Riverrun, Riverlands
Robb POV
We stand outside the gates of Riverrun. This will be the last time I see my brothers for a while; I know they'll be fine, but it's my sisters who are on my mind.
I sit astride my horse between Theon and Jon. Our banners snap in the cold wind and mine was the plain grey direwolf, Theon's a direwolf rearing on a stylized ocean wave, Jon's a white wolf with red eyes, like Ghost.
Theon grins. "Feels like yesterday Jon was kicking our arses in the sparring yard."
I lift an eyebrow. "You mean your arse. I beat him a couple times."
Jon, ever the smartass, shoots back: "Not recently. The last five times we sparred I beat you."
I want to spar him now with Itachi's memories make me certain I'd best him proper but I say, instead, "Now I'm a king, leading an army to convince my aunt to join us."
Jon answers, dark and eager, "I'm about to fight the Mountain, raid the Westerlands, and hopefully kill Tywin Lannister."
Theon's voice steels. "I'm about to slay my old family and protect my little brother."
I smile at Theon for accepting Bran as his little brother, and then grow serious. "You both better come back alive. I can't lose anyone else in this war Father was enough."
"You better stay alive as well," Jon says.
Theon cracks a grin. "Yeah and then Jon would be king. Can you imagine? How will heirs be born if Jon won't go near a woman?" Jon's face goes red and he hurls a rock at Theon.
I watch Theon's column begin to march. I take his forearm in a clasp, nod once. Then I do the same with Jon, and we ride our separate ways with cold banners snapping, horse breath steaming into the grey morning, every step carrying us farther from home and closer to the thing that will change us all.
Red Fork, Riverlands
Jon POV
The reports had been true.
The Mountain and his butchers had been raiding the Red Fork villages, leaving only ashes and corpses. When smoke rose from Crones Hill, we found them.
Two hundred men rode with me: Northerners, Riverlanders, men hardened by blood. Greatjon Umber thundered at my right, Dacey Mormont at my left, grim and fierce. The Blackfish brought up the flank, his eye ever sharp. Galbart Glover commanded the rest in reserve, should we fall.
I watched from the treeline as peasants screamed, dragged from their burning homes, and then I saw him. Gregor Clegane. A beast in steel, a mountain given human shape, his blade dripping red.
Enough.
I drew Longclaw, Valyrian steel glinting, and bellowed:
"CHARGE!"
We thundered down into the village, smashing into Lannister men. Longclaw split mail, severed limbs, cut through men like wheat. Blood sprayed hot against my cheek. Another rider lunged and I cut his throat open and rode on.
Then fate struck. A spear slammed into my horse's skull. The beast shrieked, collapsing beneath me. I rolled free, hitting the ground hard, Longclaw flying from my hand. When I scrambled up, dirt in my teeth, I saw him.
Gregor Clegane.
He came like a storm, taller than any man had a right to be, sword vast as a weirwood branch. His helm snarled, his shadow falling over me.
Father's voice whispered. The Mountain must die. If I had the chance…
The chance was mine now.
I grabbed Longclaw, braced myself. His blade came down with a force that split earth and stone. I rolled aside, slashed at his side with the Valyrian steel bit through plate, drawing blood. He snarled.
We circled, steel ringing. His sword crashed against Longclaw again and again, each blow numbing my arms, bruising bone through mail. I cut his thigh, ripped a gouge in his pauldron, stabbed deep into his belly and blood poured, but he fought on as if pain could not touch him.
Then his fist slammed into me.
Ribs cracked like dry twigs. The world spun. I crashed into the dirt, breath gone. He came at me, blade raised. I forced myself up, pain searing, and met his strike. Longclaw held barely. The shock tore through my arms, my shoulder screaming. I staggered, but I slashed back, ripping through his forearm.
He roared, kicked me in the chest, sent me flying. My back hit a burning cart, sparks biting my flesh. My body screamed, but I crawled up, blood running into my eye.
I was holding him. Holding him!
Each time Longclaw struck, I opened more wounds. They were shallow cuts, but they bled. His strength was monstrous, but my speed kept me alive. I dodged, rolled, slashed. Once, I rammed Longclaw through a gap under his arm and he howled, swinging wildly, nearly taking my head.
Then pain exploded
.
An arrow sprouted from my shoulder. I staggered, vision blurring. Across the field I glimpsed Amory Lorch lowering a bow, smirking. The shaft burned like fire, each breath agony.
Gregor seized his chance. His blade slammed into my side, tearing through mail, opening flesh. Blood poured. I fell to my knees. His shadow loomed over me again, sword rising for the kill.
"JON!"
Daceys voice. She hurled herself between us, axe in hand. Her strike rang against his armor, staggering him a step. He turned, roaring, and brought his blade down with the fury of the gods. Her shield shattered, wood and iron flying, and the edge carved into her thigh. She cried out, falling to one knee.
"No!"
I dragged myself up, shoulder burning, blood soaking my side. Ghost's name was on my lips but only a ragged cry came out. Gregor raised his blade for the killing blow on Dacey.
I lunged. Longclaw bit into the gap beneath his arm, deeper this time, through flesh, through lung. He howled and backhanded me, the blow rattling my skull, sending stars through my vision but I clung to the sword, driving it deeper.
"For my father," I gasped. "For the North."
I tore Longclaw free and swung with everything I had left. The Valyrian steel cleaved through helm and bone. His roar turned to a wet gurgle.
The Mountain toppled, the ground shaking as he struck.
For a moment, silence. Only the crackle of fire and my ragged breath.
I staggered to Dacey's side, pulling her up with my good arm. She was pale, her leg streaming blood, but alive. Alive.
Then Greatjon's voice thundered across the field.
"THE MOUNTAIN IS DEAD! THE WHITE WOLF HAS FELLED HIM!"
A roar shook the night, from Northerner and Riverlander alike. Shields banged, swords lifted.
"WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF! WHITE WOLF!"
The chant rolled like thunder, shaking the burning hill.
And then I felt Ghost, padding through the smoke, white fur drenched in blood, eyes burning red. He came to stand at my side, silent and terrible.
I planted Longclaw in the dirt, blood dripping from my fingers. My men cried my name. But I only looked at Ghost.
Father's wish was fulfilled. The Mountain was dead.
And yet… the war was only beginning.
Timeskip
Northern Camp
Jon POV
The healers told me I'd live. Bruised ribs, they said. The arrow hadn't gone deep into my shoulder lucky, they called it. My nose was broken, but that would heal crooked and give me another scar. I told them I had enough already. They didn't laugh.
I sat in my tent, chest wrapped tight, shoulder throbbing, when the flap opened. Dacey stepped inside, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, a jug of ale in one hand.
I couldn't help but smile. "Come to see if I'm still breathing?"
She grinned back, setting the jug down. "You've always been too stubborn to die, Jon Snow. Or should I say, Jon Stark now?"
The word Stark still felt strange when it came from someone else. But from her, it warmed me.
We had been friends since we were children. Every harvest festival at Winterfell, she and I would spar. She'd knock me down more often than I'd admit, and laugh while I spat dirt. Dacey Mormont had treated me better than most lords ever did. Better than a bastard deserved. We even kept in touch with letters.
And somewhere along the way, I'd grown fond of her too fond. But when I chose the Night's Watch, I buried that feeling. It wasn't meant for me.
Yet seeing her again at Riverrun, after Robb had given me his name, after she fought beside me at Crones Hill… the feeling came rushing back like it had never left.
She poured us both a cup of ale and sat cross-legged across from me. "To the White Wolf," she said, lifting hers.
I snorted, raising my cup carefully with my good arm. "That name won't last."
"Of course it will," she teased. "Your men won't let it die. I heard them chanting half the night. You looked like some hero out of the old tales with Ghost at your side."
"Heroes don't get their noses broken," I muttered.
"Then they're not worth remembering." She smirked. "Besides, it improves your face. Makes you look less like a sulking boy."
I laughed, the sound breaking something loose in my chest. We kept drinking, swapping stories of the harvest festivals, of sparring matches where she always claimed victory. The years fell away until it felt like we were children again, laughing under the autumn sun.
But then, I saw her looking at me. Not the way she had before. Not like a sparring partner or a comrade. Her eyes lingered, soft, warm.
The ale had gone to my head, loosening my tongue, loosening my courage. She looked beautiful and fierce with firelight dancing across her face. Before I could stop myself, I leaned across the space between us and kissed her.
The moment my lips touched hers, I froze, pulling back in horror. "I-I shouldn't have… Dacey, I'm sorry, I…."
Her hand caught the front of my tunic, dragging me back. Then she kissed me. Firm. Certain. And for the first time in a long time, I forgot my pain.
When we parted, breathless, she was smiling. "I've been waiting to do that for a long time, Jon Stark."
I stared, too stunned to speak, until she leaned in once more and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then she rose, smoothing her tunic, and said, "Rest. You'll need your strength."
Before she left, she gave me one last smile which was half teasing and half something more and slipped out of the tent.
I sat back, heart hammering, staring at the empty flap.
Seven hells. Dacey Mormont had kissed me.
I groaned, covering my face with my hand. "Gods, if Theon ever finds out, I'll never hear the end of it."
A.N: So Jon found his future wife and we know Robb's but who is Theon's? We will find out soon enough.