A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 17: CROSSROADS OF SHADOW AND HOPE

Jaehaerys Targaryen—known once to the world as Jon Snow—stepped off the creaking deck of the modest fishing boat, boots crunching onto the frosty shoreline of the White Knife. Beside him, Arya Stark hopped down lightly, glancing around with wary eyes. They both wore thick cloaks of coarse wool, hoods pulled low to conceal their faces from any passerby who might wonder at their presence here. The cold air of the North sank into their lungs, starkly different from the dryness of Essos. Though a hush hung over the riverside, the undercurrent of tension crackled around them. This was no homecoming, but a journey into the unknown. A year or more had passed since Jaehaerys set foot on Westerosi soil. Now he returned, but not as a mere bastard of Winterfell—he came as the rightful King, a revelation that had spread far and wide after Ned Stark's final confessions before execution.

He cast his gaze around in the pale morning light. The sky glowed with the faint pinkish hue of dawn. White-capped mountains rose in the distance, while the waters of the river lapped quietly against the pebbled bank. A swirl of conflicting emotion welled within him. The North was his birthplace, the land that had raised him in quiet, frosty nights, yet it felt foreign, shaken by war and betrayal. Arya stood close, clutching her cloak. She sensed it too, the sadness and anger that lingered in the wind, a reflection of the heartbreak that had swept across these lands.

"We're sure this is the right place?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as though afraid the ghosts of fallen kin might overhear.

He nodded, adjusting the strap of his small travel pack. "Yes, the White Knife leads to White Harbor. We can follow it north, carefully. The plan is to approach discreetly, find out what's happening, and see which lords remain loyal. We must see if there's any chance to unite the North under me—especially after Robb's death. We need their backing to drive out the usurpers."

Arya's eyes flickered. She swallowed hard at the mention of Robb's name. Her slender fingers curled into a fist, knuckles whitening. Jaehaerys placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling the roil of her grief through the Force. She had "sensed" Robb's death while they were still in Essos, a vision that came to her unbidden during a lesson in Force detection. She had nearly collapsed with the weight of it, sobbing that she felt him die amid betrayal, saw glimpses of a banquet turned massacre. Jaehaerys had not doubted her instincts. That moment had sparked his urgent return to Westeros—a rash choice, perhaps, but he could not stand idle while the North fell to chaos.

He gave Arya's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Steady yourself. We'll do what we can for Robb's memory, and the North. Our best path is subtlety. The Boltons control much of the North, I hear. They won't welcome me with open arms. The Greyjoys ravage the coasts. The southern lords might ignore the North's plight. We must gather allies quietly."

Arya managed a nod, blinking back tears. "I know. I'm ready. But I won't let them get away with killing him. I'll cut them down, every last one."

Her fury coiled in the air. He sensed it. The Force around them stirred, as though cautioning him. He inhaled, letting his calm flow to her. "We'll see them answer for their crimes, Arya, but not blindly. We can't let your anger consume you. That path leads to darkness."

She gazed at him, lips thinning, then exhaled a shaky breath. "I'll try, but it's so hard. Everything's been taken from me."

He nodded solemnly, stepping forward. "We can restore some measure of justice, but we must do it with care. Now, let's go."

They trudged inland, leaving behind the boat and the old fisherman who'd ferried them. Under thick pine branches, they moved swiftly but quietly, each step guided by the Force's subtle hum that Jaehaerys had taught Arya to tap into. She was improving, though her skills were raw. During the weeks at sea, he had taught her how to sharpen her senses, detecting life forms or strong emotions. She was a quick study, but also reckless—her confidence in her new powers sometimes outstripped her mastery. He reminded her often that humility was crucial in harnessing the Force.

At a bend in the path, Jaehaerys paused, closing his eyes. Arya did the same, mimicking him. He guided her in an exercise: sense the life around them, the subtle vibrations of small creatures, the faint warmth of humans in the distance. She furrowed her brow, lips parted. "I feel something… to the south," she murmured. "A cluster of… men?"

He opened his own senses, recognized a band of people camped near the riverbank. "Yes, a group of about six or seven. Probably bandits or travelers. Let's skirt around them."

She breathed through her nose, nodding. "All right, lead on."

He turned, forging a new route through the undergrowth. They walked in silence, minding each branch or root. A crisp wind rustled the pines overhead. The smells of moss and damp earth comforted Jaehaerys, reminding him of Winterfell's godswood from long ago. If only the North had not been torn apart. Theon's betrayal, the Greyjoy invasion, the horrors of the Red Wedding—these weighed heavy on him. He regretted not returning sooner. But in truth, he had needed time to unify Essos, time to find a vantage that might help him save Westeros from an even graver threat: the White Walkers. Then the news of Ned's public confession had revealed the truth of his parentage. That knowledge had spread, unstoppable. Now the realm knew him as Jaehaerys Targaryen, a child of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, rightful King. Some might question it, but Ned's final words before his death carried weight with many. Whether they accepted him or not, he had to try.

Hours later, they emerged from the forest onto a muddy road. The late afternoon sun painted the sky with pinkish hues. Arya was panting lightly, shoulders tense. They spotted a signpost naming White Harbor only a day's journey north. Jaehaerys gestured for them to press on, picking up their pace. "We'll find lodging tonight if possible. But keep your hood up."

Arya frowned. "We're almost in White Harbor. That means we might find the Manderlys. I remember Father said they were loyal to the Starks. Will they be loyal to us?"

He set his jaw, not entirely sure. "Likely. House Manderly historically supported the King in the North. But now that the Boltons hold power, the Manderlys might be forced into compliance. We'll see."

They trudged on. Near dusk, they came upon a small roadside inn: a squat building of stone and timber, a battered sign shaped like a fish. Light glowed through the windows, and the smell of stewed meat wafted out. Jaehaerys led Arya inside, heads bowed to keep their faces in shadow. A handful of patrons lingered at tables, discussing dull gossip. The innkeeper, a stout woman, gave them a suspicious glance but offered no protest when they paid for a room. They ate quietly, watery stew and hard bread, ignoring the curious stares. Jaehaerys caught stray bits of conversation about the war. Some believed the Greyjoys still held Moat Cailin. Others claimed Ramsay Bolton skinned men for sport. The horrors sickened him, but he tried to keep a neutral face. Arya fidgeted, swallowing her anger at each mention of the Boltons' cruelty.

After finishing, they retired to a cramped room upstairs. The bed was lumpy, but anything was better than the boat. Jaehaerys set wards with the Force, a subtle sense that would awaken him if someone approached with ill intent. Then he and Arya sat cross-legged on the floor, continuing her training in detection. "This time," he said softly, "try focusing on an emotion—like contentment. See if you can sense who in the inn is content, who is anxious."

She closed her eyes, breathing as he'd taught. Moments passed. He felt the Force swirl gently. Arya's brow knitted, then relaxed. "I sense a range of emotions. The innkeeper is worried about the cost of flour. There's a traveler who is content—someone in a corner table, I think. Another is… angry, maybe about taxes? I can't tell details. Is that normal?"

He smiled. "Yes, that's normal. Details come with practice. Good job."

She opened her eyes, a spark of pride shining. He ruffled her hair, eliciting a mock scowl. "Rest now. We'll leave at first light."

She yawned, rolling onto the bed. He perched on a small stool, cloak wrapped around him. The night pressed in, the inn's muffled chatter drifting upstairs. Thoughts churned in Jaehaerys's mind. The North was broken, the realm shattered by petty wars, while winter crept closer. He prayed Dany or Viserys could send forces from Essos soon if needed. But he couldn't rely solely on them. He had to gather loyal houses, heal the North, stand firm against the chaos. After some time, he drifted into a light, uneasy sleep.

When dawn broke, they left quietly, continuing along the road. The sky was iron gray, threatening snow. Arya kept pace, glancing occasionally at Jon with unspoken questions. He offered reassurance with a gentle nudge in the Force. By midday, the southern gates of White Harbor rose before them—a tall stone wall, the carved sigil of House Manderly above the archway. Guards in battered cloaks manned the entrance, scowling at passersby. The city seemed subdued, as though overshadowed by distant threats. Jaehaerys and Arya slipped in with a crowd of traveling merchants, heads bowed.

White Harbor, once known for bustle and trade, felt half-empty. They spied missing shutters, boarded windows, signs of looming desperation. The war had stifled commerce. Jaehaerys frowned, exchanging a grave look with Arya. The tension in the streets lay thick as a funeral shroud. "Stay close," he whispered. She nodded, scanning the surroundings for any sign of allies or foes.

They threaded the narrow lanes near the docks, seeking information. Fishermen complained of Greyjoy raids, local farmers lamented Bolton taxes. Whispers of Lady Manderly's despair drifted from some corners. Others cursed the dead King in the North, claiming he brought them ruin. Arya's fists clenched at each insult to Robb. Jaehaerys squeezed her arm, cautioning restraint.

At last, Jon felt a peculiar tingle in the Force. He paused, eyes darting, sense flaring. The presence was subtle but familiar, akin to the stealthy hum he associated with the Faceless Men. He nodded for Arya to follow as he traced the faint impression to a side alley. Arya blinked, trusting him. They found themselves behind a crumbling warehouse, piles of rotted crates stacked haphazardly. Shadows danced across the muddy ground. Jaehaerys inhaled, projecting calm. "Hello?" he called softly.

No immediate answer. Then a figure stepped forward from behind a tall crate, face half-hidden by a cowl. Jaehaerys recognized the stance, the lethal grace of the Faceless Man who once served him in Essos. A wry amusement crossed Jon's features. "You've come far from home, friend."

The Faceless Man lifted the cowl enough to reveal a woman's face—though it might be one of many. "Yes, my King. I was tasked to watch events in White Harbor, see if House Manderly remains loyal to you. I sensed your approach. We meet again."

Arya stared in mild surprise. "How'd you get here so fast? You were with me in King's Landing for a while, then Essos. You must have a thousand disguises."

The assassin offered a thin smile. "We have many ways. I knew the King might come eventually, so I awaited. The city is tense. House Manderly is pressured by the Boltons to yield. But rumor says Lady Manderly's heart still belongs to the Starks. If you reveal yourself, she might pledge to you. But we must be cautious."

Jaehaerys exhaled in relief. "I appreciate your counsel. We'll approach the Manderlys soon. For now, we remain in disguise. Where is the Manderly keep?"

The Faceless Man pointed to the tall ramparts in the city's western quarter. "The New Castle, on the harbor's edge. Surrounded by a moat, strong walls. The Boltons keep a watchful eye, but Manderly might welcome you if you prove your identity. However, any mention of you as Jaehaerys could invite immediate arrest from Bolton loyalists."

Arya's eyes flashed. "Let them try. I'll carve them up."

Jon gave her a warning glance. "Peace, sister. Stealth first, not bloodshed." He turned to the Faceless Man. "We'll approach tonight. Thank you. Stay near, if you can."

A slight bow from the assassin, who melted back into the shadows. Arya let out a breath. "So we find lodging again, or do we just go straight there?"

Jaehaerys considered. "We wait for dusk. Then we slip in quietly. If Manderly is truly loyal, we reveal ourselves privately. We can't risk alerting the Bolton watchers. Let's find a place to wait, maybe glean more rumors."

So they drifted into the city's lesser quarters, lying low among the fisherfolk, paying for a cramped room above a fishmonger's stall. The smell of salted herring pervaded everything, but it served. They spent the afternoon discreetly listening to local gossip. Confirmations abounded: the Boltons had declared themselves Wardens of the North after Robb's downfall at the Red Wedding. The Greyjoys still contested coastal areas. The smallfolk lived in fear of flayings. House Manderly was rumored to grit its teeth, quietly defying the Boltons whenever possible, but not openly. Many prayed for a miracle or a new Stark champion. But Ned was dead, Robb murdered. Bran and Rickon rumored vanished. Sansa rumored a captive or married. Arya presumed lost. The smallfolk felt no hope. Some mentioned Jaehaerys Targaryen, once known as Jon, but most scoffed at the idea that a so-called bastard could unify the realm. The rumor from Ned's final words seemed overshadowed by daily misery.

Night fell, bringing a chill wind that rattled the shutters. Jaehaerys and Arya left their lodging under cover of darkness, hoods drawn, slipping through deserted streets. The city lamps glowed faintly, illuminating patches of cobblestone. Now and then, a drunken soldier lurched by, or a stray cat fled at their approach. Reaching the moat around the New Castle was easy, but crossing it unseen proved trickier. Still, Arya's stealth combined with Jaehaerys's Force sensitivity let them time their movements between the guards' patrols. They scaled a low wall, creeping into a courtyard overshadowed by a large tower.

Arya's heart pounded, adrenaline surging. She felt alive, reminded of her old lessons with Syrio, plus the new Force training. She could sense the mild anxieties of the patrolling guards. Jaehaerys guided her in a silent gesture: wait. Then they slipped behind a row of barrels. The keep's interior door stood under torchlight, guarded by two men in partial chainmail. Jaehaerys inhaled, focusing. He reached out with the Force, nudging the men's minds. They blinked, sudden drowsiness flickering over them. The men glanced at each other, shoulders slumping, and wandered a short distance away. Arya gaped quietly. She'd seen him do it once before, but it still amazed her that he could manipulate minds so subtly.

They hurried inside, creeping down a torchlit corridor. Empty. They pressed on until they found a small side hall. At the far end, a large double door stood flanked by carved mermaid insignias of House Manderly. Warm light seeped under the crack. Jaehaerys sensed a presence inside—someone pacing. A faint swirl of worry and steel-hard resolve. He gestured for Arya to stay back, then gently pushed the door open enough to peer in.

He saw a woman in her middle years, clad in a heavy wool gown of sea-green, hair streaked with gray. She gazed at a map on a table, muttering. Another younger woman in Manderly livery hovered near, silent. Jaehaerys recognized the older woman's face from glimpses in Winterfell's past gatherings: Lady Wynafryd Manderly, sister to Wyman Manderly, or possibly a cousin. He wasn't entirely sure. But her posture exuded leadership. Perhaps Lord Wyman was gone or incapacitated. He breathed, deciding to risk it.

Softly, he opened the door. Lady Manderly's head whipped up, hand going to a dagger at her belt. She glowered, "Who—" Then she froze, blinking. The younger retainer stepped forward, protective.

Jaehaerys raised both hands, hood still up. "My lady, please, no alarm. I come in peace, hoping for your aid. I bear the name Stark, or Targaryen, depending on who you ask. I am Jaehaerys, once called Jon Snow. I swear it. I'm not your enemy."

Her eyes widened, flickering with shock. She leaned forward, studying his features in the torchlight. "Jon… Snow?" Her voice trembled. "The bastard of Eddard Stark? Or so the rumors said. Now they say you're no bastard, but the rightful King… the child of Lyanna and Rhaegar?"

He lowered his hood, letting her see his face fully. "Yes. My mother was Lyanna. Lord Eddard raised me as a bastard to protect me from King Robert. That was the truth he confessed before he died. I know how wild it sounds, but it's true. And I'm here to salvage what remains of the North, if possible."

Lady Manderly stared, eyes filling with emotion. She sank onto a bench, one hand over her mouth. "The war took so many, including Robb. We prayed for a Stark to rise. And now you appear, claiming the name Targaryen as well… By the gods. You truly have your mother's look around the eyes."

From the hallway, Arya stepped in, hood back, revealing her face. "It's me, Lady Manderly. Arya. I survived. So did Sansa, but she's far away. We have come to fix things, or at least to avenge Robb. We can't let the Boltons keep the North."

The retainer gasped, dropping a small tray. "Gods preserve us, Arya Stark alive? This is… it's like a dream."

Lady Manderly rose, hand shaking. She reached out, clasping Arya's wrist, confirming she wasn't a phantom. Then she turned to Jaehaerys, a flicker of hope in her eyes. "If you truly carry the rightful claim… we Manderlys will stand by you. We always served the Starks. The Boltons forced us to feign loyalty, but in our hearts, we never bent the knee. We've waited for a sign, a champion. The city is half-starving under Bolton taxes, Greyjoy raids hamper trade. We need leadership. If you'll lead us, we'll follow."

Jaehaerys let out a breath of profound relief. "Thank you. You don't know how much that means. My plan is to gather loyal houses, unite them, push out the Boltons, Greyjoys, any who violate the North. But we must do it carefully. If the Boltons suspect you harbor us, they might destroy White Harbor."

Lady Manderly's lips pressed into a thin line. "We risk much, but we can't remain silent. House Manderly's resources are limited, but we have ships, some men. Many lords might rally if they know a Stark—nay, a Targaryen-Stark—has returned. The name alone could reignite the North's pride." She paused, heart twisting. "I recall your father, Eddard, a good man. I regret we didn't save him or Robb."

Arya nodded bitterly. "We'll avenge them, if not rescue. We want to see Winterfell free of Bolton scum. I want to kill Ramsay myself if I can."

Jaehaerys placed a calming hand on her shoulder again, feeling the Force swirl with her rage. He turned to Lady Manderly. "We might contact other loyal lords: the Glovers, the Cerwyns, the Tallharts. See who remains unbroken. We can propose an alliance. Once we have enough men, we strike at the Boltons. Meanwhile, I have friends in Essos who might send aid. Warships, soldiers. I prefer not to wait too long—winter draws near. But the enemy is strong."

Lady Manderly nodded firmly. "Then we must do so swiftly, quietly. Let me gather envoys. You can stay hidden here. I'll spread word that travelers arrived under secrecy. None shall suspect the truth. Then, one by one, we'll test the lords' loyalty."

He bowed his head. "You have my gratitude. If you succeed, the North shall remember your house's devotion. And so will I."

She smiled, tears glimmering. "The North never forgets. This time, we'll carve a better future, if the gods be kind."

They spent the next day in the concealed wing of the castle, speaking only to a handful of Manderly confidants. Word reached them that the Boltons had men patrolling the roads, suspicious of any rumor that a hidden Stark might return. The Greyjoys, ironically, kept the Boltons too busy to lock down White Harbor. Jaehaerys penned coded letters to the Glovers, Cerwyns, and other houses that Lady Manderly suspected might remain loyal. They used an old method once used by Ned Stark, referencing personal knowledge that only true friends of House Stark would recognize.

Meanwhile, Arya struggled with her roiling hatred for the men who had betrayed Robb. Jon tried to ease her with daily Force lessons, guiding her mind away from raw vengeance. She complied grudgingly, though tears surfaced whenever she thought about her mother, father, or brothers. He reminded her that the future of the North depended on unity, not a blind vendetta. She listened, but her anger flickered still.

Late in the evening, Lady Manderly returned with good news. Several houses had responded swiftly, intrigued by the rumor that Jaehaerys Targaryen, once known as Jon Snow, had come. Some pledged to send representatives. Others requested proof of his identity. The time had come for Jaehaerys to reveal himself more openly, but carefully. He planned a small gathering in White Harbor's great hall under the guise of a commerce negotiation. The houses' envoys would attend, and Jaehaerys would stand before them in modest attire, announcing his claim.

Arya insisted on being at his side, even though she was no politician. He agreed. The day of the meeting, they dressed simply—no crown, no fancy garb, just leather and wool. If all went well, these lords would swear fealty. If not, they might try to kill him or summon Bolton forces. Tension ran high. But the moment arrived, the hall set with lanterns, the banners of House Manderly discreetly placed, the seats arranged around a long table.

One by one, representatives trickled in: a Glover steward, a Cerwyn daughter, a Tallhart cousin, and others from lesser houses. They expected to discuss trade or local disputes. Then Lady Manderly rose, clearing her throat. She introduced them to two travelers. With her voice strong and unwavering, she declared them to be Arya Stark, rightful daughter of Ned, and Jaehaerys Targaryen, born Jon Snow, the proven child of Lyanna. Gasps and whispers erupted, some crying "Impossible," others paled with shock.

Arya lifted her head. "If you doubt me, recall how I once shot arrows from the battlements in Winterfell, how I called my sister 'a stuck-up ladybird.' Or how I hated wearing skirts." She recited personal anecdotes that only a true Stark child could know. The Glover steward recognized the detail of a feast gone awry. The tension eased a fraction as they realized she indeed was Arya Stark.

Then Jaehaerys stepped forward. He removed his cloak, revealing his features in full. Some recognized the lines of Ned's face, the Stark eyes. Others saw the faint Targaryen shaping in his cheekbones or posture. He spoke quietly but firmly. "I know this is a shock. You heard rumors from Ned Stark's final words. He confessed my true parentage, that I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Raised as Ned's bastard, for my protection. I never sought a throne or war, but the realm stands in chaos, the North enslaved by Boltons. I ask if you will join me to free our land, for the sake of House Stark's legacy, to drive out the betrayers."

Silence stretched. Then the Glover steward advanced, kneeling. "Lord Stark— or Targaryen— we believed in your father's honesty. If he said you are a Stark child, then so you are. If you vow to avenge King Robb and bring justice, House Glover stands with you."

The others followed suit, each expressing some measure of acceptance. Only the Tallhart cousin hesitated, claiming fear of Bolton retribution. But Lady Manderly stepped in, reminding them that the Boltons' days were numbered if the North united. The Tallhart representative finally nodded, though warily. Jaehaerys breathed relief as they knelt, swearing fealty to him as the rightful heir to Winterfell and the North, or perhaps an even greater throne if the realm recognized him. He felt the Force tingle, as though affirming this alliance. A sense of pride and sorrow welled in his chest. He vowed to repay their loyalty with fairness, to shield them from the wrath of the Dreadfort.

Thus, under the flickering lanternlight of White Harbor's hall, the seeds of rebellion against the Boltons took root. Jaehaerys embraced each envoy, or clasped their hands in gratitude. Arya stood at his side, tears glinting when some praised her father or lamented Robb's death. The mood was heavy but hopeful. At last, Lady Manderly declared it time for strategy. They parted to gather their forces discreetly, aiming for a mustering near Moat Cailin once enough men were prepared. Jaehaerys declared that he had resources from Essos he could call upon if needed.

When the meeting adjourned, Jaehaerys and Arya lingered behind with Lady Manderly. She led them to a private solar where a simple meal was laid out—bread, cheese, salted fish, and ale. The three of them ate in silence at first, each lost in thoughts. Then Dany's name came up, as Arya asked about the future. Jaehaerys explained that Daenerys Targaryen, his aunt and co-ruler of Essos, might send ships or armies if requested. The idea of Targaryen armies sailing into the North seemed bizarre, but Lady Manderly recognized the advantage. The conversation turned to winter's approach, the threat of the White Walkers. Jaehaerys insisted that preparing the North was crucial, no matter the southern politics. He'd need alliances not just here, but across Westeros. For now, though, toppling the Boltons was the immediate step.

That night, as Arya dozed in a guest room, Jaehaerys stood on a balcony overlooking White Harbor's moonlit docks. The city seemed calmer, no immediate sign of invasion or Bolton interference. Yet the hush felt uneasy. War would come, spurred by his return. He quietly prayed the Freed Armies in Essos, or the Wolf Pack, or Dany's leadership, might join him soon. But even if they did, it might take time. The Boltons wouldn't relinquish power easily.

He gazed up at the stars, letting the Force swirl in his chest. He thought of Ned, recalled those quiet smiles in Winterfell's yard, the man who never told him the full truth until his final moment. He felt no resentment— only sorrow that Ned couldn't see what he had become: Jaehaerys Targaryen, forging a path that might heal or break the realm. "Father," he whispered, "I wish you could guide me now."

His only answer was the hush of night wind. He closed his eyes, feeling the faint echo of Anakin's absence. The Force felt emptier without that guiding spirit. But he was not alone. He had Arya, who had grown strong, and soon the loyal lords of the North. That might be enough. He steeled himself, remembering the plan: gather loyal houses, unify them under the Stark banner, retake Winterfell from the Boltons, then brace for the great war of ice. If the realm recognized him as King, so be it. If not, he'd still do his duty, just as Ned had taught him.

Morning came swiftly, bringing new dispatches. Lady Manderly reported that letters were already en route to the Glovers, Cerwyns, Tallharts, and a half-dozen minor houses. The Manderlys themselves would muster men discreetly, perhaps a thousand. Not enough to face the Boltons head-on, but a start. Jaehaerys decided to depart White Harbor soon, to rally other pockets of support. He couldn't just wait while the lords trickled in. He'd ride west, forging a path toward the Wolf's Den, seeing which villages might yield volunteers. He planned to keep Arya at his side—she insisted, and he recognized her skill in infiltration. Also, he wanted to keep an eye on her emotional state.

They set off that afternoon, after heartfelt farewells to Lady Manderly, who stood on the castle steps, her cloak fluttering in a stiff breeze. "We'll move quickly," she promised. "When you call, we'll be ready to march. Gods protect you, Jaehaerys Targaryen. The North needs you."

He clasped her hands. "Thank you, my lady. The day will come soon." With that, he and Arya rode off on borrowed horses, cloaks billowing. The city gates parted for them. They passed through watchful eyes, but no one recognized them as anything more than traveling strangers.

Once beyond the walls, they followed a country road through rolling hills and sparse farmland. The cold wind stung their cheeks. Arya rode in silence, but Jaehaerys felt her swirling thoughts. He reached out in the Force, offering a gentle reassurance. She looked at him, lips curving in a slight, grateful smile. She was determined, but the weight of grief still lingered. He prayed he could guide her toward healing and not let revenge define her.

That evening, they made camp near a stand of pines. The night was crisp, stars blazing overhead. Arya practiced a few sword forms she'd learned from Syrio, incorporating Force sensitivity to anticipate movements. Jaehaerys watched, offering corrections. The hiss of the blade through the cold air reminded him of old lessons with Robb in Winterfell's yard. The memory stung. He let out a slow exhale, pushing aside sorrow. They needed to focus on the present.

When morning broke, they continued deeper into the Northern interior, guided by rumors that some minor houses had formed pockets of resistance against the Boltons. Along the way, they encountered quiet hamlets. People recognized them as travelers, politely disinterested. No one expected the rumored Targaryen heir to ride so plainly among them. The hush of war overshadowed everything—fields lay half-tilled, men gone to fight or dead, women and children scraping by. The land was in desperate need of hope.

They spent a few days roaming these back roads. Whenever they heard talk of the Boltons, it was laced with dread. Arya's fists clenched each time. Occasionally, they gleaned mention of a small band of outlaws who claimed loyalty to "the true King in the North," but no one was sure if that meant the ghost of Robb or someone else. They pressed on, searching for any sign of these rebels, hoping they might join. But they found no direct leads.

Finally, near a remote village perched on a ridge, a local huntsman told them of a clandestine meeting of Northern loyalists rumored to gather in a forest clearing. Jaehaerys seized on that, leading Arya there at dusk. Through the gnarled trees, they spied a campfire. Perhaps a dozen men and women sat around it, hush in their voices, battered weapons at their sides. A banner of the direwolf lay draped over a fallen log. Jaehaerys approached slowly, calling out. The group leaped to their feet, brandishing steel, faces alarmed.

Arya stepped forward, hood thrown back, voice steady. "I am Arya Stark," she declared, her words hitting the clearing with quiet force. "Daughter of Ned, sister of Robb, rightful lady of Winterfell. This is my brother, Jaehaerys Targaryen—once Jon Snow. We come to gather the North."

The outlaws gaped, half-disbelieving. One older man fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. "We thought all the Starks were gone. Lady Arya? By the gods, we heard you died. If you're truly Arya…"

She repeated details of Winterfell's old life only a true Stark could know. The group broke into murmurs of relief, some even weeping. They beckoned the pair to the fire. One woman, sporting a ragged cloak and a missing ear, introduced herself as a former retainer of House Cerwyn. She'd fled after the Boltons took over, refusing to swear to them. The rest had similar stories—huntsmen, stableboys, a blacksmith's apprentice. None were lords, but they had the fiery loyalty of the North.

Jaehaerys knelt, meeting them eye to eye. "We plan to free the North from the Boltons. House Manderly and others stand with us. We need every blade to form an army. Will you join?"

Their answer was a resounding yes. The blacksmith's apprentice hammered a fist to his chest. "We fight for the Starks. We'll follow you. Just lead us."

Arya gave a fierce grin, and for the first time in days, Jaehaerys saw genuine light in her eyes. She turned to him, whispering, "We can do this, Jon. We can bring them all together."

He gave an affirming nod. "Yes, we can." Then to the group, "Hide your presence until we summon you. Gather more loyal folk if you can. The time is near."

They left them with instructions to converge near Moat Cailin in a fortnight. The group's gratitude warmed Jaehaerys's heart, a reminder that even amid war, hope lingered if a Stark or Targaryen banner rose for them. He only prayed the Boltons wouldn't discover this reawakening of loyalty too soon.

Each day thereafter, Jaehaerys felt momentum build. Whispers of his presence spread quietly, from one campfire to another, one hidden village to the next. With each sworn follower, the North's spirit rekindled. Reports trickled in that the Greyjoys had pulled back from certain areas, and the Boltons found themselves stretched thin. The chance to strike grew more likely.

Finally, after nearly three weeks of secret travel, they returned to White Harbor under cover of night, entering the same hidden postern door. Lady Manderly greeted them with news: multiple houses had agreed to send delegations to a secret gathering at Moat Cailin soon. She estimated perhaps four thousand men total might muster, not counting any potential support from Essos if Dany or Viserys decided to send help. It might be enough to at least challenge Bolton rule if done swiftly and with cunning.

Jaehaerys's heart pounded. The path was clear: unify these loyal forces, oust the Boltons, reclaim Winterfell. Then, perhaps, the North could stand as a bulwark for the realm's future wars. And if the southern powers recognized him as the rightful King, so be it. If not, he'd defend the North anyway. The White Walkers would come soon enough, and unity was the only chance for survival.

So the final day of this chapter ended with Jaehaerys conferring with Lady Manderly in the candlelit war room, Arya at his side, the flicker of hope shining in their eyes. The map on the table displayed the familiar shape of the North, dotted with figurines representing the scattered loyal houses. He traced a finger along the route to Moat Cailin. "We strike from the south, cut off Bolton reinforcements from the Dreadfort. Then march on Winterfell. If the Greyjoys meddle, we contain them or push them back to the sea. We can do it with combined forces. The people yearn for a Stark banner. We must prove worthy."

Arya, hand resting on the pommel of her sword, nodded fiercely. "I'll fight in the vanguard if you let me. I want to see that flayed man banner torn down with my own eyes."

He chuckled softly, ruffling her hair. "We'll see, little sister. Let's make sure we hold the realm together after we reclaim it, not tear it further asunder."

They parted ways to rest, finalizing details. The next morning, Jaehaerys wrote a coded letter to Essos, urging Dany to prepare reinforcements if possible, but not to come unless truly needed—he wanted to see if the North could free itself first. Then, standing at the walls of White Harbor, he gazed across the distant plains, imagining the battles to come. The path was set: gather the loyal lords, unify the scattered rebellion, dethrone the Boltons. If the gods were kind, the next chapter of the North's history would be written in victory, not more bloodshed.

Thus ended the start of Jaehaerys's covert campaign in the North, forging alliances with Manderly, with secret enclaves of freed warriors, with the battered remains of houses that once followed Robb. As dawn broke, he felt the Force hum around them, urging resolution. The final war for the North was about to begin—and with Arya's unwavering spirit, the legacy of the Starks might rise again.