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theerased · 5 years

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The Ghost in the Haunted Forest

Some magic burns in this world still.

He dreamt an old dream, of three dragons of different colors, a melting throne, and the Silver Queen drowning in blood. In the dream, his sword drinks her soul after a dance of blood and vengeance. The sword smokes and bursts into flames, but the fire is actually the dragon’s breath melting the Iron Throne. He stares down the dragon’s throat as he prepares for the end, but it never comes. Cursed is the kinslayer, condemned to live. His wound throbs and smokes, the skin hot to the touch. “What if one person stood between you and a better world?” she asks through the mouthful of blood. “Sacrifice is never easy, or it is no true sacrifice.”

He felt the wound on his chest, tender after all these years. The fingers of his sword hand flexed into a fist, then loosened. Pulling furs about his shoulders, he stood at the bedside, his dark grey eyes searching the remnants of the fire.

The cabin he’d built with his hands years before, when the spring waned and he’d grown weary of sleeping beneath the cold and open sky. Where this forest had been deadly quiet, life had returned. Once they had called it haunted, but now there were only but a few haunted places left in the world.

The messenger had arrived around noon the day before, hoisting the banner that once belonged to him. He’d not bothered to read the letter until last night, after he’d sent the messenger back on his way south. Aly had stirred in his bed while he parsed the words. He recalled another letter that had beckoned him to come, and he tossed this one into the flames. Dark wings, dark words, his father had always said. Queens were always calling, and though he bore this one love, he did not feel it necessary to pay heed. Again, he touched the tender wound on his chest.

Aly was kissed by fire, just like the queen beckoning him southward, and like another woman from his past. “You know nothing,” she whispered in his memory. A wildling woman who offered to share his bed years before, Aly comforted him through dark moods and melancholy evenings, evenings when he’d try to shut out his ghosts. One had come calling.

He ranged these woods in his youth, spoke his vows at a weirwood in this very forest. When he said the words, his wolf had wandered back from the depths of the forest, a desiccated hand in its teeth. He’d buried that wolf in the shadow of a heart tree a league south. He watched age claim the great beast the way it eventually claimed everything. He once refused a king’s offer because of that wolf, though he later became a king himself. Brother to two kings and a queen. Too many crowns, he thought. Too many thrones.

He used to dream through the ruby eyes of the direwolf nearly every night. Those dreams stopped when age took Ghost from him. Burying the great white wolf was like saying goodbye to a piece of himself, and he’d said goodbye to too many pieces of himself in his time. He’d been condemned to live out his days in the grey waste, and for what? The Old Bear had once asked him to have the courage to live, but on some days that felt like a bitter joke.

Bastard and oathbreaker. Motherless, friendless, and damned, he thought. Condemned to live.

“Only death can pay for life,” he’d heard once, long ago. He couldn’t remember who told him that. Had it been the Red Woman? The Silver Queen? It matters not, he supposed. There was nothing beyond the black veil where they each now dwelt; he’d seen that for himself. The wound throbbed. Their deaths paid for his life, and now he spent that life far from crowns and thrones and kings and queens.

Aly didn’t ask why he stared into the smoldering embers. He didn’t speak much, but he kept her warm and safe. Each night he wrapped his arms about her and fell asleep trembling. She was used to him waking up sweating and shaking, calling out names of companions long gone. His skin was covered in scars—his neck, his face, and a large curved scar over his heart. But he was kinder than the wildling boys she’d known in her youth who would take what they wanted and gentler than the other crows she was unfortunate enough to encounter.

“I shall take no wife; I shall father no sons,” the vows said. He remembered the bright red leaves of the weirwood where he spoke the words. Sam took a wife, Sam fathered sons, but not me, he thought. There was a time when he thought maybe there was a chance, maybe he and his Silver Queen might bear children, but it would never come to pass. She threatened his sisters who would never bend the knee. His role was never to carry the legacy; his was to live and die at his post. The fingers of his sword hand traced the curved scar over his heart.

“Jon,” the letter read in perfect script. He vaguely remembered watching her writing lessons with Septa Mordane, in what felt like another life. “By royal decree, you are hereby pardoned of your crimes. Return to Winterfell and a seat of honor at our table, your family’s table. We have had words with the King in the South, Brandon of House Stark, who concurs with this pardon. However, he informed us that you would not accept it. Our brother knows much, but not all. Prove him wrong, Jon. Prove him wrong.” The letter was signed, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North and Lady of Winterfell.

He wondered at the lord she had wed and the sons she had borne. They had taken her name since she was royalty of a great house; she was the Stark in Winterfell, and that still meant something in the North. Her third son bore his name he knew, the full name he’d wanted his whole life more than anything. Jon Stark must be eleven years old now. But that wasn’t my true name, he thought. I don’t dare speak my true name.

Why must there always be a choice? Why have the gods always sought to test my will in one impossible direction or another? Or maybe just the one god, the one that Melisandre always spoke of, the one who sparked fire into my blood to bring me back from beyond that black veil? The magic burns through my veins still. Only death can pay for life. And what was it for?

“You saved the world,” a voice whispered back from the embers. “Thanks to you, the world did not end in ice or in fire.” Now he was an old man and grey. He was what his father would never be. What his brothers Robb or Rickon would never be. And his other brother was out there creating a better, more loving world. Bran the Broken they called him, but who was truly broken in the end?

“There is no end,” the voice told him.

I sound like Edd, he thought, full of tedious complaints. His eyes stopped searching the ashes and turned back to Aly. She watched him quietly; he had been so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed her waking.

“You been quiet all o’ the day and night. Since that kneeler came from the south yesterday. What was ‘e on about?”

“A letter. From the Queen in Winterfell.”

“What she want? You t’come before her the way y’used to?”

“No,” he replied gruffly. “It’s not important. Nothing could bring me back.”

“Come back t’bed then. Keep your queen warm.”

Aly’s words stung, but he couldn’t turn away from her. “If I look back I am lost,” the voice called to him.

The two had coupled for years upon years, but no fruit bore from the tree. He was the last in a line that stretched back to Old Valyria, not that he thought on it much. When he first ventured north of the Wall with the wildlings, he considered his parents, his true parents, more than ever before. A prince who died at the Ruby Ford, long leagues from the woman he loved, whose name rested on his lips at the end of his life. A wild and willful maid who died in a bed of blood, begging her brother to keep a promise that the boy must live.

“Kill the boy,” Maester Aemon told him once. “And let the man be born.” Now it mattered not. The destiny had been fulfilled, the promise had been kept.

When he swept Aly into his arms, he tucked hair behind her ear and laid a kiss upon her forehead. Her hair smelled like the Silver Queen’s—like roses. “Remember who you are,” that same voice called to him. As he tried to fall asleep, he stared at the sword resting against the wall. The familiar white wolf’s head pommel, with eyes of garnet that glared in the dim light. He recalled a knight called Giantslayer who told him that a man who bears Valyrian steel should use it for more than scratching his arse. Where would that sword go once he was gone?

Before he built this cabin, he wanted to make sure the threat of the Others was truly gone. He and Tormund Giantsbane set out into the real North, past the Fist of the First Men, past the Frostfangs, to the Land of Always Winter. They were well provisioned, and spring seemed to follow them as they crept further north. Eventually life stopped following behind, and there was nothing but rocks and frozen ground. Lights danced in the sky above them, jade and opal and tourmaline and amethyst. There were no structures until they came upon an altar in the shadow of a crystalline mountain. They investigated the surroundings but found no evidence of the white walkers or their corpse children.

That was the last time he felt he truly needed the sword that was given to him by Jeor Mormont, with steel that seemed to flow through the air, that he had once used to cut down adversaries one after another. He remembered the unexpected clang as it once stopped a white walker’s blade, and then sent the Enemy to its final reward.

The sword was another piece of him, maybe another piece that he should bid goodbye.

In the morning, Aly found him packing supplies on his horse.

“Are you going back to Winterfell then?” she asked sadly.

“For a little while.”

“Why? What did the letter say?”

“It said I was pardoned of my crimes in the south. The queen my sister beckoned me to join a high seat at her table, but that’s not why I’m going.”

“Well why are you going then?”

“There’s a boy down there, a son of hers. He has the name I always wanted. I have a gift for him.”

He flexed the fingers of his sword hand before placing it upon the wolf’s head pommel at his hip.

“Come with me, Aly.”

“T’the realm of the kneelers? That’s not the place for me, Jon.”

“It’s not the place for me either, but I would bring you before the godswood in Winterfell, in the sight of gods and men. I would be your husband, if you would have me,” he said, taking her hand in his. “All I ask is all of you, forever.”

A smile crept over Aly’s face. “Done,” she whispered. He swept her into his arms and pressed his lips into hers.

There is some magic that burns in this world still, magic that lives because others have died, magic that allows us to carry on though we may be condemned to live. We make our choices, and we choose to live with them, he thought as the two of them rode together south to the Wall and the lands beyond.

#jon snow #game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #fan fiction #fan fic writing

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cami-chats · 5 years

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Our Family

A GoT canon-divergence that only serves to bring Jon down with Dany (not Dany friendly! She is abusive/manipulative in this!)

Jon felt like he was going to be sick, but Daenerys was smiling at him like there was nothing better in the world. "You're-" he swallowed roughly, his throat dry as a desert "-you're pregnant?"

She nodded, still beaming. If he didn't know what he knew, she would have been adorable like this. She was clearly happy, and like this, when it was just the two of them, she could almost be innocent. Daenerys didn't care that they were related. Her earlier concern at Jon trying to usurp her throne was apparently gone, because there wasn't a trace of mistrust in her expression. She wanted this baby. A baby that would be a Targaryen bastard that would likely turn out mad if the Targaryen history was any proof.

"But... how? I thought you couldn't get pregnant?"

"That's what I had thought too, but clearly I was wrong. I suppose it was rather foolish of me to believe the witch when she said that I couldn't bear children again."

Jon remembered telling her that, and he also remembered the way she had brushed it off. She clearly had no intention of mentioning that particular tidbit right now, though. "You told me you drank moon tea just to be sure."

"You were so worried, but I didn't think it was necessary." She stopped there, not adding that he had been right to worry if she was pregnant now.

He swallowed thickly, wishing he had something to drink.

((The rest under the cut))

She cupped his face with one of her hands and he held himself still to make sure he didn't flinch away. Her hand was warm, and he knew it was only his mind that it was burning his skin, melting the flesh away until not even the bone was recognizable as human. If he wanted to survive any of this, he had to keep his imagination from getting away from him. Drogon was outside, many walls away so for now, Jon was in no threat of dying. "There's so much of my past you don't know," Dany said softly, like she wanted to share it all with him so that he would understand her better. Maybe she did. "But hear me now: our child will be the most powerful ruler the world has ever seen."

Jon's stomach dropped at that wording. Not the Seven Kingdoms, the world. He had to clear his throat before he could get the words out. "The world?"

Her smile widened, and she moved from her seat to sit in Jon's lap. He shifted awkwardly to accommodate her, not moving his arms away when she wound them around herself. "When I was with the Dothraki and pregnant with my son, they proclaimed that he would be the stallion that mounts the world. When he died before seeing the light of day, I thought it was another broken promise, a lie people would whisper in my ear to get what they wanted. When Drogon came into the world, breathing fire, I thought the prophecy was about him. But now, Jon, I can see it. Our son, a union of the Rhoynar and the First Men, he will soar through the skies, bringing justice to everyone."

"That's a lot of pressure to put on a child that hasn't even been born yet."

Her hand dropped from his cheek to curl around the back of his neck. He felt trapped, his breathing getting tighter as he struggled to keep a blank face. "With us raising him, he won't go wrong," she said, as if 'wrong' meant that he wouldn't conquer the entire Known World.

But still, what did she mean by 'us raising him'? She knew Jon was staying in the North, they had agreed on it before riding into Winterfell, side by side. "I thought-" he started automatically, before cutting himself off. If she said 'us', that meant he had no room to protest; she had made the decision, and it was final.

"What were you thinking?" she prompted, and he felt a spark of panic.

He tried to think of an excuse, but it took too long and she repeated the question, this time with a bit of an edge. Daenerys hated being lied to. "I thought we agreed that I would be staying in the North, where I belong," he admitted quietly.

"We did, but that was before we knew I was pregnant. You belong with your family, and your family is with me now."

It didn't feel like it was with her. Family was still Arya and Sansa, and whatever remnants of Bran remained after the Three-Eyed Raven. Home was in Winterfell, or at the very least in the North.

"I love you Jon," she said, leaning in to press light kisses to his lips. "No one can come between us, and no one will ever hurt our family again. I swear it."

Jon pushed back the burgeoning fear. It was far past the time where he could leave without bringing destruction down on his people. "My queen," he said, and he felt her smile against his mouth.

#got #fanfic #jon snow #my writing #abuse #or some form of manipulation at least #daenerys targaryen #au

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geekprincess26 · 6 years

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The Snow: Chapter 13

Summary: Sansa Stark thought she was well rid of Jon Snow. Then an untimely blizzard reunited them. Now Sansa wants out, and Jon just wants to explain.

Previous chapters: beginning here on my blog | here on AO3

Some time later, Jon was jarred upright by a loud thumping noise from the direction of Sansa’s bedroom upstairs. He leaped off his bed and down the hall and took the steps two at a time until he had reached the second floor hallway.

“Sansa!” he called, slapping his fist against her door. “Are you all right?”

Just as he reached for the doorknob, the door itself opened to reveal Sansa, whose eyes and face were nearly as red as her hair. A glow emanating from the floor bathed her legs and feet in a brighter light than that of the afternoon sun streaming through the room’s blinds. Jon glanced quickly behind her to see the lamp that usually adorned the bedside table lying lengthwise on the floor. Its shade had rolled off somewhere beyond his line of sight.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Jon looked back at Sansa, who was twisting her hands together. “I was just stripping the bed so I could wash the sheets, and I knocked it down and kicked the shade off by accident – I don’t think it’s broken, though. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip. Jon shook his head.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Here, I’ll help you with the bed.”

“Oh, no, I can handle it – ” Sansa began. Jon shook his head harder.

“It’ll go faster with two people,” he said. Sansa hesitated for a moment, but stepped aside.

“Sorry,” she murmured again when Jon replaced the lamp on the table. He waved it off curtly as he strode over to the dresser and snatched the lampshade from the wall behind it. Sansa, who had bent down to retrieve it, drew away quickly and returned to the bed. Jon rejoined her once he had fixed the lamp, and they worked together in silence until they yanked too hard on the mattress pad and tumbled simultaneously onto the floor.

“You all – ” Jon’s inquiry was cut off by a giggle from Sansa, and then another. He sat stock still watching her shoulders shake and her eyes crinkle for several moments before he realized his mouth was wide open. He shut it at once and felt himself flush. When he looked back at Sansa, she was on her feet and holding out her hand to him. One corner of his mouth twisted sheepishly, and he took her hand without thinking of it and scrambled to his feet.

“Sorry,” they both said at the same time. Sansa’s lips twitched, and Jon felt half the blood in his body rush to his face. He’d always found it next to impossible to keep from responding when she smiled like that, especially now, after all she’d been through. Not, of course, that he’d helped matters by being an ass to her.

“Look, Sansa – ” Jon’s thumb rubbed across the knuckle of hers before he could stop himself. His flush deepened, and Sansa stared at him, clearly taken aback. At just that moment, however, both of their phones rang. Their hands broke apart at once to reach into their pockets, and they uttered hasty twin “hellos” as Jon straightened up and made for the doorway, leaving Sansa in the privacy of her room.

“Jon Snow?” inquired the crisp female voice at the other end of Jon’s call. That raised both of his eyebrows. Nobody but his friends, family members, and a few trusted publicity handlers had that number, and none of them ever used his full name.

“Who’s asking, please?” He hated to sound rude, but withholding his proper name from a caller he didn’t know had become a necessary habit after two of his prior phone numbers had leaked somehow. The tabloid reporters had had a field day spamming his phones.

“My name is Alys Karstark,” answered the woman. She hadn’t missed a beat. “I’m calling on behalf of Sansa Stark, who gave me this number. I apologize if I have the wrong one.”

“Oh, no.” Jon’s hand stopped halfway down its trajectory through his curls. “No, this is Jon Snow. Thanks for calling.”

“Yes. Is this a convenient time to talk?”

Jon strode into the room across the hallway from Sansa’s and shut the door. “Yes, it is.”

Five minutes later, they had arranged for Jon to deliver the remnants of Gram’s vase to Alys’s studio in Leeds for her inspection. Jon headed back across the hall after he hung up, but Sansa’s room was empty of both her and the sheets. Jon padded downstairs to find her setting the dial on the washing machine.

“Really – well, thanks,” he said, cutting himself off before he could remonstrate her yet again for cleaning another part of his apartment. Seeing that he would not, Sansa nodded.

“That was the car shop that called, by the way,” she informed him. “They’ll be done with the car about 4:00 this afternoon.”

Jon returned her nod. “Good,” he replied. “I’ll drive you.”

Sansa opened her mouth, no doubt to protest once again that she could take a cab, but she closed it without saying a word. Neither of them spoke for several moments. Then Sansa’s hands began twisting around each other. Jon scratched his head.

“Oh – that was Alys Karstark on my line,” he said. Thank God he’d remembered something that would end that silence. “She agreed to look at my gram’s vase.” Another pause, not quite as long, ensued. Jon raked his hand through his curls again.

“I appreciate you giving her my name,” he said finally. “Thanks for doing that.”

A wan smile flickered across Sansa’s face. “It was the least I could do,” she replied. “I’m only glad I met her before. She’s supposed to be the best. I’m sure – I hope she’ll be able to do something lovely with it.”

Jon nodded. He had his doubts about even Alys Karstark’s ability to repair Gram’s shattered vase, but voicing them would do no good for either Sansa or himself. Saying anything more about her at the moment would do no good – or Jeyne Poole, or anybody else that would get either of them upset again, especially not now, so close to when Sansa had to leave. He stole a glance at the clock on the shelf above the dryer. She had only a few hours left, which was far too much time for her to spend in any more pain than she’d already gone through. It was too much time that could be stuffed with awkward silences and arguing and feet in their mouths and longing for numbness. But it was still far too little time to spend with Sansa.

His stomach rumbled, snapping him out of his reverie. Not five seconds later, Sansa’s stomach echoed it. Both of them snorted, Sansa much more gracefully, and Jon gestured to the kitchen.

“Muffin?” he asked, and off they went.

As it turned out, Sansa wanted more than just one muffin, and so did Jon. Over the next hour and a half, they devoured more than half the pan’s worth while completing the Yorkshire Post’s crossword puzzle. They alternated between silent and spoken guesses, but as they got toward the end of the puzzle, Sansa was doing more of hers volubly, as had always been her wont during their marriage. By the time Jon returned from the laundry room just in time to grin at a new text message from Sam, Jon saw the ghost on her face of the bemused smile she’d sported so many times before, when he and Sam had made some breakthrough on one of their sound projects or he’d beaten his own high score at Tetris.

“Hmmm?” She raised her eyebrows, then flushed when Jon looked up from his phone. “I mean – if it’s not prying.”

Jon shook his head and gestured to the phone.

“Just Sam,” he said, “wanting to play Scrabble. Gilly’s out with a friend, and Sammy’s at nursery school.”

“Oh, he’s coming here?” Sansa’s smile broadened. “That’s good; you haven’t seen him in a while, right?”

Jon shook his head. “No, the online version,” he said, and began to tap a reply to Sam. “I’m telling him some other time.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed. “Why?” she asked. “Don’t put him off on my account. You two used to go at your old board set at all hours. You should have some fun with him.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at her. “The way I remember it,” he replied, “you did join us. And usually beat us.” He tilted his head. “You know, you could play together with us if you wanted to. Or just help me beat Sam. He’s a sight better at this than I am.”

The corners of Sansa’s lips turned up, if only a little. “Perhaps,” she said. “After all, I’ve still got your laptop in my room.”

Jon spent the next hour and a half at the kitchen table, alternately replying to e-mails, reviewing a computer program he and Sam had written for one of Jon’s sound machines, and getting beaten silly at Scrabble by both Sam and Sansa, the latter of whom had curled up on the living room couch with his spare laptop after vacuuming out the room she had used. Jon’s phone rang in the middle of the second round. He frowned and picked up when he saw that it was Leigh Harris.

“Jon.” Leigh’s tone was apologetic. “Sorry to have to let you know, but you’ve got photographic company again outside the gates.”

Jon swore silently. “How many this time?” he asked. He’d occasionally gotten a few paparazzi camped outside the boundaries of the gated community, but Leigh sounded almost ruffled, which probably meant there were more of them than usual. Apparently the snow had settled enough for them to slither out of their holes again.

“I’d say a couple of dozen at least,” Leigh replied. “The guards are on shift, but if you’re going out – ”

Jon sighed and rattled off a few more internal curses. “I’ll take care of it, Leigh,” he said. “I appreciate your letting me know.”

“Sure thing,” replied Leigh. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Right,” said Jon. “Talk to you later, Leigh.”

His finger stabbed the disconnect button so hard he felt a jolt to the pad of his thumb. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Then he swore again, this time aloud.

Sansa. She needed to get her car and go back to Leeds. Of all the bloody days, he thought, and shoved both hands through his hair. Bloody hell.

He picked his phone back up and dialed Tormund Giantsbane’s number. He had first hired the burly, bearded redhead to serve as his driver and bodyguard just after he and Sansa had split up and his friends had insisted it was high time he had both. Jon, who despised most of the trappings of celebrity, had always been reluctant to hire long-term assistants of any type, but his dislike for the paparazzi had outweighed his resistance. And a good thing too: Tormund had given Jon not only first-rate security, but also pizza, a listening ear, and an occasional unfiltered verbal kick when he deemed that a particularly deep period of what he called Jon’s “whining brooder” had gone on long enough, and the two had become fast friends. As Jon could have predicted, Tormund answered his phone on the first ring.

“Going adventuring in the snow, Snow?” he asked, guffawing. Jon rolled his eyes.

“Glad you survived, too, Tormund,” he replied. “Look, if it was me I wouldn’t bother you, but Leigh says I’ve got a couple dozen paps outside the gates, and S – I have a friend here who needs to get back home out of town as soon as her car’s fixed, which could be any minute.”

Tormund grunted. “She someone they’ll recognize?”

Jon ran another hand through his curls. “Yeah,” he answered. “She didn’t come with her security, though. They’re back home. Where she lives.” Not that Sansa had ever mentioned personal security guards, but she had less of an aversion than Jon to working with assistants, so he assumed she’d have guards. He didn’t want to think about the idea of her not having any.

“Snow? You there?”

Jon cleared his throat. “Yeah, Tormund. Look, if you’re in the middle of something, take your – ”

“Time,” the other man finished. “You’re just lucky I’m not in the middle of Hawaii, Snow.”

Jon snorted. Tormund hated any temperature warm enough to make him take off his leather jacket. “Nice try.”

Tormund chortled. “Figured I’d give it a shot. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Thanks, Tormund.” Jon let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Don’t kill yourself speeding here.”

“I will, Snow,” replied Tormund and hung up.

“Jon?”

The sound of Sansa’s voice just behind him made Jon whirl around so quickly that he bashed his elbow against the table. He winced as the force of the blow jolted up his funny bone.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry!” Sansa clapped one hand over her mouth and brushed the other against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jon! Are you OK?”

Jon rubbed his elbow and nodded. “Yeah,” he eventually ground out. “Just hit the funny bone is all.”

“Do you want some ice?” Sansa asked, and Jon shook his head out of habit before realizing that ice would probably help matters quite a bit.

“I’ll get it,” he said, making to rise, but Sansa’s hand stiffened against his shoulder before he could get up.

“No, I’ve got it,” she said, and within thirty seconds she had retrieved an ice pack from the freezer and offered it to him. It occurred belatedly to Jon that she had probably learned the location of every ice pack he owned when she’d been nursing him through his fever.

“Thanks,” he murmured. Sansa only shook her head.

“I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that,” she said. “I just – I heard you on the phone, and I wanted to say I can get a cab to pick me up again. You don’t have to let them see you or bother your security. If I can manage to dodge them just far enough out of the gate to get picked up – ”

Jon swung both legs off his chair. “Oh, the hell no you won’t,” he snapped. Sansa’s eyebrows rose at his sudden vehemence, but she did not flinch as Jon straightened to his full height.

“I’m not taking bloody chances with you like that, Sansa,” he growled, willing his voice to lower. “Besides, I don’t trust some random cab driver who might care more about getting on the cover of some tabloid himself than do his bloody job. And Tormund’s got experience driving around people like that. He’s a sight better than any cab driver you can think of, and I trust him with my life.” He paused, half expecting Sansa to continue protesting, but she only gave him a resigned sigh. Jon nodded.

“So we’ll get you back to Leeds,” he began, and – ”

That earned him two sharply raised eyebrows. “I’m not asking you or your driver to take me back to Leeds, Jon,” Sansa replied. “He’s doing enough by taking me to the shop. I’ll be fine to drive home.”

Jon shook his head emphatically. “Not with dozens of paps following you,” he returned, “like some Princess Di thing – ”

Sansa snorted. “I’m hardly the target Princess Di was,” she said, “and I’m not exactly drunk. I’ll be fine, Jon.”

“The hell if I’ll risk that,” Jon snapped. “I’m not about to take a chance anything might happen to you. Yesterday was more than bloody close enough.”

Sansa huffed. “I know that,” she replied. She sounded as though she had had to say it five times already. “And I get that I got careless, and I’m sorry, but at this point we’re in broad daylight – ” she pushed at the index finger of her left hand with its twin on her right – “and I’m not sleepy – ” she pushed her middle finger back against the first one – “and again, I’m hardly important enough for them to follow all the way out of York.” She ticked her ring finger off to match the others. “And if they get a couple pictures of me, they get them. It’s hardly the first time.”

She looked so resigned. Jon sighed and shoved a hand halfway through his hair so that the heel of it was resting on his forehead.

“Look,” he said, his voice gentling, “I get yesterday was an accident. It wasn’t your fault you fell asleep. But if anything went wrong today – ” He shook his head, trying to will away the image of Sansa’s crumpled car, this time with her in it. “I’m not risking that. Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear, but I’m making sure you get home in one piece.”

Sansa sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, Jon – ”

She was interrupted by the ring of her phone. Jon turned and padded into the living room to give her privacy. She followed not long after.

“That was the car shop,” she said. “My car’s ready for me to pick up.”

Jon nodded. “Good,” he said, although he felt anything but. “Tormund should be here any minute, and – ”

Sansa opened her mouth again, presumably to protest, but Jon’s phone buzzed. One glance at the screen told him Tormund had just been let through the front gate of the apartment community, which was now swarming with at least three dozen paparazzi, according to the red-bearded giant. Jon swore under his breath.

“Speak of the devil,” he said, and strode off to the front door. He opened it to find a grinning Tormund on the other side.

“Good God, you look awful, Snow,” said Tormund after letting Jon out of another of the bone-crunching embraces he was so fond of inflicting on the shorter man. “Maybe you should accompany her out of town, eh? How about Hawaii?”

Jon rolled his eyes. His mouth opened to reply, but shut when he saw Tormund’s eyes glance between him and widen like saucers. Sure enough, when he turned around, they were both facing Sansa. There was no way Tormund wouldn’t recognize her. Jon grimaced. There was also probably no way Tormund wouldn’t dislike her, although he was more than professional enough to protect Sansa in whatever way Jon asked.

Still, Jon grimaced again before turning to Sansa. “Sansa, this is Tormund Giantsbane,” he said. “He handles security for me. Tormund, this is – ” He stopped his tongue just in time. The words my wife had almost rolled off of it. Jon flushed. The last time he had introduced Sansa to anyone, she had indeed been his wife. That had still been over three years ago, however.

“Sansa Stark,” Jon finished. Tormund’s eyebrows had almost reached his hairline, but Sansa had the good grace to offer him her hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Giantsbane,” she said. Tormund only waited a moment before he returned the gesture.

“Pleasure,” he replied. He dropped her hand and turned to look severely at Jon, who narrowed his eyes and shook his head. If Tormund wanted to let him have it over Sansa’s visit, he could bloody well wait until after she’d gotten home safely.

“Anyway,” he said, “Sansa’s car’s ready to be picked up at the shop.” He tilted his head toward the front door. “You said about three dozen paps?”

Tormund suddenly all business, cleared his throat and nodded. “Aye,” he replied. “You thinking mine or the Escalade?”

Jon, who had already decided that his larger SUV would be safer for Sansa than would Tormund’s smaller Range Rover, nodded. “Escalade,” he answered at once.

Tormund returned his nod. “Right, then,” he said, and turned to acknowledge Sansa again. “Let me know when you kids are ready.”

“I’m ready,” Sansa replied, then turned to Jon. “Except for your laptop; I’ll grab it from the room. Do you want it in yours?”

Jon shook his head. “Just leave it in the living room,” he replied. “I’ll deal with it.”

Sansa nodded and made a beeline out of the hallway. Jon turned to the closet to grab his coat. Tormund cleared his throat.

“Not now, Tormund,” Jon growled. “And it’s not what it looks like.”

Tormund merely grunted. Jon glared at him.

“She was in a car accident when it snowed last week,” Jon continued. “She saved a bunch of people’s lives. Least I could do was have her here.”

Tormund raised an eyebrow. “A week, huh? I suppose I should be impressed you two didn’t kill each other.”

Jon shook his head. “No,” he answered. “We wouldn’t – ” He sighed. Neither Tormund nor anybody else needed to hear all the bloody details.

“We can behave like civilized people,” he said shortly, seeing the other man��s eyebrow rise even further. “And she’s – she understands more of what happened now. We both do.”

Tormund’s eyebrows relaxed after a moment. When he realized Jon would say no more, he nodded. He opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted when Sansa strode back into the hallway.

“The laptop’s on the coffee table,” she told Jon. “And I stacked the dishes in the kitchen; I really could wash them before I leave.”

Jon shook his head. “I’ll take care of them,” he replied. “Besides, Dale bloody Earnhardt over hear can’t wait to get his hands on my car.”

Sansa graced Tormund with a wan smile. “Thank you, Mr. Giantsbane,” she said. “I really appreciate your taking the time to do this.”

Tormund shook his head. “I do what I’m told by Pretty Boy here, Ms. Stark,” he replied gruffly. Jon rolled his eyes, but Sansa chuckled.

“Just ‘Sansa’ is fine, Mr. Giantsbane,” she said. Tormund gave her a brief nod and turned to Jon.

“All right, Snow,” he said. “Let’s put that pretty toy of yours to work.”

Five minutes later, Jon and Sansa had settled into the back seats of Jon’s sleek black Escalade, with a grinning Tormund up front revving the engine. He backed slowly out of the carport and turned up the winding main drive out of the community. When they took the steep turn near the end of it, Jon saw that Tormund had told the truth. If anything, even more paps had huddled next to the fence after the bodyguard’s arrival.

“Bloody hell,” Jon muttered as his friend slowed to a stop to allow the complex’s security guards to open the gate. That was when the lens flashes began peppering the crowd around it. Jon winced, ducked his head down, and threw an arm in front of his eyes. His glance darted to the right, where he saw Sansa doing the same.

God, he’d forgotten how much he hated paps. And how many beers he owed Tormund. Jon owned five cars and considered himself a pretty daft hand at driving each one of them, but Tormund had a knack for maneuvering in tight corners that Jon could not hope to match.

The Escalade began crawling again, and Jon darted a glance out the window, where he found himself facing a camera not two feet from the vehicle. Its lens flashed full in front of his face. He swore again. Once his eyes had recovered a bit, he looked over at Sansa. She was still leaning forward covering her face with one arm. The other was braced against her knees, allowing her to hold her back remarkably straight. Jon felt a stab of reminiscent pride. They’d been accosted countless times by paparazzi over the course of their relationship – well, both of their relationships, counting the time they’d spent together as teenagers – and Sansa had always said she’d be damned if she’d let the paps make her slouch or slump, as if living, breathing, or walking the face of the earth at his side were anything to be ashamed of.

“Hang on.” Tormund’s rumbling voice yanked Jon back to the present. “Might be a bit touchy here.”

Jon instinctively reached for the support handle just above the door at his side. Next to him, Sansa reached over to check her seatbelt.

That was when the vehicle lurched to a sudden stop. Jon’s seatbelt stopped his forward trajectory, but Sansa’s had apparently not fastened correctly, because she tumbled out of her seat and onto the floor, crashing against the front passenger seat in the process. She cried out just as a whoop sounded from just outside her window. Another camera flash went off from somewhere above Jon’s head. As he frantically pulled his seatbelt loose, he caught the grinning face of the camera’s owner. The dick had clearly just gotten a shot of Sansa sprawled out on the Escalade’s floor. Jon wanted nothing more than to throw open the door, knock the asshole out cold, and pitch his camera off into the nearest snowdrift. Instead, he swore loudly, hurtled forward onto the floor, and grabbed Sansa off of it.

“Sansa!” he shouted. She winced and grabbed her left elbow. “Sansa, are you OK?”

She merely blinked at him. Jon’s eyes widened as quickly as his heart was racing. He released her left shoulder and reached up to cup the side of her head.

“Sansa, can you hear – ” he began, but was cut off by Tormund’s shouted warning. The Escalade shot forward like a bat out of hell. Jon curled his arms around Sansa as he lurched backward against the passenger seat. He braced his feet on the floor to keep them as steady as possible, cupping the back of her head protectively as he did so.

“Sorry ‘bout that!” hollered Tormund from the front seat. The Escalade slowed, and the engine quieted to a steady hum. “You two OK?”

“Fine,” Sansa gasped, lifting her head off of Jon’s shoulder. Her body was quivering – or maybe, he realized, he was just feeling himself quivering. He guessed it was both.

“Good,” he said over his shoulder. Tormund, eyes still trained on the road, gave them a thumbs-up. Jon turned back to Sansa. His other hand slipped upward to hold the other side of her head.

“You sure you’re OK?” he asked, and stroked a stray strand of red hair behind Sansa’s ear. She nodded. Jon looked down at her elbow, which she was still cradling.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked.

Sansa grimaced. “I banged it against the seat when I rolled out of mine,” she replied. “My fault – I should have checked the stupid seatbelt before we reached the gate.”

Jon shook his head at once. “It was the fucking paps’ fault you fell,” he growled. “Especially that fucker at your window.” He clenched his jaw to keep from yelling about what he wanted to do to the wanker. Sansa did not need that.

It still didn’t stop him from wanting to march all the way back home and knocking the guy’s lights out.

“It’s probably just a bruise,” said Sansa. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Jon searched her face for any sign that she was battling pain that could only come from a more serious injury. He could find none, but then it had been so long since the time he’d awakened to that face and those wide blue eyes every day.

“Do you want to go to a doctor first,” he asked, “before the car shop? Just in case something’s broken?”

Sansa shook her head. “No,” she said. Jon must have looked as unconvinced as he felt, because she hastened to add, “Remember when broke my ankle when we were doing reshoots for Swords and Stones?”

Jon nodded. While filming one of her final retakes for the first miniseries they’d done together, back before they had begun dating, Sansa had hit a bad pothole while running across the rugged Scottish terrain and twisted her ankle. The director had insisted she go to the nearest hospital, where X-rays had confirmed she’d broken it. That had been the first time Jon had gotten her flowers. He’d meant them purely as a gesture of encouragement, but she’d blushed all the same.

“Well, this isn’t anything like that,” Sansa finished. Jon stared at her for a few more moments before he finally nodded.

“All right,” he said. “But you didn’t hurt anything else?”

Sansa shook her head. “No,” she said. She narrowed her eyes in concern. “What about you?”

“No, I’m all right,” Jon replied at once, shaking his own head. Sansa nodded but said nothing. Jon wanted to hold her as tightly as he could without bothering her elbow and tell Tormund to drive them all straight to Leeds. God knew how many paps they’d find at the car shop.

But he could not do that without upsetting Sansa further, and he could not find anything to say. Instead, he cleared his throat and offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. One corner of Sansa’s mouth twitched, but she said nothing. Jon felt his cheeks begin to redden and glanced back down at her elbow.

“Well, I don’t want you to have to drive all that way yourself if it makes your elbow feel worse,” he finally said. “I’ll drive you home, and Tormund can follow us to take me back here. Unless you’d rather ride with him.” Please don’t say you want him to drive you.

Sansa sighed. Jon expected her to protest the idea. Instead, she asked, “You don’t need to be anywhere?”

“No.” Jon shook his head at once. Sansa nodded slowly.

“All right,” she said, her voice quiet. She bit her lip with a little more force than usual, which meant she was in a good deal of pain. Jon felt a twinge shoot through his chest.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered. “I forgot – Tormund!” He turned to look at his friend. “Is there a water bottle up there? And some Tylenol? Maybe in the glove compartment?”

“Hang on,” said Tormund, reaching for the glove compartment. A white bottle clattered out, and the bodyguard reached out just in time to seize it and pitch it in Jon’s direction. As Jon reached to catch it, his eye caught the water bottle, which was sitting on top of the compartment between the two front seats. He leaned over, grabbed it, and offered it to Sansa, who rewarded him with a wan smile.

“Thanks,” she said. Jon popped the lid of the Tylenol bottle and held it over her hand.

“Two or three?” he asked.

“Three, please,” she said, and Jon complied at once. Sansa gulped the pills down with a mouthful of water and sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Jon murmured, but Sansa shook her head.

“Not your fault,” she replied. “For all I know, somebody might have recognized me at the diner or the car shop the other night and figured out where I was staying from there.”

She pushed in vain at the same strand of hair Jon had handled before, which had slipped out of place again. Before she could try again, Jon had reached out and gently tucked it back where it belonged. Sansa’s eyes widened, but before she could say anything, the Escalade ground to a halt and shut off.

“We’re here, kids,” boomed Tormund. It was only then that Jon realized he had been holding onto Sansa the entire time. He released her at once.

“Anyone follow us, Tormund?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“Not for now,” his friend informed him. Jon opened the door and helped Sansa out of the vehicle.

“Thanks,” she murmured, and strode toward the door of the shop. Jon darted over and opened it for her before she reached it. Sansa’s lips twitched again.

“Thanks,” she repeated. Jon walked back over to the Escalade, where Tormund was standing.

“You good to follow us back to Leeds?” he asked. Tormund merely raised an eyebrow.

“Long as I get to drive your pretty car,” he said. He glanced at the door of the car shop and opened his mouth, but shut it again. Jon, who did not want to give him another chance to open it, headed indoors.

It look less than ten minutes for Sansa to pay her bill and retrieve her car keys, which she handed to Jon without much hesitation. Fortunately, they exited the shop with nary a photographer in sight.

“You know,” Sansa said when they reached Jon’s Escalade, “you don’t have to take me all the way to Leeds.” Jon immediately opened his mouth to protest, but she beat him to it.

“I should have thought of it before,” she said, shaking her head, “but I forgot – anyway, on the chance we pick up any paps on the way, I’d rather we meet with Brienne before we hit Leeds. My security guard,” she added, seeing the questions on Jon’s and Tormund’s faces. “The fewer that know where I live, the better.”

Jon could not argue with that, although his chest tightened a bit at the thought of not seeing Sansa safely to her own door. But the longer they sat out in the open and talked, the greater the chance they’d be seen, and Sansa definitely did not need that, even if her pain was not etched into her face as it had been right when she’d injured her elbow.

“All right,” he said. “Where would you like to go?”

A few minutes and a quick phone call from Sansa to her security guard later, she and Jon were ensconced in the front seat of Sansa’s car. Tormund and the Escalade followed them as Jon pulled out onto the street.

Sansa did not speak during the ride to the restaurant where she’d arranged to meet with her security guard. Nor did Jon, whose tight grip on the steering wheel matched the tightness of his focus on the road ahead of him. Occasionally, he glanced into his rearview mirror to see Tormund frowning at him. No doubt the other man was getting impatient at Jon’s refusal to budge over the speed limit, but Jon would be damned if he got them pulled over, or, worse yet, into an accident. His friend could rib him all he wanted and drive back to York like a bat out of hell for all Jon cared, as long as Sansa got to Brienne safely.

Eventually, his GPS chirped at him at the exact same moment Sansa’s soft voice instructed him to move a lane over on the highway. She smiled at the unintended coordination. Jon glanced at her long enough to see the lack of pain in it, and silently thanked God for whoever had invented Tylenol.

Sansa and the GPS both gave excellent directions, and within a few minutes Jon had pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot and parked two spaces over from a shiny black Lexus. As he did, the driver’s side door opened, and a tall woman in a neat pantsuit and short blonde hair stepped out.

“That her?” Jon asked, and Sansa nodded. Only then did Jon unlock the doors. Not that it was anywhere near likely that some pap or other impostor had stolen the vehicle belonging to Sansa’s security guard, but Jon would not take any remote chance he didn’t have to. He allowed himself a derisive laugh when Sansa’s back was turned. How pathetic was it that an actor had to tell himself he’d been watching too much television lately?

“Jon,” Sansa said, turning back in his direction, “this is Brienne Tarth. Brienne, this is – Jon Snow.”

She hesitated just as he had done when introducing her to Tormund. Jon grimaced internally. No doubt Brienne was far less disposed to like him than Tormund had been to like Sansa.

His chest muscles tightened again and even more painfully. Over the past week, he’d gotten used to everyone around him believing that he’d never been unfaithful to Sansa, even if “everyone” only meant Sansa herself. That, however, did not keep him from reaching out to shake Brienne Tarth’s hand.

“Good to meet you,” he said politely. The woman gave him a thin smile and nodded.

“Likewise, Mr. Snow,” she said. Her voice was clipped, professional, and every bit as tight as her grip. Ouch.

Luckily, they were interrupted by the sound of someone’s throat being cleared very loudly. Jon turned to see Tormund standing at his side, appraising the woman as intently as he did any stranger who approached Jon. The woman returned his gaze with an icy one of her own. Jon was only too glad to release her hand.

“Ms. Tarth, this is Tormund Giantsbane, my security,” he said. “Tormund, this is Brienne Tarth, Sansa’s security.”

In the time it took him to make the introduction, Tormund’s gaze had softened from appraisal to something like admiration. Jon, who had seen perhaps two people earn that kind of approval from his guard over the course of their three-year friendship, could only stare. His jaw nearly dropped when he saw Tormund raise an eyebrow and give Sansa’s guard a slow grin.

“Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Tarth,” he said. His smile only widened when Brienne Tarth’s eyes narrowed at him.

“The same, Mr. Giantsbane,” she replied. If her grip surprised Tormund, he did not show it.

“Call me Tormund, Ms. Tarth,” he said, and winked. Brienne Tarth’s expression did not change. After a moment she dropped his hand and turned to Sansa.

“Dacey will be right out,” she said, and Sansa nodded. “She’ll take your car, if you don’t mind.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, go ahead,” she replied. As if on cue, a young woman as short and brunette as Brienne Tarth was tall and blond approached them. Sansa introduced her as Dacey Mormont, another of her security team.

“No relation to Lyanna,” she added, seeing the question on Jon’s face.

Brienne Tarth turned her back on Tormund, who had clearly been about to say something, and turned to speak to Dacey. Sansa was smirking at him when Jon turned back to her.

“I think your security has taken a liking to mine,” she said. Jon rolled his eyes.

“I apologize for him,” he said, “to both of you. I’d trust him with my life, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t act like a cocky arse.” He nodded toward Tormund, whose shoulders had deflated just the slightest bit.

Sansa shook her head. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Brienne’s dealt with worse than that. If she really wanted to let him have it, she’d find a way.”

Jon’s lips twisted despite themselves. He had no doubt that Brienne Tarth could find a way to let anyone have it if she deemed it necessary.

A gust of wind whipped through the gap between the vehicles. Sansa shuddered, and Jon reached over to steady her. Her eyes softened and then widened. She looked like she might say something. She looked like she might throw her arms around him. She looked nervous and hesitant and angelic. Jon could not tear his eyes away from her, even when he heard Brienne Tarth and Dacey Mormont approaching them.

“Please let me know when you get home,” he murmured, and after a long moment Sansa nodded, her eyes still boring into his.

“You too,” she whispered back. The knot in Jon’s chest returned with a vengeance. He could not have said anything, even if he had known what to say. Instead he released her shoulders and moved his hands to cup the sides of her face. His thumbs rubbed her temples as he leaned in to press his lips to her forehead. The warm scent of cinnamon and jasmine and Sansa overwhelmed him, and for several heady moments he felt nothing but her the heat of her body and the smoothness of her forehead and the softness of her hair, and he heard nothing but the dancing rhythm of her breath.

When he drew back, Sansa had closed her eyes. He doubted his ability to let go of her if she opened them, so he turned, thanked both of her guards, and stalked off to the Escalade.

“Don’t bloody start, Tormund,” he growled when the other man entered the vehicle grinning like a Cheshire cat. Tormund raised both hands in mock surrender, but he kept that stupid smile pasted to his face the entire way back to York.

It was not until they were almost there that Jon realized he had never bid Sansa goodbye.

#jon x sansa #jonsa fanfiction #jonxsansaff #jonsansaff #multi-chapter fics #my writing #angst #drama #hurt/comfort #modern au #tw: divorce #fic: the snow

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wokethesleepers · 7 years

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roll of dices | jon&daenerys

It would certainly not be a misassumption to consider the night he’d just left behind as one of the most tumultuous of his life. Not for all the wrong reasons, like all the other nights which had been filled with blood, and fire, and war, and destruction, and sorrows. If he hadn’t been certain of it before, Jon had cemented one particular piece of knowledge: he and Daenerys must have definitely been brought together, crafted specifically for each other. A destructive void that had inhabited him his whole life had been filled and he did not want to see it drained again. When he left her chambers, it turned out to be a trying task both physically and mentally. His muscles were numb and he was in desperate need of a bath to cleanse away the remnants of what had easily been the most passionate and sinful night of his life. She needed it even more, he reckoned. Of course, there was also a part of him that did not wish to walk away from that bed and the comfort of her arms, but he strangely found himself at peace with the idea rather quickly. He was even ready to face the demands of this new day, knowing that he would not have to sit through hours of denying and pushing down his thoughts and feelings, as it had been the case at Castle Black. And for all is worth, they had worked each other out so intensely that night that he was genuinely doubtful his swirls of desire would be stirred again anytime soon. The bath that had been drawn after his return to his own untouched chamber helped greatly in soothing his muscles, but it also delivered pleasantly relaxing steams to his eyelids, which felt heavy and lazy. Not much sleeping had been done the past couple of nights, after all. But he pushed through, as always. He was no stranger to battling the weight of the calls of slumber. He got dressed up quickly, donning the same Stark armor but losing the breastplate this time around. He didn’t exactly bother too much with the appearance of his hair as he rolled a fistful of curls at the back of his head. It didn’t matter; no one would judge a man too harshly for his hairdo, after all. Not even a king.

After a particularly uneventful breakfast with his peers, Jon found his way to the room containing the Painted Table, marking the first time he stepped through its threshold as the King in the North, a piece on the board rather than the wide-eyed, curiosity-filled guest that had been innocently touring the castle. Naturally, the first one to notice was Daenerys and he almost hated himself for the way his heart skipped a beat at her sight. It always would from then on, he realized. Not only because she looked as beautiful as she was supposed to, but because her posture, her elegance, her seating at the end of this imposing table – they all served as reminders that she was, indeed, a queen. She had definitely been born for it, Jon thought. Not because she bore the name and blood of the Mad King, but simply because it was easy to see the royal airs webbed through her very being.

“At last, we are all here,” said Tyrion and only then did Jon realize the dwarf had been in there as well. And he wasn’t alone. Varys, and Missandei, and Grey Worm, and a Dornishman with a familiar face were all there as well. After a minor effort, Jon remembered having encountered him at the feast. He was an Yronwood, his name Cletus if he hadn’t been mistaken, a close friend of Quentyn Martell’s. He likely served as a delegate for Dorne’s interests in this ordeal, which Jon wasn’t particularly aware of as of yet. Davos, Sam, Melisandre, and Tormund had joined him in the chamber as well, even if the latter two were mostly present out of politeness. The Red Priestess had no desire of strategizing and southern military strategies were often lost on Tormund. But he wanted to learn at the very least.

“You seem eager,” remarked Jon, deciding to remain on his feet while the rest of his companions occupied their seats. “Or impatient.”

“Or both,” concluded Tyrion. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together. “Now. We have important matters to discuss. Let us go through a quick analysis of the current state of the realm.” He waddled over toward the southernmost extremity of the map carved into the table. “Dorne,” he chimed, tapping a hand over Sunspear, moving to grab a small statuette of a stabbed sun. “Prince Doran is currently happily overseeing it. Fortunately for us, we have them on our side. Unfortunately for us, they have only lent us their land army, hence Ser Cletus’ presence amongst us.”

“Unfortunately?” mused Cletus Yronwood, amusement in his quirked brow. “All allies are fortune in this time of need, my Lord Hand.”

“That is very true,” retorted Tyrion, though he didn’t seem too convinced. He set the sun piece in the middle of Dorne and then started to move away with a sigh. “But even more unfortunately, things start to crumble from here onward.” He was by the western side of the map now, picking up the statuettes of a rose and a lion. “The Crown is currently thriving thanks to the union between Margaery and Tommen. Whenever Lord Mace decides to grace Highgarden with his presence, he is the overlord of the Reach, as well as the Warden of the South. Otherwise, it’s his eldest son, Willas. Regardless,” he set the rose by Highgarden, “the Reach is in Tyrell hands and it has plenty of resources, food and armies alike.” He then stepped closer to the north, fiddling with the lion. “Cersei has assumed the position of Lady of Casterly Rock.”

“Another one of Lord Varys’ discoveries?” questioned Davos.

Tyrion’s eyes rose with a sigh.

“Not quite,” he mumbled. “This is simply something very much in Cersei’s character. Alas, she is too busy serving as Tommen’s regent. What Lord Varys did manage to find out, however, is that she and uncle Kevan seemed to have had a fallout given how she has named Damion Lannister as her castellan.” He set the lion piece on Casterly Rock. “Harys Swyft is the current Hand of the King, though I can assure you it is not for his skills. Cersei must have seen great manipulation opportunities in this fool.” His arms opened in a shrug. “Needless to say, no one on this side of the map is our ally. He then rushed around the table and circled around to the eastern side of the table, scooping in his hand some pieces that Jon did not get to see, though he could guess. “Things get complicated here,” Tyrion breathed out, stopping by the Stormlands. “It appears that Storm’s End is currently overseen by Eldon Estermont in the name of the Crown. Not all that surprising. He was cowering at Joffrey’s feet last I have seen him.” Tyrion’s eyes then scanned Jon and Davos. “We know Stannis is dead, but what of Selyse and Shireen?” A pertinent question, Jon realized.

“Sheltered at Haystack Hall,” Davos replied curtly.

“With House Errol? How do you know this?”

“As if I would not check on the little princess. The moment I could get my hands on a raven, I sent one to the Shadow Tower to question their whereabouts. This was their response.”

“Have you tried writing to Lady Errol?” questioned Varys. Davos shook his head, about to speak, but Varys cut him off, “A wise choice. We still do not know of their intentions. Perhaps they’re held as hostages.”

“Or perhaps they are protected by those that do not approve of the current regime. Regardless,” Tyrion set a statuette of a turtle by Storm’s End, “Lord Estermont is not our friend either.”

“And the new Warden of the East,” added Varys. All eyes, puzzled, turned on him.

“Are you telling me Cersei did not trust Littlefinger with this task anymore? I am appalled,” muttered Tyrion, slipping past the Crownlands and waving a falcon statuette above the Vale.

“When has Petyr Baelish ever been a warden?” asked Davos.

“Officially?” Tyrion scoffed. “Never. But the true Lord of the Eyrie, Robert Arryn, the poor boy, is nothing but a sickly pawn.” Another statuette took its place by the rightful location. “No allies in here either.”

“Of course not,” commented Varys. “Lord Baelish is nothing but truthful and loyal to his king.” He and Tyrion exchanged a set of playful glances full of subtext.

“Of course not,” confirmed Tyrion, walking past Jon as he ventured back to the west, further north than before. “Euron Greyjoy is dead,” he said, flatly. “Victarion Greyjoy is dead. Their nephew’s and niece’s whereabouts are shrouded in mystery.” Jon felt his stomach twist, but he brushed it off. “What is certain, there is a certain Erik Ironmaker currently serving as Pyke’s castellan. Rumor has it he had married Asha Greyjoy a while back, so he might have a lot more of a claim than believed.” A statuette of a kraken took its place by Pyke. “We can count the Iron Islands out for now. The Riverlands as well.”

“Walder Frey rules them,” said Davos, just in time for Tyrion to set a piece of a set of towers by Riverrun.

“I do not believe it necessary to remind everyone how that came to be,” said Tyrion and Jon realized he was being mindful of his feelings. At last, he strolled toward Jon’s side as he came to a halt at the northernmost extremity of the map, pushing a statuette of a direwolf toward Winterfell while Varys placed a three-headed dragon on Dragonstone. “And at last, the North, its very king standing here with us today. An interesting concept that has kept me awake, I must admit. But now that everyone is here, I find it an excellent time to fill us in on how you have managed to accomplish such a feat, Your Grace.”

Jon expected this to happen, but it still didn’t bring him great pleasure to speak of these tedious events. At the very least, he would make it as straightforward as possible. “I left Castle Black,” he said. “Ramsay Bolton had my sister – or so he had thought. We built an army made of Wildlings and other northern houses, we fought, and we won.” Things had been a lot more complicated than that, but they were not important to this particular discussion. “After we took Winterfell back, Lady Dacey Mormont showed us this,” he paused, slipping a rolled parchment from a pocket. He’d known it was a crucial item to bring along. Tyrion took it from his hand and inspected it curiously.

“Robb Stark named you his heir,” concluded the Imp.

“Forgive my interruption,” jumped in Davos. “Despite that, the King has rejected the title.” Jon eyed Davos in mild discomfort. “Have you not?” Davos was staring back, the complete opposite of discomfort in his crooked smirk.

“I have,” sighed Jon. “The North wasn’t a kingdom anymore.”

“It was Lady Jeyne, rightfully Lady of Winterfell through her marriage to Ramsay Bolton, and the rest of the northern lords who had decided to make him their king regardless.” Whatever Davos was trying to achieve, it only served as another thing to stir Jon’s discomfort, darting his gaze toward the floor. How was this relevant in any way to their situation?

“An excellent input,” smiled Tyrion, handing back the will which Jon hastily sheltered back in his pocket. “Before I readily proclaim that we are in deep, deep shit, may you let us know what label to place on this particular side of the map?” His knuckles knocked into the North. He was asking for the stance on a possible alliance. Jon’s gaze rolled toward Daenerys and, luckily, it was filled with nothing but the heaviness of his labored mind and the same solemn weight of duty.

“Queen Daenerys has my utmost support in her claim,” he spoke, his voice unwavering and full of professionalism. “However, I am afraid I can only show it through neutrality. The North’s armies need to remain in the North. We cannot afford losing any people fighting in this war.” Much to his shame, he had to admit his nights of passion with Daenerys had successfully briefly distracted him from the graveness of their predicament. But, now, it all struck him all over again. Why they were here, what his role was, why that mountain was now more crucial than ever. He had come to Dragonstone as an ally in the Great War, not the battle for the throne, even though it would all be much easier with Daenerys sitting on it. “I am sure you understand.”

#( thread: daenerys. )#( thread: 11. )

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