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She is a ghost, and he is even more a ghost than she.
It matters not what they do. The world of the living does not concern itself with the dead. Nor do the dead concern themselves with the living; this, at least, is a fact she is intimately acquainted with.
It’s better this way, she thinks. The snow has half-buried the towering pines that surround Winterfell, and the drifts still grow deeper all the time, swallowing the North entirely. Thick flakes fall steadily and show no signs of slowing. The snow is a friend to her, in a way it never was before, for it means they are alone and apart. No one can reach them here, in this cold white fantasy world that lies somewhere between waking and sleeping.
She has no wish to be a part of something greater than herself ever again. Joy is too costly by half, love a sweet poison. Still, it is her one comfort, pretending that she still has something left, pretending that she is young again and somewhere just around the corner are laughing children, waiting for her. She sees them still, running across her vision.
She has become so good at pretending.
She can’t be sure what he pretends, but it hardly matters. Perhaps that she is his long-dead, red-haired wildling, perhaps that she is her own daughter. She has no desire to ask him, and he does not tell her. They barely speak at all, unless is to talk of the old days, of the times before.
All she sees is Eddard, her Ned, and that is all she wants to see. He makes it easy. Targaryen he may be, but there is nothing of the dragon or the South in this boy. He is Stark through and through, with Ned’s dark hair and solemn gray eyes, his long northern face. He is perhaps too handsome for it to be a perfect fit, but that is nothing to her. Ned was the handsomest man in the world, once she loved him.
They sit near the fire together after supper, in the lord’s chambers. There is no room for propriety in this kind of cold, so they sit on the hearth rug like children and lean against each other for warmth. They hardly eat these days, on such strict rations they’ve grown hard and bony, but it matters not.
All that matters is this. He clears his throat. It’s his turn to start tonight.
“Do you remember…”
She remembers everything. Even the stories he shares with her that she never witnessed. She knows them by feeling if not by fact, the secrets of children and their playmates that are real only to the young, the castles in the sky only they can climb. She needs this, needs to hear about her lost pups, needs it more than breathing. And he knows that, her dear young Ned. So he feeds her with tales of childhood games and laughter, never complains about repeating her favorites, even makes some up for her, she suspects, when she cannot be satiated by the normal fare. It is like being pressed to a mother’s teat, like drinking lifeblood that is good and sweet and true. She had forgotten the taste of sweetness, but he has brought it back to her, her darling.
And so she feeds him in return. She reminds him of the early days of their marriage, of seeing Winterfell for the first time. Of the moment she’d realized she loved him. How it felt to become a mother, to feel the life he’d given her growing inside and nearly weep with the wonder of it. She shares stories with him of those sweet summer days spent riding and hawking, the pride she’d felt at running their ancient sprawling castle, the first time she’d gotten sick off northern ale and he’d held her hair back for her, how they’d laughed about it after. And he, too, nods and says, “I remember.”
Some nights, she holds him like a babe and strokes his long dark hair. He likes it when she sings to him, and she tries for his sake when she can bear it. He is as hungry as she is, she knows, can see it in his grey eyes. She does what she can.
Some nights, he holds her the way a husband holds a wife, and pulls her flush against his warm hard chest, his arms strong around her. He’s a little too tall, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the feeling, the gentle float away from the here and now. He gives that to her, and she is grateful.
When they lay together, it is ever tender. There is no room left for resentment, and whatever fire either of them once had died long ago. She never closes her eyes. She needs to see him, needs to know that it’s him, and he is always there above her, beside her, below her, looking straight back at her, bringing her pleasure in ways she had nearly forgotten. She clings to his face, so familiar and beloved, and she is young again. Her body is firm and her heart is open, and winter is only something that is coming, not something that is here. When he is hard and hot inside her, she tells him she loves him, and he never fails to say it back, soft and solemn and sweet. He has become nearly as good at pretending as she.
She will see the seven hells for this, but she no longer fears them. She has already seen them all during her waking hours. Until she must burn, she will freeze, and she thinks there must be worse fates than freezing alongside this man. Let the gods judge her, if they will. What right have they, they who would have taken everything from her? There are no gods here. There is only him, and her, and endless, endless snow.
Tonight, it is her turn. She strokes his hair back from his face, and begins.
“Do you remember…”
And he is already nodding, firelight reflecting in his grey eyes. They are ghosts, remembering ghosts. He is hers and she is his, from this day until the end of her days. That is all she knows, and all she needs to know. He will not leave her, not this time.
And still, the snows deepen. The winds rise and the clouds darken. But there is no terror in the night now, not even as her sight dims and her body shakes, not as long as she can still see him, still feel him and taste him.
So she spins her castles in the sky, climbs up and up the ladders he weaves for her, with sore hands that grow smooth, with weak limbs that grow strong. And she can yet hear him, when he pinches a lock of her hair between his fingers, bows his dark head, and says, “I remember.”