The Wolves Begin to Circle

Jon Snow left the Red Keep with Arya at his side, his mind already racing with what was to come. Littlefinger was gone, but the fallout from his fall had only just begun. As they made their way through the winding corridors of the castle, Arya finally broke the silence.

"So, what now?" she asked, her voice casual, though Jon could sense the tension underneath. Arya was always ready for the next move.

"We get ready for what's next," Jon replied, his tone clipped, pragmatic. "Littlefinger was just one player. Cersei won't stop scheming, and the North... the North is far from secure."

Arya gave him a sidelong glance. "You're thinking about Sansa."

Jon didn't respond immediately. He had been thinking about Sansa since the moment he left Winterfell. His sister, now the Lady of Winterfell, was sharp, but in a den of wolves like King's Landing, she was a lamb compared to the ruthlessness of the South. She had learned much, but Jon knew that trusting the wrong people could still undo everything they had worked for.

"She's capable," Jon said finally. "But she's not safe."

Arya smirked, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. "Then we should make sure she is."

They reached the stables, where Jon's horse was being saddled. Arya lingered behind, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings.

"I'll head back north soon," she said, her voice lowering. "Sansa might need someone to keep watch. I'm better suited for it than you."

Jon gave her a nod of approval. "Good. I trust you to do what's necessary."

Arya's eyes glinted, and for a moment, Jon wondered just how far she'd go to protect their family. But then again, he didn't need to wonder. He knew Arya was capable of anything. They both were.

---

That evening, Jon stood atop the battlements of the Red Keep, gazing out at the sprawling city of King's Landing. The chaos that had followed Littlefinger's fall had not yet settled, and he could feel the simmering tension rising in the streets below. Varys had informed him that various factions in the city—both noble and common—were beginning to take sides, some swearing loyalty to Cersei, others whispering the name of Daenerys Targaryen.

Jon wasn't particularly interested in the politics of the South anymore. He had played the game long enough to realize that no matter who sat on the Iron Throne, there would always be another threat looming in the shadows. What mattered now was the North. His attention had to return there, and soon.

Tyrion Lannister approached, a cup of wine in hand and a contemplative expression on his face. "A penny for your thoughts, Lord Snow," he quipped, leaning against the stone wall next to Jon.

Jon glanced at him, his mouth set in a hard line. "Thinking about home."

Tyrion chuckled. "A wise man once told me that in King's Landing, home is the last thing you should think about. Keeps you sane."

Jon didn't smile. "The North is all that matters now."

Tyrion studied him, his eyes sharp, though his tone was still light. "You always were a terrible politician. Speaking of the North so openly, especially in the capital, is a good way to make enemies."

"I've had enemies since the day I was born," Jon said, his voice flat. "I'm still here."

"Touché," Tyrion replied, swirling his wine. "But you'll need more than sharp words if you're planning to head back there. Winterfell isn't as secure as you might think."

Jon's brow furrowed. "What do you know?"

Tyrion sighed. "Rumors travel fast, especially when Varys has his little birds listening. Sansa's doing well enough, but there are whispers of unrest. Some houses are questioning her rule, and others are waiting to see what happens here in King's Landing before they make a move. They'll test her if they think she's weak."

Jon cursed under his breath. He had expected some resistance, but this was worse than he thought. "Do they think I won't return? That Winterfell is up for grabs?"

Tyrion gave him a wry smile. "In the game of thrones, everyone is a potential threat. And with you spending so much time down here, they're starting to think you've abandoned them."

Jon turned away from the city, his eyes narrowing as he stared out into the distance. "I need to go back."

Tyrion nodded, his expression serious now. "You do. The North will need you if the lords decide to make a play. And from what I've heard, it's only a matter of time."

Jon's jaw clenched. The North had always been his, even if by birthright it wasn't. He had fought for it, bled for it, and now it seemed that his absence had stirred the wolves. If they thought he wouldn't return, that Winterfell was weak, they would find themselves mistaken.

"I'll ride north in the morning," Jon declared, his voice resolute.

Tyrion raised his cup in mock salute. "Good luck, my friend. Winter is coming, and it seems the wolves are already circling."

---

The following morning, Jon prepared for his departure. His men had packed what they needed, and Arya had already left before dawn, as silent as a shadow, bound for Winterfell. Jon saddled his horse and was about to mount when a familiar voice called out.

"Leaving without saying goodbye, Jon?"

Jon turned to see Brienne of Tarth standing tall, her armor gleaming in the early morning light. She had been in the capital on Sansa's orders, keeping an eye on things while Jon dealt with the chaos. Her loyalty to Sansa was unquestionable, and Jon respected her for it.

"I didn't think I needed a send-off," Jon replied, his tone dry.

Brienne smirked. "Always so stoic. You know Sansa's going to need you, especially if what I've been hearing is true."

Jon gave a curt nod. "I know. That's why I'm going back."

Brienne stepped closer, her voice lowering. "And if there's a fight?"

Jon's gaze hardened. "Then there's a fight."

Brienne regarded him for a moment, her blue eyes searching his face. "Just make sure you're not too proud to ask for help. The North isn't like the South. They respect strength, but they also respect loyalty. If you go in alone, you'll be outnumbered."

Jon mounted his horse, adjusting his cloak as the wind picked up around them. "I've never needed a crowd, Brienne. Winterfell will be mine, one way or another."

Brienne gave him a grim nod. "Safe travels, Jon Snow."

---

As Jon and his company rode out of King's Landing, his thoughts were on the North. On Winterfell. On Sansa. His sister was strong, but she was surrounded by enemies, some of whom were smiling while plotting her downfall. The North was not the same as it had been before the war. Loyalties had shifted, and the surviving lords were more dangerous than ever.

The farther north they rode, the colder the air became, and with it, Jon's resolve grew. He had dealt with Littlefinger, but the political games weren't over yet. The North was a battleground now, not for open war, but for influence. And Jon had no intention of losing what he had fought so hard to reclaim.

When they crossed into the Riverlands, Jon felt the weight of what was ahead. Houses that had once sworn loyalty to House Stark now whispered rebellion. Lords who had once raised banners in his name were questioning his claim. And in the shadows of Winterfell, there were those who remembered the power of the old kings of the North—men who might not want to see Jon Snow return.

But Jon had faced worse odds before. The North was in his blood, and no matter how far he had gone, no matter how many battles he had fought, it was always his home.

And now, the wolves were circling.

But Jon Snow had never feared wolves.