Glazed hams, roasted chickens, creamy gravy, his mother's apple pie. The table in front of Devan was filled with every delicacy he'd missed out on during his time in the North. The alluring treats were so close that he could almost touch them. But, as he reached out his hand, the table in front of him started to fade. Instead, a voice called for his attention from far away.

"Devan was the one who told me to venture beyond the wall."

Devan jolted awake as Jon uttered his name. The sudden action made him lose his balance, as he'd been standing on one knee--bent in reverence of the Queen of the North--when dreams took him away. If he'd known Jon and his sister--the terrifying redheaded ice queen of the northern lands--would talk for so long, he would have tried to sneak away while the rest of the party entered the Great Hall for the audience with the queen.

Instead, he now lay splayed out across the cold stone floor with everyone's eyes on him. Chills traveled down his spine as the gaze of Sansa Stark fell on him.

The Queen of the North was the opposite of her castle. Because while the still battle-worn walls incased a castle that to Devan--whose judgemental eyes were used to the more extravagant castles down south--appeared small and dull, the queen herself was tall and vibrant. Her fiery hair warmed the cold hall around them, where Devan had followed Jon as they were shown inside by the guards. The draw bridge had been opened immediately upon the name Jon Snow being spoken.

Her hair burned like fire but her eyes were cold as frosty icicles. Her gaze made chills travel down Devan's spine. He shivered as he'd done on freezing nights beyond the wall.

"And who are you?" she asked, no longer as exuberant as she'd been when greeting her long-lost brother. The warmth seemed to only be a thin facade on the surface. "Have I seen you before, young man?"

The moniker seemed meant to put Devan down because the queen was hardly more than a few years older than him. Her words made him feel as if he was some sort of background character suddenly stumbling into the main characters' heroic story. A ridiculous jester that shouldn't be there.

"I'm Devan Seaworth," he replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Devan wasn't a bit player, he was the main act and the encore. With all the dignity he could muster, Devan rose from the floor and nonchalantly brushed off some dust before facing the queen. "Did Jon not tell you who I am?"

Sansa shook her head with a blasé expression on her face. She stifled a yawn with a glove-clad hand.

"You do look vaguely familiar," the queen admitted. "Were you here for the war against the dead?"

"No," Devan muttered, keeping his head high and proud. He noted that the queen was almost as tall as him--which few women were--and her pin-straight posture made her seem very intimidating. Devan wondered if her fancy southern husband, who sat on a smaller throne to the side and appeared to snooze away even deeper than Devan just had, ever dared to venture close.

The queen rose from her throne and stepped closer. She inspected every stray hair on Devan's head with her icy cold eyes. "You do look awfully familiar though," she insisted. "Do I perhaps know a relative of yours?"

Devan sighed overdramatically. "My father, he mumbled, a bit miffed to have to rely on his father's reputation for recognition. "His name is Davos Seaworth. I believe he's been here."

Suddenly a smile graced Sansa's lips. That had done the trick. "Of course," she replied. "I know Davos. He fought with us. He's a good man and I'm sure he's raised a good son."

Devan shrugged. "Kind of have to be around to raise someone," he mumbled. "But my mother did a good job, I suppose."

Sansa nodded slowly, a pained expression quickly moving across her noble features. Perhaps she thought of her own parents. Devan, just like the rest of the kingdom, had heard the stories about what happened to them. Ned Stark was beheaded in front of a cheering crowd and Catelyn Stark was stabbed in the guts at her brother's wedding.

Whatever his own parents' flaws were--his father's absence and his mother's sternness--Devan knew he could only make such complaints because they were still alive. Even Devan could admit that he was incredibly grateful that was the case because having two living parents was certainly not a given in this world.

"I've heard your name before," the queen continued with a dark glint in her eyes. "I remember now. My brother sent me a letter, sending me his condolences that my former husband, Tyrion Lannister, was dead. He told me the name of the murderer."

Devan swallowed. He hadn't thought of that connection. "I didn't kill Tyrion Lannister," he said resolutely. "Whatever the king says, it's a lie."

With a shake of her head, Sansa turned to Jon again. "This is who you want me to trust, Jon? The boy who's sentenced for murdering Tyrion. A boy who says our brother is a murderer."

"I'm not a boy!" Devan almost blurted out. But his lips locked in the words as a friendly hand fell on his shoulder.

"Hush little seabird," Tormund prompted him. "Or the queen might have you beheaded."

That option didn't seem appealing. He'd got this far. He'd left the wall behind. Devan wasn't about to be beheaded on account of his blathering mouth before he could reach his love and their child.

"I trust Devan," Jon calmly told her sister. "I trust him with my life, just like I trusted his father. I trust that he didn't do what he's accused of doing."

"So you believe Bran is lying then? You don't trust your own brother?"

Jon just nodded, before stepping closer to his sister. He put his hand on her shoulder to tell her the truth. A truth he probably knew she wouldn't accept.

"He's not out brother," he said. "The king is someone else. Our brother Bran, he's gone and someone else has taken hold of his body."

Sansa just shook her head, looking in desperation toward her husband. "That's not true," she protested.

"Don't tell me you didn't sense it when he was here with us, Sansa. He wasn't the same. He was different. That's what we told ourselves. We denied the truth. But the truth is that Bran is gone, and whoever is on the throne isn't him."

Sansa brushed Jon's hand off her shoulder rather brusquely. "Leave!" she commanded him, her voice dripping cold as water running from icicles. "All of you, leave now! I won't hear any of this."

"Sansa, please listen," Jon pleaded.

Her red hair, braided into an ornate weave, rattled as she once again shook her head. "You don't have anything to say that is worth my while, Jon. I'm not sure who told you these lies but I won't listen to them. You can stay with your men outside the moat tonight, but I want you marching back toward the wall by morning."

She wouldn't listen to Devan. She wouldn't listen to Jon. But there was someone she would listen to. Someone who was no longer of this world.

Sansa would listen to her brother.

Author's Note: So... that didn't go too well. But there may be someone who can make Sansa listen...

And, as always, I apologize for not updating this story more often. I do still intend to finish it, however long it may take. There are just a lot of different strings to tie together and I want to do it properly (as opposed to how a certain couple of showrunners did it).