Sorry for the wait guys Exams are very soon so updates are slow, but bear with me. I made this one long to tide you over till the next update :) Please review!

Faye

The Last Breath

Larys listened quietly as Nina sang to the children.

"If you should die, dilly dilly, as it may hap,

You shall be buried, dilly dilly, under the tap;

Who told you so, dilly dilly, pray tell me why?

That you might drink, dilly dilly, when you are dry."

The room sank into silence as the two babies fell asleep, hands balled into fists by their heads as if they were fighting in their dreams.

"That is a rather morbid song, Nina," Larys observed quietly.

The maiden blushed lightly and peeked at her Lady from beneath her lashes.

"I'm sorry, my Lady. I'll sing another next time."

"No, no, that isn't what I meant," Larys said kindly. "I only wondered where you learnt it."

"My mother taught me it," Nina said with a glowing smile. "I used to sing it to my little brothers and sisters."

Nina stank of simple joy and wholesome upbringing, a stench that had Larys wrinkling her nose at the unfamiliarity of it. It had been a long time since she'd witnessed normalcy.

"And where is your family now?"

Nina's smile dimmed a little, and she busied herself with arranging Redleaf's blanket.

"They are in White Harbour, my Lady, where I was born," she said bravely. "I came here when I learned you were searching for servants. My father is dead you see, so half my wages go to my mother and my siblings."

"Oh," Larys said, startled- she'd never taken the time to wonder why Nina was here. "You should have told me. I can easily up your wages to support both you and your family."

"I couldn't accept that," Nina protested. "I am paid for what I do, no more, and that is what it should be."

"What it should be," Larys began firmly. "Is that you are free of commitment, with enough money to buy yourself a new dress or ribbon every so often, and can charm one of the guards, or the blacksmiths and fall in love and wed and have your own children. Then every so often, you go visit your family in White Harbour where your mother has enough to raise her children and dote on you. In fact, you shouldn't have had to come here at all."

Nina stared slightly wide eyed, and Larys regretted saying so much. She rubbed her eyes tiredly and wondered why Nina's two dimensional problems bothered her so much. She didn't have the Gods whispering in her ears, or a Targaryen husband somewhere beyond the Wall- she just needed more money.

"The least I can do," she sighed. "Is up your wages a little. I can afford it now that we no longer pay tax to the Watch."

"My Lady-"

"Please don't argue with me on this, Nina," Larys said with a small smile. "It bothers me that the reason my sheets are warm when I go to bed is because you're leagues away from your family. Let me do this for you, if only for my peace of mind."

Nina nodded at last, hiding a bashful smile behind her hand. Larys leaned back, satisfied, and sipped at her mulled wine- the spices sent heat all the way to her toes, and yet even though her body was filled with warmth that she could almost purr at, she was stuck in a mental swamp.

Things were well at Haven. They were less well for Larys. Jon had yet to fulfil his promise, and she found the pain at his absence only grew with time rather than lessened. With every gurgle from the children, with every babbling laugh, she couldn't help but feel he should be there to witness it with her.

Jory had hitherto helped alleviate that loss. He had been by her side for as long as she could remember, ready to walk her through all the troubles she faced even when Jon was there. And now he was gone too, at her own doing. She was still so muddled about that. She loved him, that was unquestionable, but not how she loved Jon. Her love for her husband was like a raging fire- it both warmed her and burned her, and consumed every aspect of her life, bathing it in its light. Her love for Jory was like a river; constant, pure, and the water soothed her burns; she could see the river bed because there was nothing hidden in its waters.

It shouldn't bother her so much that Jory loved her more than she loved him. Or perhaps she did love him just as much, but in a different way. She hated the word cousin- was he a brother or a lover? The line was so blurred because anything was possible. So many people wedded their cousins. And wasn't it odd that without a doubt, if Jon hadn't been there, she would have wed Jory and been as happy as anyone? Certainly she would be happier than she was now, although that wasn't hard to beat.

She imagined it, staring absently out of the window. She'd still be in Winterfell and Catelyn would still be alive. Lady Stark would smile and laugh and dance with her, unbothered by the lowly daughter of the master-of-arms who had married suitably and innocently for her station, simply happy to be a mother to a motherless girl. Larys would live in a small home with just her and Jory, no servants, no guards, and it would be just them at night, keeping each other warm. They'd have little dark-haired children, some with brown eyes, some with green, none with grey, and that home would be filled with the sound of childish laughter and love.

Larys blinked and realised she was crying. Nina had since left, so Larys was alone in her sadness- whether that was something to be grateful or not was something she had yet to decide. Not even Ghost was here to comfort her, long gone prowling the Gift. She wiped at her tears with a shuddering sigh, mourning the loss of a life she could have had.

And was it so bad she felt no remorse for imagining a life with a man that was not her husband? Why should she? Larys had been loyal and sent Jory away. And Gods knew she had given everything she had to Jon Stark. She could have this at least.

"I love you Jon," she muttered into the air. "I love you with all my heart, for the rest of my days. But right now, I fucking hate you."

"Twins," Robb said in disbelief. "I still cannot believe they are parents. How is she?"

"Well, my Lord," Jory said, giving away as little as he could. "She misses Lord Jon but her children have helped."

"That is good," Robb said wearily, and still Jory marvelled at the man before him- the boy was long since dead. "Jon's disappearance has been difficult for all of us, but I imagine it is worse for her. I worry that she is alone."

"She is a hardy woman," Jory said with a rueful smile. "She holds faith that he will return. Until then, she rules the Gift as well as any man, or better. I do not think you need to worry about her, my Lord. Not yet at least."

Leave the worrying to me, Jory thought glumly, I do it enough for the both of us.

"You are right," Robb said, stretching. "Larys has never been the sort to need any help, although if she did, I doubt she would ask for it. I am glad she has you Jory."

"Yes, my Lord."

Jory's face was blank and unreadable, but his insides were cold with dread and he begged Robb Stark to not do what he thought he might do.

"Regardless, she mustn't be alone. I cannot spare her Father, but I am considering making your position at Haven more permanent until Jon returns. There needs to be somebody with military experience in such an important location. My Father did not take such a strategic position from the Watch to have it be weakened. You must return soon, Jory."

"My Lord," Jory hesitated. "Surely, any other man would be better suited to the job? Perhaps from one of the surrounding Houses?"

"No," Robb dismissed. "They would take it as an insult to serve beneath a former bastard. You know Jon's true worth and your loyalty is unquestionable. It must be you."

Jory bit his cheek. What choice did he have? He had to return, despite Larys' well-founded order to stay away. He couldn't tell Lord Robb why she had sent him away- he did not care that it would shame him, but it was Larys' honour that would be questioned too. He couldn't bare that.

"How long before I must leave, my Lord?"

Robb assessed him from where he sat, pensive.

"Something tells me you do not want to leave, Jory."

"Aye," Jory lied. "I have missed Winterfell."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I know I would miss Winterfell dearly if I had to leave," Robb said, grimacing. "But I need you in the Gift. I'll let you stay a week, but you must leave at the end of it."

"Thank you, my Lord," Jory said with a bow.

Jory left the room, running a hand down his face. He could never realistically stay away from Haven forever without telling Lord Robb the truth, but this was a start. Larys would understand- he would just speak and see her as little as possible.

But Gods was it hard. She loved him. As family or as a lover only the Gods knew, but the memory of those words set his blood afire all the same. Guilt and hope warred with each other, the thrill of this discovery surpassing the shame of loving a married woman more often than he cared to admit.

He had honour. That was one thing Jory refused to relent. But more and more he was beginning to doubt himself- she had such a strong hold on him that if she ordered him to murder somebody, he just might do it. And wasn't that terrifying? He'd always known he loved her, but now they both knew and it was all he could think about. Even her rejection hadn't felt like a rejection. She'd shoved him into the sea to drown, but her whispered confession kept him floating nonetheless.

How he wished she was his. In his darkest, drunkest moment on the way to Winterfell, he had wondered if he waited long enough and Lord Jon was declared dead, he might be able to wed her. Then the dishonour of such a thought about his Lord had come crashing down and he'd been mortified. Jon Stark had been through enough without Jory praying for his death. Even the memory made him shrivel in disgrace. What sort of man was he? Like a dog, pining beneath the table for something that was not and would never be his.

His feet had carried him to the training yard, and he watched with mild curiosity as his Uncle Rodrick taught little Lord Bran how to parry. It had seemed so long since he'd been in Winterfell, and the place brought back memories of a happier time, an easier time.

Thirsting for a distraction, Jory jogged towards his Uncle and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Jory!" Rodrick exclaimed in surprise. "You're back!"

"Aye," he said with a grin. "Not for long though. I'll be on the road again once the week is out."

"Ah, duty," Rodrick said proudly. "If only I could go back to the days of travelling from one keep to another. How is Larys? Has she birthed yet?"

"She has indeed," Jory said, more subdued. "Twins, two little boys. They have yet to be named."

"Twins? Gods, she is blessed indeed!" Rodrick gaped. "I cannot believe my little girl has children of her own."

He frowned slightly.

"I worry for her sometimes," he confessed quietly. "Without Jon, she is alone, and solitude has never suited her well. Sometimes I wonder if she would have thrived better in the courts of the South."

"She is strong, Uncle," Jory assured him, although he couldn't help but agree. "She will be fine."

"Aye, I'm worrying for nothing," Rodrick said gruffly. "She has you at least, and little Beth. I do wish I could see her again, but I fear it would be cruel to take her away from Larys."

"She misses you but she is happy. She gets along surprisingly well with little Rickon."

"That is good to hear," Rodrick sighed. "We all have to make sacrifices for the ones we love."

Aye, Jory thought forlornly. We do indeed.

"Princes Doran and Oberyn Martell of Dorne."

Efran eyed Areo Hotah with a mild sneer, wondering just what would happen if he poked the great big lump. He had little time to imagine it, as the Princes entered not a moment later. He felt Lord Stark shift uncomfortably beside him and he shot him a warning look. This was no time for weakness.

"My Lords," Oberyn purred. "It is an honour."

Doran wheeled his chair over to the table, and they sat around it accordingly, warily.

"It is indeed," Dorn continued calmly. "Dorne owes you much, Lord Anerion."

"It was not I that killed the Mountain, your grace," Efran said with a smirk. "It is my son who will come to collect."

"They call him the Dancer now," Oberyn said, grinning lazily. "Tales of his legendary spar with the Mountain that Rides have spread far and wide already. Where is this Dancer, if I may ask?"

"He will be with us shortly," Efran said levelly, but there was a warning in his voice- this was his son they were talking about. "In the meantime, I was hoping we could discuss the position of the North and Dorne in the succession to the throne."

Lord Stark leaned forward at this point, as solemn as always but somehow, in a room filled with hidden messages and sideway glances, his openness made him seem larger than them.

"Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon are bastards," he said gravely. "Children of Cersei and Jaime Lannister."

The room was quiet for a moment.

"And so Joffrey cannot inherit the throne?" Doran said carefully.

"He cannot," Ned said firmly. "If we are to follow the laws of succession, the throne should pass to Robert's younger brother Stannis."

"In all honesty my Lord Stark," Doran said with a touch of condescension. "Dorne has cared little for the affairs of Lannisters and Baratheons since the death of Elia. Why should that change now?"

"Because," Efran intervened. "There will be war, but also, in my good friend's words, winter is coming. We are not here to ask you to do anything, but rather, to do nothing."

"When did this become we, my Lord Efran?" Oberyn asked dangerously.

"Since my niece married Jon Stark."

"Ah," Doran said with a smile. "Larys Cassel."

"Larys Stark now," Ned said.

"I see," Doran nodded. "So you are here to ask me to abstain from the war? Why? I would have thought you would be at Stannis' side by now, Lord Stark."

"I might have been," Lord Stark said, frowning in thought. "But not long ago I received a raven from Stannis himself after he heard I was in Dorne."

Efran leaned back in his chair, allowing Ned to take the reins.

"And what did Lord Baratheon say?"

"He ordered me to sail to Dragonstone and bend the knee," Ned sighed. "Understandable, if blunt. However, he also said that under his rule, Jon's legitimisation would be revoked and his position at the Gift removed until the war was over and Stannis could make his own decision. He said there was no room for anymore bastards in high places."

"And this has displeased you, I assume?" Doran asked.

"It has. Stannis was quick to accuse Jon of being of a similar type to Joffrey. He forgets that Jon is my son and my loyalty to my family comes before him. Perhaps if Jon had been unmarried and without children, I might have conceded to wait till the war was over, but he is not and Larys is with child and has likely given birth since last I saw her. I could not in good will strip that child of their birth right and Jon and Larys from their home."

"We understand your anger, my Lord," Doran said with a small smile. "My brother has many children born out of wedlock, but I would not deign to treat them differently."

"Indeed," Oberyn said, pride in his eyes. "My daughters have proven themselves to be more valuable than any trueborn servants to Dorne."

"So what will you do, my Lord?"

"I do not like the idea," Ned began grimly. "But I think I will return to the North with my daughters and abstain from this foolish war. I will not bow to Joffrey, nor Renly as the younger brother, and until Stannis revokes his ridiculous demand, I will not bow to him either. The North is impossible to invade from the Neck and I doubt any will bother, so I will return to Winterfell and call a council of war. My Lords and I can decide on what to do from there."

"That is a good course of action," Doran admired. "This war is still young and battles have yet to be fought. We will see in time whom is strongest."

Ned's face soured, and Efran knew he disliked the idea of entering the war only to side with the winner, but the man kept quiet.

"So all we ask," Efran said pleasantly. "Is that Dorne also abstain from the war and keeps its doors open to the North. There is a possible alliance here, even if Dorne and the North fought against each other not long ago."

"Dorne thinks better of the Starks than the Lannisters and Baratheons," Oberyn said, assessing Eddard. "Your father and brother were murdered by Aerys, and your sister kidnapped by Rhaegar. You had every right to rebel. We only wish you had put Aegon on the throne rather than Robert, but he was dead by then, wasn't he?"

"The death of your sister and her children is entirely the work of Tywin Lannister," Efran reminded him. "It is well known how Lord Stark protested it so fiercely he left Kings Landing an enemy of Robert and returned a friend only when his own sister had died."

"We know the story well, Efran," Doran said tiredly. "My brother only seeks to show that the North is not an enemy of Dorne. We would sooner ally with the Starks than Lannisters or Baratheons. Still, I hesitate to cast my die so early. We will abstain for now, and Dorne will be on good terms with the North, but do not think of this as permanent."

"That is all we ask, Prince Doran," Ned intoned.

"And remember the wounds my son took to avenge your sister," Efran said dangerously. "It would be foolish of you to forget."

"Be careful, my Lord," Oberyn warned. "Your tone."

"Dorne thanks you, my Lord," Doran said loudly.

They relaxed now that the serious talk was over, and Efran watched them over the rim of his cup. Ned sat stiffly, but he knew that was likely due to the heat as much as the Princes opposite.

"I hear your daughter came here with you, Lord Stark," Doran began conversationally. "She was to wed Joffrey, was she not?"

"Aye," Ned said tiredly. "She was upset to hear she wouldn't, but relieved once she learned why."

"Should you wish to cement an alliance between the North and Dorne," Doran mused. "My son Tristane is of a similar age. He will be Prince of Dorne after me."

Ned made eye contact with Efran, hesitant.

"I thank you for the offer, my Prince," Ned said carefully. "But my daughter misses Winterfell. Perhaps when she is a little older, I will consider it. I fear rushing into another betrothal will only upset her further."

"Understandable," Doran said agreeably, sipping form his wine. "Just a thought."

There was a knock at the door and Areo obediently opened the door.

"Eli Anerion."

They watched as Eli entered, Efran tense in his seat. His limp was far less pronounced, positively natural to the other men in the room, but Efran knew his son and spied the beads of sweat at his temple and the clench of his jaw.

"My Princes, my Lords," Eli aid with an easy smile. "I thought you might want to finally see the gift I have for you."

Oberyn sprang from his seat, face drawn with a ferocious hunger that had driven him for eighteen years. He took the ornate box from Eli's arms and placed it on the table. They all stood and watched carefully, none so carefully as the brothers Martell, as Oberyn lifted the lid of the box.

An unholy stench of death and rot emerged, and the head of Gregor Clegane sat gaping on a cushion, untarred so that they might stare at the fear in his face. The brothers were silent, and Efran, Eli, and Ned watched them with baited breath.

"To hear of his death is one thing," Oberyn murmured, stroking the dead man's hair with perverted glee. "But to see his rotting head is something else entirely."

Doran turned to look at them a mixture of gratitude, mourning, and peace in his eyes.

"Long have we wanted justice for our sister, and now we have it," he said slowly. "Dorne will remember what you have done for us Dancer."

Eli bowed his head. Doran met Lord Stark's cautious gaze.

"And you need not fear meeting the Dornish in the battle field, my Lord Stark. And if you do, we will be fighting with you."

Jon stood before the Wall, staring up at it with dread. It was so tall. What if it fell down? What then?

It was like a dam, he observed. From here, it was nothing but an iron curtain that hid the world behind it- and oh how he wanted that world- but if that gate rose, if that door opened… the dam would burst and all life's misery and pain and passion would drown him.

Did he want that reality? Here, in this white land, it was as though time had stopped. There was no change- it snowed, it snowed, and it snowed. Familiar and cold.

But that was not the way to think, because here was solitude. Here was feeling like the only man in the world. Here was living in a sea of corpses. It seeped into his mind, teasing, playful, like a maiden. Pretty to look at, until you brushed your fingers through her icy hair and you burned from the cold.

Not any longer, he thought. Like an aged bear, frost settled in his beard. It was thick and long now- Larys would have hated it. She liked him bearded, else, she would laugh, he was prettier than she was. But let it grow too long and she'd call him Umber until he cut it short. Her northern man, she'd call him, privately, with a soft smile. He found himself grinning, cheeks red, at the memory of what would often follow, and knew in his bones he would see her again. Jon missed her- not so burning as he used to. Time had soothed it, and now the ache of her absence was as much a part of him as the cold.

But the thought of his son was something else. Something about that boy being half of him, his own flesh and blood, stirred his blood like nothing else. He was a father and he didn't know the look of his own son.

A raven cawed and he looked up, startled. There it was again- Mormont's raven. It cocked its head from the ground and peered at him with a bejewelled eye, inquisitive.

"What do you want, you great big chicken?" he grumbled.

"Corn!" it squawked. "Corn!"

"I don't have any bloody corn you stupid bird," he snapped.

It didn't elude him how heavily familiar this situation was- he tugged grumpily at his white cloak, glaring at the raven.

"I suppose you're here to herald my arrival and any minute now Mormont is going to walk through that gate," he said. "Get to it then."

"Stark!" it screamed. "Stark!"

"I know my name."

"King!"

Jon scowled.

There was a slow rumble as the cogs began to turn and the gate rose, and Jon took one last breath. This was it- the last gasp of air before plunging into the great unknown.