➰Jon➰

The fire raging inside me cools little, even as the ice bitten air nips at my cheeks and hands. The thing between my legs heavy and hard, my torn and broken heart beating furious and alive.

When I turn to look back at the tent, the guards fix me with a look of warning, their eyes heavy with mistrust. How quickly would they move to stop me if I stormed back inside? If I went to her and pulled her into my arms? How quickly would I be put in chains? Or would she call off her guards and welcome me into her body?

There had been a moment — a single moment — where I was certain she could see inside my soul to the hopes and fears that lingered there. A single moment where I was certain she held the same hopes and fears as I.  The same desires as I.

But what did I know of women such as her?

With a tired exhale I move away from her tent through the main enclosure of the great camp.  

I should feel satisfied, I know this.  She had promised to fight with the north. She had promised her men and her dragons and her aid and demanded nothing in return — something Sansa had believed impossible. Why then did I still feel as though I'd achieved nothing? As though a great prize lay yet unclaimed?

You know why, son. You know why. And you know what must be done...

The sound of my father's voice does little to comfort me then.

Dawn is close. I can smell it rising from the snow covered ground. Soon the rising pink would start to bleed along the horizon heralding the day, and with it the arrival of my fate.

Had I ever wished the night to linger more than I do now? Had I ever needed guidance more than I do now? A pang of loss then, not for my father or even Robb, but for another. One who'd helped guide me when the last fateful decision lay beyond the dawn.

Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born.

Except the boy was long dead. The boy had bled out of me onto the snow at Castle Black and I was not quite certain what returned was a man.

How would Maester Aemon see this choice? As simply as he'd always seen things? Maester Aemon who could have been king but for his vows. Maester Aemon who could not lift a hand to save his family as they were slaughtered one by one.  Maester Aemon who had been the very last of Daenerys Targaryen's family.  How could there be any cruelty in her when he had been the most gentle man I'd ever known?

'You look like you've seen a ghost.' The familiar voice comes from the shadows, cutting through my thoughts. When I turn Tyrion is leaning casually in the entrance of his tent, wine cup in hand, a study in his eyes.  

I nod. 'Aye, perhaps I have.'

'Speaking of which, where is that wolf of yours?'

'Hunting I expect. He doesn't care much for dragons. '  

'And what of you?' Tyrion's gaze narrows shrewdly.  'Do you care for dragons?'

'Do dwarves ever sleep?' I ask instead. 

'Is that a riddle of some kind?' He asks.  'No? Well, the truth is we need but half the rest of full grown men.' He gestures me inside. 'Won't you come in out of the cold, your grace?'

I'd find no sleep in my chamber, that much was certain. On heavy feet I move toward him, ducking slightly under the canopied entrance.

The Hand's tent is decidedly smaller than the queens, and without the sweet air and feminine touch hers had.  A modest pallet sits in one corner, a stool and desk with some papers upon it in the other, and a low settee in the centre facing the small gated brazier which he points for me to sit on. 

He pours me some wine, which I accept from him without thanks. Then, sitting on the opposite side of the settee, he proceeds to watch me over the rim as he drinks.

'Tell me you went to beg her forgiveness for your stupidity and you have accepted her proposal with renewed vigour?' He asks after some moments.

By way of a reply, I lift my own cup to my mouth and skirt my eyes away from his. It's still too sweet, shrivelling my tongue unpleasantly.  I set it down on the floor by my feet, Tyrion's gaze burning into me as I do.

'By the Gods you are the most infuriatingly stubborn northman I have ever known...and I knew your father.'

'Aye well, he was not so stubborn after your nephew removed his head.' I turn to meet his impertinent stare.   

A flicker of guilt moves over his eyes. 'No...no he was not. My nephew was by the same degree far more likeable after choking to death in pool of his own blood.'

'And was that your doing?' I ask. Sansa had been sure Tyrion was not to blame for king Joffrey's death, but I could see such an act in him.  

He sighs, longingly. 'Ah, how I wish I could claim the honour, but no, alas it was not.' He raises his cup in mock celebration. 'I do however drink to them often, but I fear we will never know the truth of it.'

'You must have your suspicions?'

'Many.  For a time I thought it was your sister... but she was such a frightened little bird I could not see her having the stomach for it.  Olenna was wily as a fox... but Dorne hated my family more than most.'

'Does your queen have Dorne's support still?'

'The Sandsnakes will always remain difficult to predict,' he nods. 'But they are still loyal to our Queen, yes.'

'Then Dorne too believes in her...' I scratch a hand across the wiry hair of my jaw.  Not even Aegon himself had conquered Dorne. All rulers of the southernmost realm had refused to bend the knee to the Iron Throne. Until now. Until it had pledged its allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen.

'We all believe in her,' replies Tyrion fervently.

I turn to him. 'You have no doubt, then? No fear of her name? Of her father? What he was? The things he did?'

'She is not her father.'

'But she is a Targaryen. And many before her father were no better than him. Many before him took to the sky on monsters and burned any and all who stood against them. People have good cause to be frightened of what her name means, surely you can see that?'

'She is better,' he says, eyes unflinching.  'In your heart you know she is.'

My heart had a great many notions where Daenerys Targaryen was concerned, but did it know this? That she was better. That she was not like those who had come before her?  She was still a woman born of fire and blood. Still a woman who commanded armies and dragons. I knew nothing of women like her.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

'I don't know her...'  I reply.

He makes an impatient kind of noise. 'You know enough.'

'They say she fed your sister and her entire Queensguard to her dragons?  That your brother languishes in the dungeon of The Red Keep blinded by her funeral pyre because she forced him watch. They say she then removed his other arm so he might never take up a sword against her again?'

'They also say you and your sister fuck in the woods each night like wolves, but we do not believe every rumour whispered in the whorehouses and taverns of the realm now do we?'   

Disgust twists my gut as I widen my eyes to glare at him. 'Who would say such vile lies?'

He waves a hand, dismissive. 'Oh, who says it is not important. It is the weight of truth the rumour holds that is.'

An awful thought cleaves through the haze of disgust and rage. 'The queen does not believe it?'

'Would it matter if she did?'

'Does she believe it?' 

A careful look comes into his eyes. 'I told her there was likely no truth in it.'

'Likely no truth in it?'

He shrugs. 'You are the last two Starks left in the world and the north is hideously cold — what do I know with any certainty?'

'You know with every certainty that there is no truth in it?' I snap. 'And you will ensure she knows it!'

He smiles a thin smile and lifts his cup to his mouth again. 'Very well, your grace, I shall ensure she knows it.' 

A strange sort of terse silence fills the air before Tyrion fills it again, his voice gentler than it had been a moment before.

'My sister wished me dead every day of my painfully pitiful life. Had she shown me even the merest hint of mercy, as a child, as a brother, as her blood, then perhaps I would have fought harder for her,' he says, staring hard into the flames.  His voice is tight and thin, his expression impassive. He takes a large gulp of his wine. 'She was given the execution she deserved. What would The King in the North have done to those who tried to wipe out his name? As Lord Commander did not you hang traitors and vowbreakers on the wall?'

I say nothing.  I have nothing. 

'What of Ramsay Bolton after you bested him in the great battle of the bastards? I presume your clemency fell upon him?'

'Bolton too was given the execution he deserved,' I mutter.  Not by me, but by Sansa.  Justice had been hers to serve, not mine. 

'Oh, I'm certain he was.' He sighs a tired sigh and moves to refill his cup.  'Do you remember what I told you the first time we met?' He asks sagely as he pours.

I did remember. It was the night king Robert feasted at Winterfell. I'd never been more pleased to be a bastard that night.  Pleased that I hadn't been made to sit straight and talk proper. Pleased that I could watch it all from the shadows of the great hall winedrunk and unimportant. It was the night uncle Benjen told me I was not a man. That no boy of fourteen could take an oath which would last a lifetime.  That I should father a few bastards of my own before talking of taking the black again.

'You told me never to forget what I was, because the world would not,' I recall. The yard was cold and deserted, no sound moving through it but the wind. Then Tyrion had appeared. So full of confidence to me then that I could not countenance why, or how. Where had this deformed man reviled by all, even his own family, found such pride and certainty in himself? How did he stand as tall as a king? 'You told me to make it my strength, to armour myself in it for then none could use it to hurt me.' 

Tyrion looks impressed, flattered even.

'Yes, well, not everything is a battle, I should have told you that too.' Would he feel differently if he knew what lurked beyond the wall? Perhaps. But I would talk no more of dead men this night.  'But I also told you that while all dwarves were bastards, not all bastards need be dwarves. Rise up, Jon. Stand tall and proud and accept what she is offering you. What you never thought would be yours.  You are a good man, an honourable man — like your father before you — and you will be a good and honourable husband. You will be fair and just king. Take what she is offering you and help her make this broken land better than what it was before. She needs you more than you know. More than she knows.' It sounds like a plea and it stirs something inside me. She needs me?

'You must know it is not as simple as that,' I say, breaking the weight of his stare. At least I was certain it was not, certain it could not be.  For when was anything that was good and honourable and right ever so simple?

As though to tease me with her promise, my mind tugs forth the memory of her skin, warm and sweet. Her lavender eyes as they grew wide with determination as she pledged to fight beside me. Her breaths short and shallow as I drew close to her. Between my legs the need stirs again, the ache deep now.

'Pride, then?' Tyrion asks. 'You think your precious North would abandon you? See you as a traitor for marrying a Targaryen queen?'

I run a hand over my mouth, smoothing the lengths of hair around it. A part of me did fear it, but I had been called a traitor before and I bore the scars of it. It no longer frightened me as it once did. Tyrion takes my silence as confirmation.

'The north saw you as the bastard son of Ned Stark most of your life. Still would if war hadn't come. By rights it should be Robb Stark wearing that crown and taking Daenerys Targaryen as his wife. By rights you should still be wearing a black cloak and freezing your balls off on top of The Wall.'

A sharp slice of jealousy slices through me as the image of Robb and Daenerys speaking their vows under the Weirwood tree floods my mind. Being cheered as they rode through the towns and villages of the North.  Daenerys beneath him as he took her. Her belly rounded with his child. My fists clench hard, nails digging into the palms of my hands. 

The guilt comes quickly on its heels. Cold and sobering. Robb was dead. Long dead. The best of us. The bravest of us. The most loyal of us.  Killed at his wedding feast no less. His wife and child slaughtered like pups. Disgust at my own thoughts rises up, hot like fire. I reach down and lift the wine again, hoping the sweet liquid can wash away the bitterness lodged thick in my throat.  When the cup is empty I wipe a hand over my mouth and meet Tyrion's stare.

'I'd give my life over and over again to have Robb back,' I say.  'To have Bran and Rickon back. To have my father back. To be freezing my balls off at the wall. This should be Robb, aye... trust me I know that.' Not only did I miss them, but I knew that if the red woman could bring them back as she did me then this decision would be theirs to make instead of mine. How am I supposed to make it? Weak as I am? Broken as I am?

I could not. It was not supposed to be this way. I shouldn't be here.

'But it's not them. It's you,' he says, gently. 'I know what its like to feel afraid, Jon.  I do.' 

'I'm not afraid,' I lie.

I am afraid. More afraid than I'd ever been. I'm afraid of knowing what it might feel like to be at peace, to be content, to know happiness. I'm afraid of loving her. More than I loved her.  Mostly I'm afraid of losing it all when war comes for us again. I'd long since learned it was far easier to fight when there was nothing left to be lost. 

'Then from where I sit you are faced with the perfect solution to the North's self-proclaimed regency,' Tyrion states, a thin sliver of impatience creeping into his voice again. 'Their chosen king is not dethroned in a swathe of fire and blood — rather the opposite. His kingship is legitimised, strengthened.  Your people have a voice in the dragon queen's council — in her bed — for as long as she may reign. Not to mention a brood of little northern princelings to carry forth their cause.  All the while you remain the great and noble hero by agreeing to this hideous marital arrangement.'

I give him a look that I hope informs him he's far from amusing.  

'Fine, you need not bed her,' he declares. 'Many rulers before her have kept consorts. I suppose she would recall Daario from Meereen...' he casts a sideways look at me. 'A Tyroshi mercenary; a commander of five hundred sellswords and entirely devoted to her.  Taller than you,' he explains. 

I stiffen, that same burn of envy curling around my spine, my fists. 'You think I would allow her to take another to her bed?' I growl.

'I think unless you are her husband you shall have very little say on who she takes to her bed.'

'If she cares for this sellsword so much why does she not wed him?'

'Oh, now he truly would have made an awful king,' Tyrion grimaces. 

Standing, I pace across the tent, then back again, then turn to pace once more. Tyrion watches me closely all the while.  

'She tends to have this effect on men, I would not let it trouble you.'

When I turn to scowl at him, a small amused smile slips from his face.

'What happens to the north?' I ask, coming to a halt.  His eyes cloud with confusion.  'If I accept. She would wish me to be in the south I assume?'

'She would wish her husband by her side, yes of course.  It is proposed you would join her small council, in a position yet to be appointed to you.  Master of Laws is still vacant, and Master of Ships — have you ever been on a ship?'

'There would need to be a new appointment of Warden of the North,' I glower, ignoring his attempt at humour.

'Yes, there would,' he nods.  'You wish to propose a candidate? I will take it to the queen on your behalf. If this is the only matter left troubling you?'

'Sansa,' I say without hesitation. 'The Lady of Winterfell should be given the title. ' 

'You think she has the stomach for it?'

A flash of Ramsay Bolton's torn and destroyed body flashes before my eyes. 'She has the stomach for it.'

'She will not have you to guide her? Does she have the counsel?'

The Lady Brienne would stay by her side, and Davos too if I bid him. Lady Lyanna and Lord Umber would offer good counsel. Littlefinger would be a concern, but he underestimated Sansa. Like most did.   

'Aye, she has it.'

'If you are certain.'

'The queen will not object? Sansa will be declared warden of the north?'

'Wardeness, I believe is the term. And the queen trusts her Hand to act in her interests — it will be done,' he says, confident. There's a look in his eyes now. As though he knows. As though he can see all of the weak reasons that have brought me here. Weak, male, reasons that should have died within me long ago. That should have stayed dead.

I nod, slowly, and just as soon as I have the weight begins to lift from me. The haze of doubt and uncertainty clearing from my mind. Something light and hopeful fills my chest so that it feels as though a flock of birds might be trapped inside it. 

'Now may I suggest you go and get some rest, your grace. Dawn is almost upon us and she will not appreciate being kept waiting much longer. '

I nod once more, moving away from him. 

'Oh and may I suggest a wash too,' he calls after me.  'A change of cloak, perhaps. A shave?'