pay for life, especially a life that was Death’s to claim. I fear that your memories, the things that made you Jon Snow were what the gods claimed in return for your life.”
Jon says nothing, only stares at the dark sky with the twinkling stars, wondering why he was brought back to life then, why he emerged from the burning pyre, naked and hairless, his skin smoking in the cold of the Wall, why he was pulled out of Ghost’s body and mind, where he had been dwelling since the knives had pierced his body, leaving smoking wounds and dripping blood and a heart that wouldn’t beat.
“You should not spend much time within Ghost, Jon,” Lord Reed continues, “Remember that you are a man first, then a wolf. And the longer a spirit lives on inside the beast, the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a beast, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains.”
Jon flexes his hand, wondering where the burn marks came from, wondering where the pale scars of his face came from, Ghost’s memories reminding him of the Wight he had saved Lord Commander Mormont from, all the while dwelling on Lord Reed’s words, knowing what he was asking, but refusing to let go of the refuge Ghost grants him.
He meets Lord Reed’s green-eyed gaze. The crannogman seems to know everything about him, even the things he leaves unsaid and the things he never knew. But he cannot let go of Ghost, for his wolf is the one thing that makes his life bearable; though he may not remember much of his past life, Ghost reminds him of how black Shaggydog’s fur was, how salty Sam Tarly’s tears had tasted, how fast Grey Wind had been, how Summer had saved his life from the wildlings, and how late King Stannis’ stern eyes had surveyed him the first time they met.
He cannot let go of Ghost, cannot stop sniffing the moss-covered grounds of the Godswood where he searches for a scent of his past, cannot stop sating his hunger with the prey roaming in the Wolfswood, cannot stop delving into Ghost’s mind when the wolf is the only link he has to the huge direwolf that roams around the Riverland, feasting on stray Freys and carrying a name given by the sister he loves.
Arya, Arya, Arya
“Jon,” says Lord Reed softly, “The Red God may have given you your new life, but it is the Old Gods who watch over you, and they do that for a reason. Azor Ahai or not, the Old Gods have marked you for greater things. And you must always remember that you are a man, Jon, not a wolf.”
“I am Ghost,” he whispers, his breath misting in the cold, “I am the ghost in Winterfell.”
More wolf than man, they whisper when they think he isn’t listening, more ghost than wolf.
They are right, he thinks, he is a ghost, the only ghost in Winterfell.
He visits the crypts often. He thinks there was once a tale Old Nan had told him, of the longswords being laid across the lap of each Lord of Winterfell to keep their vengeful spirits in their crypts. But the swords in the crypts are missing now, his Uncle Brandon’s and his grandfather Rickard’s; and he looks around the castle, wondering whether their spirits are around him, cursing his dragon blood, cursing his grandfather who roasted and strangled them in the Red Keep, cursing him for being where he doesn’t belong, for Winterfell belongs to the Starks and not a Targaryen.
The blood of the Starks runs in me too, he protests to the unmoving stone busts, I am the son of Lyanna Stark, who had the wolfsblood in her.
But I am a son of Eddard Stark, is what he truly wants to say, but finds that he cannot, no matter how much he wants it to be true. Because the Kings of Winter know it isn’t true…
You don’t belong here, the stone kings tell him, their shifting shadows cast by his lantern making them seem to stir. You are no Stark.
And it is only now that he sees why they say that, why they always said that in his forgotten dreams. He is no Stark, and he is no Snow. He is a Targaryen. All his life he had longed to be a Stark, he remembers, but he finds that now he would rather be a Snow than a Targaryen, a wolf than a dragon, ice than fire.
He spends his nights walking around the castle, searching but never finding, wanting but never getting. A glimpse of a wildling woman’s red hair reminds him of Lady Melisandre who remains at the Wall. He doesn’t remember how she warned him of daggers in the dark, or the heat she always exuded. But he remembers her speaking of a grey girl on a dead horse, he remembers his heightened hopes and he remembers how they dashed. And he doesn’t regret not giving in to her wishes of staying at the Wall. She may think him Azor Ahai, she may believe in visions and prophecies. But he wants none of that. He only wants his sister, he only wants Winterfell, and Lady Melisandre gave him neither.
Arya, Arya, Arya, his heart calls out, yearning and longing and reaching and finding nothing.
There is no sign of her. Lord Manderly, who provides them all with food and looks into the contract he had made with the Iron Bank, sends ravens to and fro. But there is no word of her. For all he knows, she perished years ago, soon after Lord Eddard was beheaded.
“She is alive,” Lord Reed assures him, staring at the heart tree with his green eyes. “She is alive, Jon. She is far away, and seems to have forgotten. But she is of the North, Jon, and the North always remembers.”
Arya, Arya, Arya, the chant intensifies; the yearning deepens, burning him as harshly as Bowen Marsh’s knife in his belly must have burnt.
He comes across the Greyjoy siblings, kept prisoner after King Stannis’ death, the sister glaring and the brother muttering. Jon knows the toothless old man before him isn’t the Theon he once knew, the boy with the infuriating smile and the snarky jibes about his bastardy. Ghost sniffs at Theon, startling him, sniffing fear and secrets, but Theon Greyjoy says nothing, only repeats his own name: Theon, Theon, my name is Theon.
And Jon says nothing, though his mind is quick to voice the words: Arya, Arya, her name is Arya.
He confers with the Umber brothers on the defence of the Last Hearth, and sends them back to man their lands. When they leave, he watches a pair of brown eyes watching them from a window in the castle.
Arya, Arya, Arya, he thinks, wondering how someone could ever have mistaken Jeyne Poole for Arya. Jeyne had once been very pretty, he thinks as he looks at the girl. But nothing can surpass the loveliness that his sister had always held in his eyes.
He may not remember how he used to walk in the Godswood with Arya’s little hand holding onto him, her tottering feet following him everywhere when she was younger, ever wanting to keep up with him, never letting Lady Catelyn brush her hair or gather her in an embrace, but always giggling when Jon mussed up her hair, hugged her and called her little sister. But he remembers how bold she had been, how curious and tom-boyish and grey-eyed and long-faced and his, always his. They had belonged together, and they still do, for he knows he shall find her one day.
Arya, Arya, Arya
“Your Grace,” says fat Lord Manderly in the Great Hall. Jon watches the man, while Ghost sniffs him, his Master of Coin. Lord Eddard had always trusted Lord Manderly, he thinks, but Ghost senses something in the man – something that stinks of lies and secrecy, though Lord Reed, staring at the eyes of the heart tree, often assures him that Lord Manderly is loyal to House Stark, and Jon never misses how the crannogman stresses on the two words.
“Your Grace, the scouts have brought reports. They have spotted—” begins Lord Manderly, but Jon stops him with a raised hand, only now realising why Ghost has been so impatient and anxious these past days, only now trying to reach out to the hope he had felt, the hope Ghost had confirmed, but one he had been too scared to have dashed again, one he had been too hesitant to believe true.
He walks out of the Great Hall, his steps more determined than they have been after the battle with the Boltons. His sworn guards follow him, as he mounts his horse and sets off after a sprinting Ghost, his heart beating now, making him feel more alive than he ever felt after waking up to his accursed second life.
He races his horse in a furious sprint, the cold winds snapping at his face, his body burning as it has done since he arose to life, but the cold far welcome and familiar than his own heat will ever feel.
And then he spots them: Ghost, as white as the snow he is rolling on, and a huge, black direwolf, wrestling with Ghost. But he barely spares them a glance, for he hears – Ghost hears – the voice of a little boy, a furious little boy.
“I don’t want to go! Osha, I don’t want to go! Shaggydog, come back here! I don’t want to go to the castle!”
He speeds ahead faster, not even realising himself disembarking from the horse as he finally sees the little boy, not even glancing at the man and woman who accompany him, or his own men following him in the snow, wondering what is wrong with their king.
He has red hair, the boy, and blue eyes, and a face that speaks of his Tully ancestry. But when the boy nears him, his shouts falling silent as his wide eyes meet Jon’s own, Jon stares at him, his heart skipping a beat, his mouth dry and .his hands colder than they have ever been.
And he remembers! He remembers the snowflakes melting in Robb’s auburn hair, and he remembers Bran’s bright smile from the top of the castle walls. He remembers that Lady Catelyn’s demanding eyes had been as blue as this boy’s, and he remembers the songs Sansa used to hum.
I want to be a Knight of the Kingsguard, Jon.
It should have been you.
The next time I see you, you’ll be all in black.
You want no pup for yourself, Jon?
Don’t tell Sansa!
The voices swirl around him, the fading memories returning to him, stronger now, more powerful, making him feel like he could hold on to them if he tried.
But he watches the little boy instead, whose familiar blue eyes hold his gaze, turning watery now.
“Rickon,” he whispers, his heart soaring at his mere utterance of the name, his arms extending to gather Rickon to himself and never let go.
And Rickon breaks into a run, taller than Jon remembers him being, wilder and fiercer (more wolf than boy, a voice whispers), but looking so much like a younger Bran and Robb had looked that Jon fears his soaring heart will break all over again.
Rickon rushes towards him, and Jon falls to his knees to hold him. But instead of throwing himself into Jon’s waiting arms, Rickon’s little fists hit his chest, punching at his arms, at his stomach, pummelling him as if he would never stop.
“You left me! You left me! You all left me, Father!” cries Rickon, his fists still hitting him, Ghost snarling at Shaggydog who bristles at his master’s distress, “You and Mother and Robb and then Bran! You all left me, Father!”
But Jon notices none of it, only one word echoing in his ears: Father.
Rickon is calling him Father.
Rickon thinks he is Father, Lord Eddard Stark, who had shared Jon’s long face and dark hair and grey eyes.
And as Jon pulls the shrieking boy closer, his little fists finally ceasing their punches to throw his fierce arms around Jon, Rickon’s sniffling face buried in the crook of his scarred neck as he wails tears of joy, Jon finds his ache for Arya heightening.
But he shall find her, he knows. Rickon and he shall find her together, for they are a pack now – Rickon and Shaggydog, Jon and Ghost. And while the lone wolf dies, the pack survives.
“Father,” sniffles Rickon again, pulling back, his face tear-stained as he brushes his hand over Jon’s face, as if making sure he really is alive. “I thought you were dead, Father. Bran told me you were dead. But you are alive now. And we are home!”
He shall have to tell him, Jon knows, that he isn’t Father, that he isn’t even his brother, but his cousin now.
But when he makes to say the words that he knows will break Rickon’s heart again, he remembers Father’s grey eyes looking at him with unbridled affection, he remembers Father teaching him all that he taught his own heir, Father’s smiles that were only meant for Jon, Father’s quiet, calming words when someone taunted him over his bastardy, and Father’s callused hands patting the top of his head, pulling him into a one-armed hug.
He knows that Ned Stark wasn’t obliged to be a father to him, or to sully his own honour to claim the son borne of Rhaegar and Lyanna’s thoughtless conduct. Ned Stark hadn’t needed to shelter and protect an orphaned child at the cost of angering his lady wife, at the cost of the entire realm being privy to an ignoble act he hadn’t even committed. But Ned Stark had done that. And Jon knows that he owes it to his uncle’s son to be the father his uncle was to him.
Arya, Arya, Arya, his mind repeats, but the longing and pain doesn’t prick at him like it did, Shaggydog’s loud howl giving him hope, as miles away, Ghost senses Nymeria joining in, her little cousins howling along with her, sensing her joy, her siblings’ shared joy.
“Father,” repeats Rickon, hugging Jon again. But Jon gently pushes Rickon back, and gets to his own feet, only now registering the lords and men who surround them, the murmurs and gasps that the air is rife with, Lord Manderly watching them with a shrewd smile on his fat face, Lords Glover and Flint smiling, while the man and woman who accompanied Rickon look on.
It is Eddard Stark’s warm smile he thinks of as he unsheathes Longclaw, hearing Shaggydog growl at the weapon, Rickon’s eyes widening in bewilderment.
Jon kneels and lays his bastard sword at Rickon’s feet. “The King in the North!” he declares aloud, “The King in the North!”
And all around him, Jon hears the gathered men draw their swords and bend their knee, shouting the words that were meant to be hailed for a Stark.
“The King in the North!”
“The King in the North!”
“THE KING IN THE NORTH!”