Chapter Seven - Jon IV

It was cold, beyond cold. An endless sea of brilliant blue eyes stared back at Jon from the dim twilight of the long night. Scanning his companions, Jon could see the same look he once wore at Hardhome; a bitter duality of disbelief and truth. This was his waking nightmare, the Night King's sorcery keeping them all in a clouded, deep chill that wouldn't subside as he sat on his high horse watching them from a cliff. They were gratefully stranded for the moment, their refuge was a rocky outcropping in the middle of a once frozen lake, now a broken and cracked moat keeping the undead at bay. Soon the lake will freeze over… He looked at his men again, knowing that he had doomed their fates over this mission, again. I am no leader if I keep putting the people who trust me in harm's way. Jon painfully sighed in defeat.

Every strained breath was capped with the knifing side pain of bruised, maybe cracked ribs. The wight polar bear's heavy swipe sent Jon soaring through mid-air, landing hard enough to almost knock him unconscious. He felt the pain in his chest immediately, but there was no time for that. After Jorah's dragonglass dagger took the beast down, they mourned the loss of 3 men with Thoros being badly injured. As the bear died its final death, the swirl of snow and ice around them had begun to die down as well, submitting in languished defeat. Just like Hardhome, the magic within the storm, Jon thought as they had tended to Thoros' wounds and set fire to their fallen companions. They set off in the path of the bear, closer to death and the white walkers he had feared to see again.

No one could have anticipated that the Army of the Dead were within a day's journey from the Wall. Panicked, Jon had sent Gendry running back to warn the Night's Watch with the hope that Daenerys would come to their rescue, a decision he sorely regretted. As much as he wanted this mission to succeed for the survival of the North, he couldn't fathom putting Daenerys in harm's way, no matter how much of a fierce conqueror she is. Deep down, Jon knew that she was their last hope for survival. So damn conflicted at every turn. Without her, we die and the North falls. With her, she might die trying to save us and the mission fails. Jon angrily shook his head to himself, this constant confusion tainting his sense of reason, nothing felt safe anymore - decisions, feelings, or otherwise. I guess it's best to embrace the chaos of it all, as if his current vantage point of the world didn't show Jon the exacting face of chaos and death itself. Despite their current predicament, while standing here on this frozen rock, Jon had plenty of time to assess the threat in ways he never before considered.

Jon knew their strengths; It had to be magic or maybe was it the power of the old gods? If Old Nan was to be believed, it has been 8000 years since the Long Night, a time when the First Men were still carving runes on stones. How can anyone know the truth of it? If anyone could find out, it would be Sam. He had access to the biggest library in the world at the Citadel, knowledge as far back as recorded history itself. Let's hope he's reading night and day, Jon prayed. He wasn't sure how his ancestors had won the War for the Dawn against such overwhelming odds. Maybe they didn't win, he feared, the cold air punctuating his wounds with each shaky breath. Jon knew there was much more to these vicious, ice beings than meets the eye.

Intelligent, vicious beings, truth be told. Despite the chaos, the army of the dead, controlled by the Night King, weren't mindless creatures. They tactically surrounded the lake immediately after Jon and his crew reached the island rock, keeping watch ever since. He remembered Hardhome, the cloud of magic and ice that suffocated the encampment, leaving those behind the fortress wall untouched, why? Why didn't the Night King use that same magic again on them now, kill them and end this waiting game? Waiting…maybe they're waiting for something. Jon shivered fiercely, fear and uncertainty gripping him tightly. These beings were calculating, knowledgeable, and strategic. They weren't the mindless killing machines he initially thought they were, there was a purpose behind their actions. That's the truth we need to find out, Jon surmised.

Jon had found his own truth here at the end of the world while freezing to death, the hope of survival dwindling with each passing hour. The mission beyond the Wall always had a low chance of success, the odd were staggeringly against them. No doubt Daenerys' counselors would have insisted not to attempt a rescue, and he hoped she'd listen for once. It was too dangerous, even for his brave companions, some of the hardest, finest warriors in Westeros.

As Jon looked out on the endless twilight of circumstance, his thoughts wore heavy with regret. He knew now that Daenerys was as close to happiness as he would ever get in this life. His jealous stupidity and short-sightedness blinded him to that truth while on Dragonstone and now he will never get to remedy it. A chance to have someone he desired and respected, on his own terms, not coerced or willed out of fear, and he let it slip through his fingers. It will haunt him for the rest of his days, most likely the end of this one, he considered.

Ygritte was his first love, and will always be. He had gone to her willingly almost every night, proving himself loyal, but that didn't soothe the inner conflict that tore at him. Heavy with guilt, Jon knew that he would eventually betray her for his Brothers and the Night's Watch. And of course, he was right. In the end, his betrayal had lead to her death, right in his arms. Oh Ygritte, if we only stayed in that cave, life would have been so different.

And here Jon was again - a free man, a king of his people - and he still couldn't shake the guilt of wanting something of his own, as if somehow he was meant to be punished for all his mistakes until the end of his days, never to be happy or love another. All he could think of was wanting to be back on that cliff, the anticipation of seeing Daenerys flying on her dragons had been his joy away from war and death. Jon should have reached out and taken what he wanted, to make Daenerys his, but something within him had prevented it. Every time they'd have a moment alone, something would disrupt them. There was no denying their attraction, but he wanted more. Jon caught those glimpses of her, the woman he wanted to escape into. Maybe he should have taken her right there in the cave, kissed her until she begged him for more. Maybe he needed her to believe in him. Maybe I was just being stupid. And now it's too late; no more wildflowers, or cliffs to walk, or longing stares that burned deep in his soul. He truly was a Northern fool.

Jon would often visit that spot in the cavern while mining, looking up at the White Walkers of history's past, remembering the moment that changed the way he felt about Daenerys. He had sworn to the old gods that he would do all he could to defeat the enemy and even give his life in service of his people. For Daenerys to stay safe and be kept from harm while he was gone. Maybe prayers could be answered in such a sacred place, he hoped so.

Jon's last few nights on Dragonstone were restless. On the evening before his departure,he had an impromptu conversation with Tyrion in the castle kitchens, both of them seeking out a late night second supper well past midnight. Although Jon was glad enough to see him, Tyrion was a master of reading people, and with Jon feeling a bit bothered from recent events, there was little he could do to deflect Lord Tyrion's knowing assessments.

His childish jealousy had prevented Jon from enjoying his last few days on the island. The queen had spent her time with Ser Jorah, sharing evening meals with him in the main dining hall with her council and closest bloodriders. Jorah had given him a dubious look or two since his arrival, he didn't need to have dinner to be subjected to them again. The knight's overt familiarity and obvious love for the queen were undeniable. Jon was sure Daenerys had a never-ending array of men promising her the world over, but there was something different about Ser Jorah. The queen held him in very close regard, too close, and he had concluded their connection ran deep. Davos told him that Jorah had been with the queen since the day she was married off to the Dothraki horselord; her loyal counselor, protector, and closest friend, through feast and famine, for much of her time in Essos. And who was he to interfere? Jon had declined those supper invitations, reluctantly pushed the memories of the cave aside, and spent the rest of his time crating obsidian for shipments to the North.

"I've wondering where you've been hiding, Your Grace. Deep in dragonglass, to be sure," Tyrion had said as he strode into the dimly lit kitchens. Jon was standing over a long, wooden butcher's table eating from an assorted plate of food from the larder: cold roasted pig, the last loaf of evening's bread with freshly churned butter, and some cuts of delicious cheese that Jon had grown to love while on Dragonstone. Tart lemon water infused with mint was his drink of choice tonight.

"No wine," he had told Tyrion. Jon had trouble sleeping without the wine he had given up in favor of clarity for this dangerous mission. "An equally wise and poor decision," Tyrion had surmised as he made a plate of food for himself. He moved to the other side of the table, across from Jon, and leaned against a stone pillar behind him, a mug of wine in hand. "A glass takes more work to refill," Tyrion had pointed out when Jon gave the full wine mug a knowing smirk.

"I thought seeing my brother for the first time since killing my father was going to be frightening, but somehow the capture a living dead man terrorizes me even more. I must admit, Jon Snow, your concerns about convincing the unbelieving of this fairy tale nightmare have been quelled, wouldn't you say? You have the queen's full support now, you've come a long way since our conversation on the cliff." Tyrion began with his soft western droll.

"Yes, well, let's hope we can capture one or this is all for nothing." Jon had answered matter of factly between bites. "I pray we make it out alive, the odds are against us."

"The queen is most anxious about the mission as well. Seems that she has taken a liking to the King in the North," Tyrion raised his chin and eyebrow to meet Jon's gaze. "She wouldn't say it out loud but she missed your presence at supper tonight, maybe you should call on her after you finish your meal and offer your apology," Tyrion's eyes glimmered with mischief. And there it was, Jon thought. Tyrion's hint punched him in the gut, Jon gave him a sideways squint as he drank deep from his mug.

"It's too late to call on the queen," Jon retorted with a gulp, lowering his mug to the table, his gaze following. He hoped Tyrion would drop the subject.

"It's never too late, Jon Snow," Tyrion responded just as quickly, moving to the table to take a bite of pork. "There may be too many cocks in the hen house right now, but trust me when I say, you are the red rooster of them all."

Jon's eyes widened as laughter rolled through him, Tyrion grinned and followed suit, the sounds echoing through the empty kitchens. Jon braced his hands on the table as the tension poured out of him. Again, Tyrion had come to his brooding rescue, no wonder the queen chose him for her Hand, he could charm a snake into wearing pants.

But of course, Jon had never gotten up the nerve to tempt the fate Tyrion had placed in front of him. He barely slept that night and found himself walking the path to the beach before dawn. Jon had stood at the spot, their spot, remembering all that transpired between them, reconciling his feelings for Daenerys, knowing that he felt more than just respect and desire for her. As the warm sun rose over the windy cliffs, still clinging to the evening chill, Jon silently prayed that Daenerys would suddenly appear at the top of the steps, alone. He wanted to bring her into his embrace, to say things that he would never think to say before. Her scent wrapped around them like his fur cloak, protecting them from the cold of the morning, her warmth was the only solace he wanted.

The intermitted screech of their captured wight broke Jon's thoughts. He looked to his left, and there was Ser Jorah keeping watch as well. The knight had proven himself to be every bit his father's son and Jon felt ridiculous for even thinking anything less of him. He was a true northerner, proud and honorable, and Jon felt an instant kinship with him while on their journey, especially after offering him Long Claw.

Long Claw was as much a part of Jon as Ghost was, it had saved him from certain death beyond counting. But the sword truly belonged to the Mormont family, it wasn't right for him to keep it. Jorah had honorably refused him, Jon prepared for one of those dubious looks he had come to expect, but Jorah's face softened immediately, and he held Jon's gaze, "May it serve you well…and your children after you." And with a long, knowing look, Jorah walked away, leaving Jon to ponder his future.

Children. Something Jon had never even considered. A family of his own. He could have one now, should have one, to carry on the family…

…Not a Stark, he immediately remembered, somehow forgetting that fact since becoming king. He was treated like a Stark now, for the first time in his life, but it still stung that it wasn't the truth. Being King Snow sounded like a jester's song, although being a king gave him the moral obligation to have children.

His thoughts flew back to Daenerys, wishing he would have kissed her flush lips the moment they stepped into the cavern of glyphs; burying himself in her, making her his. He should have been with her on Dragonstone at this very moment, feverishly working on their first child. Spending endless days wrapped in her body, her scent, throwing all caution to the wind to savor the last hints of her warm autumn before the winter. She will be my biggest regret, the woman I deserved to cherish, the children I will never have…

In that moment of memories and regret, Jon stepped over to where Jorah was standing. The knight turned to meet him, eyes intermittently scanning the undead horizon behind them. "I'm glad to have a Mormont at my back before I die," Jon quipped sarcastically. Jorah's eyes smiled back at him, responding " and I, A Stark, your Grace."

And before Jon could correct him, Jorah added firmly, "You are a Stark. You are your father's son. Your name has nothing to do with it. Be proud of who you are." Jon respectfully sighed in acknowledgment, giving Jorah a thankful pat on the arm before returning to his station on the rock.

As night darkened the landscape, exhaustion took over the group. Torment suggested that Jon rest with Thoros as they were both injured earlier in the day. Jon's protest died with the "you better listen to me, boy" look that Tormund had given him on occasion, a caring gesture of friendship that Jon knew better than to question. He painfully slide down next to Thoros for warmth, settling his weight as to not to put too much pressure on his chest.

Once more, Jon looked out over the frozen, dead landscape before closing his eyes to rest. This might be my final sleep, he thought. His mind sought out his happiness - wildflowers and circling dragons - praying to see the woman he loves one last time.

Was it love?

Aye, it must be.