XI.

I'm sorry, what?" asked Jon, looking between Sansa and Oberyn with wide eyes.

Sansa tilted her head and repeated what she had said. "We want to get married. Soon. And we need your blessing if we're going to get married in the Sept."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Aye, that's what I thought I heard." He exhaled heavily through his nose, this time narrowing his eyes at Oberyn. "Is there a reason why you want to get married so soon, in comparison to the years we had agreed upon?"

Sansa and Oberyn shared a look – Gods, thought Jon, they were already communicating like they had been married for years! – before turning back to the king. Elia, on Jon's other side, stifled a laugh at Oberyn when he clenched his jaw, as though bracing himself for a fight.

"Elia and Oberyn will be returning to Dorne shortly, Jon," said Sansa instead, drawing Jon's eyes back to her. "It makes no sense that I remain here. We've done what was needed to establish your council and seat, and things are running smoothly with gra—Lord Rickard and Lady Rhaella's touch. You don't need me."

Jon frowned, standing from his chair in his private sitting room. "Sansa," he murmured, reaching out and taking her hands in his. "You're my sister. I will always need you in my life."

Sansa gave Jon a wobbly smile in return.

He sighed. "Well... if this is something you both want, I'll speak to Rhaella. She can speak to the

High Septon." He muttered, "It's not like he'll see me..."

Sansa gave a squeak of joy, flinging her arms around Jon's neck in a tight hug that sent him off balance. He struggled against the deadweight of Sansa against him for a moment, and then hugged her back tightly.

Oberyn and Elia were having their own sibling moment, foreheads pressed against one another, their eyes closed with soft murmurs moving between them. When they drew apart, Elia grinned at Jon and cheekily stated, "Welcome to the family, Your Grace."

"I'm honoured," replied Jon, truthfully, and Elia's grin turned into a genuine smile.

Oberyn agreed to a dual wedding ceremony, utterly smitten with Sansa, and happily going along with her request; they would marry at midday at the Sept of Baelor, enjoy a reception feast following it, and then when the sun went down, carefully chosen family and friends would leave the feast and travel to the Godswood between the Red Keep and the Maidenvault. When the sun disappeared, dipping below the horizon, Sansa and Oberyn would say their vows before the heart tree, and then sneak off while the rest of the guests returned to the feast.

The direwolves had not been allowed in the Sept, but they had been present at the feast and at the Godswood wedding, sending a howl up to the heavens after Oberyn had cloaked Sansa in the bright orange of the Martell's for a second time.

Although there was the heavy spectre of their father, of Catelyn, Robb, Rickon, and Bran hanging amongst the time-travelling Starks, there was an opposite happiness in the teary shine to Rickard Stark's eyes and the way his smile deepened the wrinkles around his eyes; Brandon's cheers were exuberant, and of the two Stark sisters, Lyanna seemed to gravitate more to Sansa and appeared genuinely pleased for the marriage. Ned remained his solemn self, but he clapped and smiled at his Stark cousin's cloaking and the way she honoured both faiths.

Elia represented the Martell's, along with Oberyn's children – but only Nymeria wore a dress; Obara had taken to wearing the same design and style as Arya, much to everyone's amusement. As it was, Elia was happy to have Sansa in the family. The two had spent much time together, and even without directly referencing it, Sansa – who had once been a hostage in King's Landing – knew Elia's fears and terrors better than most.

However, both Sansa and Oberyn slipped away from their family with only Lady following them quietly. They could hear the distant instruments and voices of their wedding feast continuing without them, but it was a muted noise against the crickets and soft clank of armour from the patrolling City Guard.

Both had rooms in the royal apartments and decided to share Oberyn's for their wedding night, although they hadn't discussed things much past that. Lady settled herself in front of the main door, laying her head down on her paws and yawning while Oberyn guided Sansa through a door off to the side of the room, which led to his bed chambers.

He made toward a decanter of wine and began pouring it into two cups. He had his back to Sansa, concentrating on what he was doing and giving her time to prepare herself. "To fortify yourself, my lady?"

"You're handsome enough and I'd rather like to remember my wedding night," commented Sansa dryly.

The sound of clothing being removed, of ribbon rasping against metal, made Oberyn's heart race and he grinned, cups in hands, as he turned. His grin slipped from his face and his grip tightened on the cups as he stared at his new wife.

Sansa had removed the laces from the eyelets of her dress, cloak discarded. Absently, she gathered her long hair in one hand and drew it over her shoulder, presenting her back to him. The back of the dress gapped open, and although she wore a shift underneath, it had a low back and displayed a range of crisscrossing silvery-white scars.

Unbidden, Oberyn placed the cups down and his hand was drawn to her back, tracing over the scars with a trembling touch. Sansa inhaled sharply. Her heavy dress fell to the floor in a soft whisper, leaving her in her shift.

His voice was low and gravelly when he muttered, "Who must I kill, my lady? A single name from you and he will be dead before sunrise, I swear."

Sansa turned her head enough to peer at Oberyn over her shoulder. Her eyes locked on his – dark, stormy – and her lips curled into the tiniest of smirks. "He's already dead."

Oberyn's brows furrowed, and his finger traced lower, catching on the remnants of bite marks, burns, and discoloured flesh. "Is there no one else I can take my anger out on? Surely, accomplices?"

Sansa shook her head, turning. Oberyn's hand dropped from her back to her hip, and she stepped closer to him. There was a coy smile on her lips. She fiddled with the laces of his tunic, peering up at him from under her lashes. "Would you like to hear how he died?"

"Did he suffer?" murmured Oberyn, eyes focused intensely on Sansa as his other hand came to rest on her opposite hip. His thumb stroked, and she felt his heat through her thin undergarments.

"Oh, absolutely," breathed Sansa.

"Was it quick or drawn out, my sweet?" murmured Oberyn, tilting his head down and grazing his lips against the shell of her ear.

Repressing a shiver, Sansa tilted her own head and whispered, "Painfully long and then dreadfully quick."

Oberyn drew back long enough to peer in her eyes and say, "I'm intrigued. Tell me more."

Sansa, in turn, chased after him, and his lips, dragging hers across a stubbly cheek and up to his own ear where she gently took his lobe between her teeth, nibbled and soothed it with her tongue. A hand slid up and around his neck, clutching at his thick hair.

"I fed him to his own dogs. I watched as he was slowly ripped apart and eaten by the very creatures that he used to terrorize others with," she said, her breath hot against Oberyn. He shuddered and his hands clenched tight against her hips. "I would do it again, and again, and in my dreams, I take pleasure in it."

Oberyn huffed a laugh against her lips. "Not quite as elegant as poison or for the wife of the Viper of Dorne."

"I am a wolf," replied Sansa, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "I was a wolf when this happened, despite the name I was forced to take."

He grinned. "And yet, now you are both."

"Both," agreed Sansa, and Oberyn maneuvered her across the room to his bed, guiding her up and on it with ease and a heavy, heady look in his eyes.

As his hand dragged up her leg and thigh, Oberyn smiled at his new wife. "I had wondered why my sister wanted us to be matched."

"But now?" gasped Sansa, arching her back as his hand went under her shift.

His grin was wicked. "I understand completely."

Sansa offered an equally sharp grin and looped her arms around him, drawing him down to her.

They didn't speak much, after that.

Elia, her children, Oberyn, his children, and Sansa planned to leave for Dorne almost immediately following the wedding, so Jon was up early to see them off at the docks. He was torn between righteous brotherly anger at the besotted look on Oberyn's face whenever he glanced at Sansa, and elated happiness for his sister at the equally soppy looks she sent him, indicating she might finally have a happy marriage.

Arya appeared from somewhere, smelling a bit like a pub and shit when she did, but Sansa ignored the smell and hugged her tightly, the two Stark girls muttering to one another as they embraced.

Elia had already said her goodbyes to Jon, after he finished prying Rhaenys off his leg, wailing about losing her wolf with huge tears rolling down her apple cheeks and a red face even as she was handed off to a wincing Dornish guard to take aboard their ship. Elia looked rather smug and amused at Jon's discomfort, instead focusing on a curious Aegon as she walked up the plank to the deck. Obara and Nymeria followed her; Obara looked rather despondent and cast longing eyes back at Arya – and most likely, her sword, for more lessons.

Eventually, Jon's new goodbrother lingered at his side. In this new time, there was only a year between them, and it struck Jon strange at how much he, Sansa, and Arya had already changed in the year they'd been in the past. He could only hope that this Oberyn would not meet the same fate as the man in their previous life.

Oberyn grimaced and glanced at Jon.

"What?" asked the king.

Oberyn's grimace deepened, and he fidgeted. "Her scars..."

Jon's mouth dropped into a heavy scowl and his hands clenched at his sides at the reminder. Oberyn was watching him carefully.

"Sansa said the man who did that to her is dead?" the Dornishman confirmed, tentatively.

Jon nodded, gritting his teeth. "They all are."

Oberyn froze. "All?" His eyes flashed at Sansa, drawing back from her hug with Arya. Something ugly passed over his face for a moment. "Pity. To introduce them to my spear or poisons would've been a pleasure."

Jon snorted. "I understand. I too wish I could've done more – they took much from us."

"Oh?" the query was light-hearted, but the edge to Oberyn's face made Jon sure the man was fishing for information that he could use later.

Do I give him something and mess with this time some more? wondered Jon, with a bit of dark amusement settling low in his stomach. He glanced at Oberyn and eventually said, "One killed our little brother in front of us, when I tried to rescue him."

Oberyn frowned. "I thought you and Sansa were cousins, Your Grace?"

Jon waved his hand. "Same difference. Despite that, he hurt Sansa the most. As much as I would've liked to kill him, vengeance was hers to have." He paused, eyeing Oberyn. "She told you how?"

Immediately, the dark look fled Oberyn's face and goofy, lopsided grin appeared. His eyes turned up at the corners and the darkness that was in his eyes was banished. "Oh, yes."

Gross, thought Jon, mentally gagging. He rolled his eyes, ignoring the man as Sansa sashayed over to them. Immediately, Oberyn drew her into his side, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Ready to go, sweetling?" murmured Oberyn, looking down at Sansa with tenderness.

She peered up at her new husband, an equally sweet look on her face that Jon hadn't seen in years – or, decades if one was technical – and for a brief moment, Jon's heart clenched and ached. Then, it passed.

Sansa turned to Jon, stepping forward into his arms for a hug. Against her red hair, Jon breathed, "Be careful, be safe. Enjoy yourself. Never forget who you are: you are the queen in the north... my sister."

They drew back the tiniest amount, enough that Jon could see Oberyn watching them fondly – or rather, Sansa fondly – even as Jon brought his hands up to frame Sansa's cheeks, cupping her face. Jon drew back and tenderly pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Sansa caught his wrists with her own tiny hands. "I will not forget. You will write?"

"Often," replied Jon with a grin. It was a bit of a struggle – he hadn't been apart from Sansa for a lengthy amount of time since Dragonstone, and after everything they had experienced, he was loathed to let her leave his sight, even if they all knew they needed Jon's reign to have secure alliances. "So often you will dread my ravens."

"Never!" laughed Sansa, although it was wet. "Remember, the lone wolf dies—"

"—But the pack survives," he finished for her. They shared a smile. "And we shall. Because the north remembers; winter is coming."

Then she was out of his arms and then out of his reach, Oberyn gently leading her to their ship, Lady trotting obediently behind them, and scaring the living daylight out of an unsuspecting sailor who had to give a double look at the large direwolf, only to step on air and fall into the murky waters of Blackwater Bay.

From the distance, Jon saw Obara, Oberyn, and little Nymeria laughing at the man's plight even as his fellow sailors tried to drag him out of the water. Sansa stood still at the rail, hand lifted in farewell as the ship cast off and began to manoeuvre away from the piers of Blackwater Bay.

Jon remained there, watching until the ship bound for Dorne became nothing more than a speck on the horizon.

Brandon was the next to be married, sallow-faced as a man facing the gallows instead of a bride at the end of his journey. Rickard left with Brandon, Ned, Lyanna, their direwolves (Bleddyn, Smudge, Blizzard, and Mari, respectively), Ethan Glover, and Arya to represent the crown; Jon remained in King's Landing finishing up things with his Small Council and helping Rhaella with her preparation to return to Dragonstone, which was, theoretically, Sansa's, until Jon married and had a male heir (although Sansa hadn't cared much for the seat, Rhaella stopped pestering, and Viserys remained content as Lord of Dragonstone and no one would say differently).

It took them some time to reach the Riverlands, nearly a moon's turn, and by the time Jon received Arya's "we've arrived" letter, Brandon Stark was married to Catelyn Tully and the Starks were

heading back to Winterfell; Rickard and Arya separated from the Starks at Darry to head south and return to King's Landing.

It was the first time that Rickard was with Jon and Arya without his children around, and they were able to speak freely, to some degree, without them. So, upon their return, they had a family dinner (where the kingsguard was kindly dismissed for the night, although Jon was sure Barristan was still outside the door).

Once the food was consumed, Rickard looked down into his drink and asked, heavily, "How bad was it – the... well, them?"

Jon and Arya shared a look, and he finally said, "Every single Wildling north of the wall. For centuries. When we made our last stand – well, there were probably over a hundred thousand. It was hard to estimate."

The wine sloshed over the rim as Rickard jerked. "A hundred thousand?"

"More," corrected Arya gently. And Jon added, "There was probably ten thousand or more at

Hardhome alone when he rose the dead there – and they were the survivors from elsewhere." "Gods," breathed Rickard, setting down his wine. His hands were shaking. "To think – all those

stories are true..."

"Nightmares," replied Jon grimly. "And without dragonglass and Valyrian steel, the wights overwhelm anyone fighting them and the walkers themselves are near impossible to kill without great skill or great luck."

"Rhaella said she'll send the dragonglass," pointed out Arya. "So, we can start a mining operation there and figuring out how to arm the men at the wall—" she broke off and then looked at Jon. "That is the plan, isn't it?"

Jon nodded. "I need money for that, though – a lot of it. We're going to increase trade and shipping and I'm going to fix King's Landing up under the guise of redoing the sewage to find the wildfire. Then, I'm going to start supplying food and material to the wall to bolster their numbers and perhaps repair some of the other towers."

"You're going to help them kill our friends." Arya's mouth was a thin line. "People like Ygritte, Tormund, Mance."

"Mance is barely a member of the watch at the wall right now," argued Jon, but there was something resigned in his voice. "But yes... I might change too much and kill them."

"Who are these people?" asked Rickard carefully, looking between his grandchildren.

"Mance Raydar was the last King Beyond the Wall, and a Night's Watch deserter," explained Jon heavily. "A good man though, as he recognized well before anyone the dangers that were moving and tried to band together the Free Folk to survive and make their way south of the wall."

Rickard pulled his mouth down in a frown at the idea of the deserter, but a part of him recognized the dire straits that the man had been in later. "And Ygritte?"

Jon's entire body slumped in his seat. "A woman... that I met on a ranging. I infiltrated the Free Folk to learn Mance's plans. We, well... I loved her."

"Oh." Richard's heart went out to the young man, seeing the despair in his eyes. She had died then

– either turned into a wight, or some other way.

"Tormund ended up being one of Jon's closest friends and a fighter during the Long Night," explained Arya, drawing Rickard's attention toward her and off Jon. "Huge man, they called him Tormund Giantsbane. Good man, too."

Rickard nodded in understanding. "Then we will have to make sure that the Wall also understands what is to come, to prepare."

Jon snorted. "They never gave a shit before, but sure, we can try."

"Make it a condition of the goods," suggested Rickard carefully, observing Jon's defeated posture. "Or at least a strong suggestion to keep their eyes open."

Jon shrugged, and the conversation was closed, leaving Rickard and Arya in silence, both trying to figure out what to say to chase the sombre mood from the room.

"We've got two decades, Jon," said Arya, finally, quietly. "We can do a lot in that time."

"The Wall and King's Landing is a good start," agreed Rickard, nodding along. "And so is the trade and shipping ideas. With the marriages of the Starks in the other houses, we can create stability across Westeros, too." He gave a wry grin to the man. "In fact, I think you managed better than I with the plan to unite the kingdoms through marriage."

"That's because there are more of us now," answered Jon with an eye roll.

"There were five of us originally," pointed out Arya, using her fork to emphasize her point when she stabbed it in Jon's direction, a piece of meat hanging off it. "Six, with you included. That's one fewer than what we have now. It was entirely doable back then, as well."

"Father would never have gone for it." "Mother would've been ecstatic."

Jon choked back a cough. "Anything that made Lady Catelyn's children marry into a great house and that kept me away from everyone else would've sent her in raptures."

Rickard frowned. "Was Brandon's bride really... that focused on southern alliances?"

Arya and Jon shared a look, and Jon carefully began to answer, "You did lay the groundwork for Southern policy in the North—"

"She hated Jon and let him know," interrupted Arya. "Mother never forgave father for the slight of having a bastard remain in Winterfell – that we all understood Jon to be as, anyway, when growing up – and since Father never fostered Jon elsewhere, she took it out on him. She saw him as a threat to our older brother's rule."

"It was neglect, nothing else," argued Jon.

"It was enough, and it should never have happened," snapped back Arya, a glower on her face. "How often were we told about the lone wolf? How often were we told to stick together? And yet, you were excluded."

While the siblings debated the how's and why's in how Catelyn Tully treated Jon when they were children, Rickard found himself wondering what it meant with Brandon and his new bride, in

comparison to Ned as the bridegroom. Ned was quieter, less stubborn, or willing to push back – Brandon, on the other hand, had the wolf's blood: he was loud, brash, stubborn, and determined to take his own path in all things. Catelyn might not find a receptive husband or one that would bow to her demands.

Had he made a mistake? Rickard cringed. There was a good chance Brandon already had a bastard somewhere in the north – most likely the Rills or Barrowlands, since he spent so much time with Barbrey Ryswell and Willem Dustin – and if he didn't have one now, there was a good chance he would in the future.

He was going to have to step in with his son and the new Lady Stark sooner than he had expected, he thought with a grimace, casting his grey eyes between Jon and Arya, who were now bickering good-naturedly about something else. He had wanted to stay longer, to help Jon, but... that wasn't looking like an option.

Leaning back, Rickard decided he wouldn't tell Jon of his decision to return north as soon as possible. Not tonight, anyway.

He told Jon when Rhaella was preparing to leave, having asked the previous Queen if he could join her on her ship to Dragonstone and then board another ship to White Harbour. Jon was blindsided but gave his blessing regardless of his personal feelings.

"It's better this way," said Rhaella, who asked Jon to not see her and Viserys off. Instead, they were saying their goodbye in the Red Keep, in a high-walled bailey. Her pale hair glowed under the spring sun, and the bags that had been under her tired eyes were now gone, giving Rhaella a tiny bounce in her step. She didn't seem sad to be leaving, and Jon couldn't blame her.

"There are things that need fixing," she continued, her tone even. "At Dragonstone, and here, too. But that's now your responsibility."

"I'm sorry it came to this," said Jon, although he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for.

Rhaella's thin lips quirked up into an approximation of a smile. "I made you king, Your Grace. I should be apologizing for the headaches to come." Her smile faltered. "Besides... between Aerys and Rhaegar... they both were touched, in different ways. The Targaryen curse continues." Her eyes cut toward him. "Hopefully it will break with you."

"Me too," muttered Jon, as Viserys plodded toward them, dragging his heels. Jon cleared his throat and spoke louder so that Viserys was included when he said, "You are both welcome to King's Landing whenever you desire. The gates are not closed to you."

"I think I've had enough, Your Grace, but I appreciate the offer." Rhaella curtseyed and Viserys, stunned, beamed at Jon.

"I can come back?" asked the seven-year-old Viserys, tilting his chin back to stare up at Jon in awe. "I'm not exiled?"

"Of course, you're not," said Jon. "And you may return to King's Landing whenever you wish."

The awe on his face was nearly transcendent. "Then I shall return in a few years and squire for you, Your Grace!"

"Erm—" Jon glanced at Rhaella, who smirked and then turned to address her son.

"Come along, Viserys, our boat will be leaving shortly," she instructed. Viserys nodded, but turned back to Jon, waiting for his response.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Jon plastered a smile on his face. "I'll see you in a few years, then, my Lord."

Viserys whooped under his breath. They said their goodbyes, Viserys bravely patting Ghost on the head as he did so, and soon, they were gone.

Jon turned and wandered through the Red Keep. He had a Small Council meeting later that afternoon, after the midday meal, but for now, he wanted some time to think of everything that had happened – and what was yet to come.

Lewyn was his guard for the day, and silently trailed him but Jon never felt smothered, and when Jon reached a familiar tower, he asked the man to stay at the bottom while he looked out at King's Landing. Ghost's nails clacked on the circular stone steps as he rose, floor by floor until he reached the top and stepped out at the top of the flat turret.

Arya and Nymeria shortly appeared, somehow knowing what Jon needed. Both silently stare out toward King's Landing.

"It's so quiet," murmured Jon. "It hasn't been this quiet for some time."

"It'll be worse when I'm gone... are you sure you want me to go and—?" "Yes, you'll need to." Jon sighed. "And you're the only one I trust with this."

Arya turned, leaning her back against the highest part of the wall, resting her elbows on the stone. She was peering up at him, a serious look on her face. "You'll be fine on your own, Jon. You know that, right?"

Jon ripped his eyes from the sprawling mass that was King's Landing. He smiled at Arya, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. Arya was astonished to see crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, and had a stray thought of when did Jon get so old?

"Aye, but... the lone wolf—"

"You're not alone," she interrupted sharply. "We're all here. Just... a bit further than before. But Sansa and I are here to help you. Grandfather will help, and so will Brandon and Ned and Benjen and even that idiot, Lyanna, who I can finally move from 'waste-of-space idiot' to 'that exasperated tart.' They know what is coming, and what's at stake. It won't be like last time."

Jon sighed, turning back to the city. "I hope so, Arya. I really, really hope so." Your Grace Jon,

I am writing to inform you that I have safely returned to Winterfell with Bleddyn – who is very happy to no longer be on board a ship – and that the Starks are doing well.

Brandon seems to be faring well as Lord of Winterfell in my stead to the point where I am hoping to make his appointment permanent, with your blessing, of course. He understands the North well and represents it when he meets with the other Lords. I was concerned upon hearing of your past, giving Brandon's bride. She's a sweet thing, eager to please. Sometimes too eager, I fear, and it

causes some friction between her and Brandon – mostly miscommunications. She clings to her Southern beliefs and lessons as I believe she is still adjusting to Northern life. Hopefully, that will change soon.

Ned seems listless, constantly asking to return to the Eyrie and Jon Arryn. However, he is my son and not Jon's, and I wish to keep him in the North and as Brandon's man-at-arms for some time so that he may better appreciate what he missed being fostered elsewhere. Not for too long, though – he has informed me where his heart lies, and I do believe that you will be receptive to his potential future bride. I will write again once I receive a positive response from the bride's family.

Lyanna... whatever Sansa said when they were together in King's Landing has helped the girl. She seems a little more conscientious of her actions, a little more mindful of those around her. Softer around the edges without losing the wolfsblood, I think. Lord Baratheon remains firm in their betrothal, so that will still happen. However, I have taken Sansa's advice (she wrote me a sennight past) and Lyanna will not marry until she's eight-and-ten. With the new year past, that is only two more years, but perhaps enough for her to grow some more into the woman I know she will be. I will ask Lord Baratheon to perhaps visit and spend some time with her as well so that they get to know each other better.

Benjen has not spoken of the Night's Watch, you will be interested to learn. I am not sure where this notion came from for you previously but instead seems eager to avoiding insert himself into his sibling's lives. I believe he had something to do with Lyanna's... disappearance... and feels guilty over what might have been, though he speaks not of it. He tends to jump to the worst thoughts first before anything else. I am hoping that Brandon – as the most gregarious of my children – will break him of that habit, and perhaps draw more of his personality out. I fear he felt neglected as the youngest son since my wife's death. I hope to make him a match as well, with someone free- spirited, to draw him out of his shell. Have you any suggestions from your experience at court, Your Grace?

Lastly, the direwolves are settling in well. The people of Winterfell and Wintertown are ecstatic at the sight of our sigil bonded with the Starks, calling it a blessing from the Gods. Thank you, Jon. And thank Sansa and Arya from me as well. Ah – and speaking of the wolves... Bleddyn and Mari (Lyanna's wolf), seemed to think Winterfell is too quiet, as they are now expecting another litter of direwolves pups in a few moon's turns. Perhaps this is a sign from the Gods themselves about what is to come? Should I expect to hear that you are to marry soon? That Sansa, or Catelyn, are expecting?

As a final parting – even though I am no longer in King's Landing to help advise you: please know that I am only a raven away. If you need me, I will be on the next ship out at White Harbour. You are family, Jon – and together the pack is stronger. For we are a pack, always, no matter what kind of distance there is between us.

Yours faithfully,

Rickard Stark

Warden of the North, Lord of Winterfell

TBC...