Chapter 9 | Jon

Once Jon knew what dying felt like, he realized that he had done it before. When he awoke on that table in Castle Black gasping, his body a foreign thing, his heart thundering with a savage rage, the world forever altered, he felt a macabre familiarity in his bones. His father…Robb…Ygritte. He had died with each of them, and the next morning had arisen with this exact pain in his chest — this dread, this hatred, this hopelessness.

Brave men say that they don't fear death. Jon only feared the death that wasn't true — a death like the one that took him when Sansa had left him the before, her voice so full of venom. He couldn't even say that he'd lost her, as she was never his to have, but it cut him all the same.

Jon stood before the fire, the ache in his chest feeling like it would rend him in two. He'd dressed himself quickly, denying the services of the young lad Little Finger had sent. He wouldn't be dressed like a child. He was a King, but he was still his own man. He clenched his fist upon the mantle.

It was time be both a man and a King. He strode to the door, opening it to find two guards posted outside.

"Find Ser Davos," he said to one whom he didn't recognize. "Tell him that I'd like to speak to him in my study."

The guard bowed his assent. "Yes, Your Grace."

Jon strode down the passageway to the room that he'd seldom entered as a boy. It was where his father met with visiting lords to discuss matters of state. The room was lined with maps and books and tapestries that dated back hundreds of years, showing the great works of the Stark Lords who had come before. It was not a room for children.

You can enter this room when you are a man grown.

His father's words came back to him now as he stood before the door. He was certainly a man now. He only hoped that he could be a man worthy of being called his father's son. He bowed his head in a silent plea for strength and wisdom — though he knew not to whom he was lifting that prayer — and opened the door.

Despite having had it aired out the day before, the room had the musty smell of old books and parchments mingled with the charred smell of the many great fires that had roared in the towering fireplace well into the night. The rich tapestries that once covered the walls had been torn down and likely burned by the Bolton's men, but the room was otherwise much as he remembered it from the glimpses he'd caught through the door as a boy.

It was an impressively masculine space. The fireplace stood as the centerpiece of the room, adorned with intricate stone work. On either side were carved two towering weir trees, their faces impassive, their wild branches reaching up to the ceiling in a tangle. Between them on the mantle a snarling dire wolf's head bared its teeth menacingly down at the sitting area clustered near the fire consisting of deep, high backed, leather chairs and an oversized leather chaise.

In the center of the room was a wide table surrounded by twelve chairs, a map of Westeros inlaid in the center. The chair at the head, his father's seat was larger than the rest and also done in dark leather with the Stark sigil emblazoned on the back. On the opposite site of the room was his father's desk, oversized and imposing in dark wood.

Jon entered the room reverently, shutting the door behind him. He only had a moment to get his bearings. Today would not be a repeat of the day before. He would rise to this occasion. He would rule.

He circled his father's desk — his desk now — skimming one hand along the fine wood work. He could still see his father sitting at this desk, bent over with quill and parchment, as he'd peeked in from the hallway. His heart constricted painfully in his chest at the memory, but he fought back the tears that threatened to rise with an icy will.

Jon pulled out the heavy chair and sat. He surveyed the room. Everything looked smaller than he remembered, and yet it still held the same power for him that it did when he was a boy. This was a room where great men talked about important things. This was the room from which his father ruled The North and from which Robb was to rule after him. And if not Robb, gods forbid, then Bran or Rickon. But not Jon. Never Jon.

Jon closed his eyes against the image of Rickon laying in the snow as his blood pooled around him, his eyes looking up at Jon's in pain and terror as the life left him. Rickon was dead. Robb was dead. Bran was likely dead as well. And now here he was, seated in his father's chair, a true lord of Winterfell. It was the only thing that he'd ever wanted, but the cost —

Jon was jarred from his thoughts by a knock at the door. He straightened himself, rubbing one hand roughly across his face trying to clear the dark thoughts from his mind.

"Enter," he called out. The door opened and Ser Davos strode into the room.

"You asked for me, Your Grace?" he said.

"Yes, Ser Davos," Jon replied standing, "close the door behind you. I'd like to have a word."

Jon moved to the seat at the head of the table and motioned for Ser Davos to sit in the chair to his right.

"How are you today, Your Grace?" asked Ser Davos settling in his chair, "I didn't get a chance to speak with you yesterday." His tone was casual, but his eyes were filled with concern.

Jon ignored the question, but acknowledged it with a nod and a wry smile. Ser Davos was a good man, a kind man — and he was a man who missed little.

"Jon," he replied instead. "When we're alone, call me Jon."

"Alright," said Ser Davos, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Good," replied Jon, settling back into the high-backed chair. He looked around the room slowly and then back to Ser Davos who was regarding him expectantly.

"It feels odd being in this room, sitting in my father's chair," Jon said finally, his fingers flexing unconsciously into the wide leather arms. "This chair was never supposed to be mine. It was supposed to be Robb's, and he was better suited for it in every way."

"I don't know how to rule," he said as Ser Davos leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes focused on him intently. "Leading men is different than ruling, and even that I fucked up. But now I am King and winter is here, and tens of thousands of lives depend on my ability to become a ruler strong enough and wise enough to lead The North through the darkness that is yet to come."

"I would name you Hand of the King, Ser Davos. I need you. I need your wisdom, your guidance, and above all, your honesty. If I'm going to have a prayer of getting this right I need strong, honorable men around me to challenge me and hold me accountable. I can think of no stronger or more honorable man than you, Ser Davos."

"Your Gr — Jon, I —" Ser Davos started to move from his chair, but Jon's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Please, Ser Davos. Don't kneel," he said earnestly, "Just say yes. Tell me that you'll help me." Ser Davos regarded him for a long moment, his eyes filled with warmth and pride in a way that reminded him of his father.

"Yes, Jon," he said finally, emotion heavy in his voice, "I will help you. It would be an honor."

"Thank you, Ser Davos," Jon said his gratitude beaming on his face, "I know that your trust was broken profoundly by the king that you served before, but I swear to you that, with your help, I will be a king worthy of your loyalty and friendship." Ser Davos nodded gravely, and placed his hand over Jon's arm, squeezing it.

"Of that, I have no doubt," he replied.

Another knock came at the door. Ser Davos rose to answer it.

"Lady Sansa," he said warmly as he opened the door. "You're looking well this morning. Please, come in."

Jon's heart leapt into his throat as Sansa entered. To say she looked well was a hideous understatement. She greeted Ser Davos with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, but despite her somber countenance, every inch of her was glowing. When she'd left him the night before she had been the most exquisite thing he'd ever seen, but the woman that stood before him now was dazzling in a way that made his head swim and his mouth go dry.

It was hard for Jon to put his finger on the change. She was wearing a deep blue gown that perfectly set off her lustrous red hair, and her skin glowed like flawless alabaster in the morning light that filtered through the window. Her eyes were brighter, and her lips were full and crimson like a fresh, plump strawberry against the cream of her skin. She was breathtaking.

How is this possible? The gods must be testing me…

Jon did his best to steel himself against the growing longing in his chest and rose to greet her.

"Good morning, Sansa," he said, hoping that she couldn't see the wild desire in his eyes. She nodded demurely in reply.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said hesitantly, "but I thought you should know that Lady Brienne has returned."

"You're never interrupting. Please, sit. Tell me," he said motioning to the chair opposite Ser Davos. She nodded her assent and made her way to the chair, her skirts swaying around her hips as she walked. Jon's chest ached as her eyes darted from Ser Davos to the table to the ground and back again. He couldn't tear his eyes from her, but she could barely bring himself to look at him.

He hated himself for making her feel this way, and longed for the easy comfort that had existed between them. There had to be a way to fix this. He couldn't have her the way that he so desperately wanted her, but he couldn't bear to lose her altogether. Could they find a way back to each other after all that had happened? He wasn't sure, but he knew that he had to try.

"What news, Sansa?" he asked gently. Her eyes finally met his finally, and he offered a small smile. Sadness flashed behind her eyes, but she didn't look away.

"Jamie Lannister has taken Riverrun," she said gravely, "My Uncle Edmure is still a captive, and the Blackfish is dead." Sansa's gaze was steely, but Jon could see the storm of emotions brewing within her.

"I'm sorry, Sansa," he said, covering her hand briefly with his. "And Lady Brienne?"

"She's unharmed, but her sense of honor has been deeply wounded by her failure, though I'm not sure what hope she had of success. It was a desperate plan on my part — a bad plan. It was no plan at all." Sansa replied ruefully looking down at her hands.

"It was better than any other plan that we had," said Jon. "We're all here because of you, Sansa. I haven't forgotten that and neither should you." She smiled weakly at him, her eyes still so full of sorrow. He wished that he could pull her into his lap and kiss her, comfort her, do anything to keep her from looking that way. Instead he turned to Ser Davos.

"I'd like to convene my small council, and now seems as good a time as any. Aggression by the Lannisters against a great house and against my sister's kin can't be borne. Can you summon Tormund and Lord Baelish? I'd like a moment to speak with my sister before we begin."

Ser Davos nodded. "Of course, Your Grace," he said, rising.

"And Ser Davos," said Jon, "summon Lady Brienne, if she's not too weary from traveling. She deserves a seat at this table, as well." Ser Davos nodded and closed the door behind him.

They were alone. Jon tried to gather himself as best he could, though the heat of his longing for her felt like a palpable presence in the room.

"I've named Ser Davos as my Hand," he said. Sansa's eyes met his, with a small smile.

"He's a good choice." Her tone was sincere, but her eyes showed her apprehension.

"Sansa, I need you as well. I need you by my side. I need your advice, and I need your support," he said fighting against the lump that rose in his throat. "I'm sorry that I've fucked things up between us so badly. I just hope you can forgive me, because I can't do this without you."

"Jon, please don't apologize," she said reaching for his hand. "I should be the one apologizing. The way I spoke to you last night —" her voice caught in her throat.

"What if neither of us apologizes?" asked Jon. He smiled a sad smile at her and shifted his hand to lace his fingers though hers.

"What if we just agree to be 'us' again? We've been through so much, and I'm just so happy to have you back. It's been so long since I've been around family, and you are truly the most beautiful, strong, intelligent woman that I've ever known. I just — I don't know, I lost my head. But I'm still your brother, and I still want nothing more than to protect you and keep you safe. We're stronger together than we are apart. Do you think you can trust me again?"

"Jon," she said, a tumult of emotion on her face, "I've never once stopped trusting you. And you will never lose me. I swear it."

Jon pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed each of her knuckles softly. It was far more of an indulgence than he ever intended to allow himself, and yet it was so much less than the total ravishing that every bone in his body was yearning to visit upon her. Her eyes softened immeasurably as he kissed her hand, their eyes locked. When he finished he lowered her hand back to the table, but neither of them let go. Jon's pulse quickened.

"I'm surprised that you invited Lord Baelish to sit on your small council," said Sansa, eyeing him conspiratorially.

"I'm not sure that I have much choice in the matter," he said. "Could I have really left him out?"

"Probably not," said Sansa, her voice growing more serious. "I'm sorry that you are married to him now because of me."

"We wouldn't be here if it weren't for him," said Jon, running his thumb possessively over the back of Sansa's hand. She nodded.

"A necessary evil," she said with bitterness dripping from her words. "There are far more of those in the world than I would have imagined."

"Can we trust him?"

"For now, I think," she replied. "Our interests are enough aligned that I doubt he'll make any rash moves — at least not yet."

"And what are his interests? What is it that he wants?" Sansa sighed deeply.

"Everything," she said finally. "He wants everything."

"Including you?"

The question hung between them for a long moment. Sansa seemed to be considering her answer carefully.

"If it serves his ends," she said finally.

"And does it?" he asked, squeezing her hand, a surge of fierce protectiveness filling him.

"I can't be sure. There's never any way to be sure with Lord Baelish."

Jon leaned forward, bringing his free hand to cover the back of hers, so that her delicate, snow white fingers were trapped between both of his hands.

"I want you to stay away from him, Sansa," he said, his voice low and fierce. "He's a dangerous man."

"He is," she replied gravely, "but I know how to handle him, Jon. I'll be careful, I promise. And he'll be gone in a fortnight."

Jon was about to protest, when Tormund barreled through the door, not bothering to knock. Jon dropped Sansa's hand quickly and turned to greet him.

"The King in the North!" exclaimed Tormund jovially as he entered, and then a bit more gently, "Lady Sansa." Jon smiled at him and motioned to the seat next to Sansa.

"Thank you for coming, Tormund," said Jon as Tomund sank roughly into his chair. "I'm calling together my small council, and I need a representative from the Free Folk. Can I count on you?"

"Aye," said Tormund, "Just don't go tryin' to make me a Lord of anything."

Jon chuckled as Ser Davos reappeared.

"Lady Brienne was already asleep in her chambers," said Ser Davos as he took his seat. "Podrick said that they had barely stopped for the last two days of their journey. I thought it best to let her sleep." Jon nodded his approval.

"And Lord Baelish?" asked Jon.

"He should be here shortly, Your Grace."

"Not surprised he's late," said Tormund with a bawdy grin. "I heard he was up most of the night giving it to some servant girl or other in his chambers. They say she was quite the screamer."

A dark blush rose to Sansa's cheeks as she looked down at the table, the rise of color stirring something deep in Jon.

"A servant girl?" Ser Davos mused, "That's not what I would have pictured. He doesn't seem like the kind of man who deigns to fuck below his station."

Sansa looked like she wanted to fall through the floor. She wasn't usually so delicate, but Jon could sense her growing discomfort. He longed to hold her hand in his again.

"That's enough," said Jon. "Lord Baelish's private affairs are none of our concern."

Ser Davos nodded gravely. Tormund's eyes still sparkled, though he held his tongue.

Petyr Baelish appeared suddenly in the doorway, though by his courtly demeanor he didn't appear to have heard their conversation. Jon was relieved.

"Your Grace," he said with a deep bow, "Lady Sansa, Ser Davos, Tormund — I apologize for being late. I just received some truly disturbing news from King's Landing."

"It's been that kind of morning," said Jon. "Come in, Lord Baelish, and take a seat." Little Finger glided into the room and took his place beside Ser Davos.

"Ah, then you've heard the word from Riverrun already," he said folding himself gracefully into his chair.

"I have," said Jon, "though I'm curious to know how you have."

"A little bird told me," he said, his eyes straying to Sansa. Sansa looked down at her hands. It would be difficult for any man to not look at Sansa, but there was something about Little Finger's gaze that rankled Jon. "I have ears everywhere, Your Grace," he said, finally meeting his eyes.

"So I've heard," he replied, doing his best swallow the disgust he always felt when Little Finger was near. "What news from the Capital?"

"I'm afraid the situation is very grave indeed, Your Grace," said Little Finger, "Cersei Lannister was to be tried in the Great Sept for her crimes against the gods and the realm, but she used wildfire to destroy the Sept instead, killing everyone inside — the High Sparrow, the majority of the Faith Militant, Queen Margaery, and countless Lords and Ladies of the realm."

"Gods," gasped Sansa.

"I'm sorry, my lady," said Little Finger, "I know that you and Queen Margaery had been friends."

Jon looked at Sansa, his concern mingled with the dark resentment that Little Finger knew things about her that he did not. Sansa's face hardened.

"I had no friends in King's Landing," she said, her jaw set fiercely.

"You had one," replied Little Finger gently. Sansa looked up at him, a subtle but sudden surge of warmth on her face.

"You're right. I did, Lord Baelish. Forgive me." she smiled at him almost tenderly.

"I'm afraid that's not all," continued Little Finger. "While King Tommen was not present in the Sept, likely kept away by his mother, he jumped from his chamber window immediately after. Cersei has claimed the thrones for herself."

Jon clenched his fist on the arm of his chair. It was only his second day being King and already the entire realm had descended into an even greater chaos than had gripped it before. He needed to reinforce the walls of Winterfell. He needed to rest what few men he had left. He needed to parley with the great houses and find lands on which the Free Folk could settle. He needed to find some way to prepare The North for the horrors that waited just beyond the wall.

He didn't have the men or the resources to even handle the challenges already set before him. The North couldn't fight any more southern wars. Winter had come at last, and this one would be longer than any that any of them had ever known.

"How does this change our position?" Jon asked finally.

"For now, it doesn't have to change anything, Your Grace" replied Lord Baelish, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Cersei's claim to the throne is tenuous at best, but no one still living has a better one. She has no more heirs though, and she's running out of Lannister's to crown.

"Jamie will likely return to King's Landing if he hasn't already, and the majority of their men will need to return as well. King's Landing will be uneasy after such a coup, and they'll need every available man to keep the peace."

"Riverrun will be under light guard," he continued, "if you want to retake it for the Tully's — or for yourself. The Tully's won't be able to do it for themselves, or hold it for that matter. The Knights of the Vale are at your service in either case, Your Grace."

"No," said Sansa suddenly, "if Riverrun is lost, it is lost. Our duty is here, in The North." Little Finger caught her gaze and Jon swore that he saw something secret pass between them.

"Are you sure, Sansa?" Jon asked her, his hand settling briefly on hers.

"Yes," she said firmly. "We have no men to spare, and we have thousands more people to protect. We have to fight our own battles before we can fight anyone else's. I regret the loss of Riverrun deeply, but it is not our fight." Jon nodded, squeezing her hand then reluctantly releasing it.

"Ser Davos," he said turning to the man at his right. "Your thoughts?"

"I agree that we stay put for now. There will likely be chaos in King's Landing, but that can't be our concern right now. That fight may come to us, but until it does, we should keep our distance."

"We need to be careful," Sansa said, lacing her fingers together on the table. "Cersei will be more dangerous now than ever. She's lost all three of her children, she has nothing left to lose, and she has the Iron Throne. Her ruthlessness is no longer chained by anything."

Jon nodded gravely acknowledging her words.

The next two hours passed in a blur. There were so many issues to attend to, and Jon threw himself into the work of addressing them all. Despite everything, he found himself grimly grateful to have Lord Baelish at the table. His mind was quick, his intuition sharp, and he had a better grasp of the political landscape of The North than Jon had himself — to say nothing of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jon hated to be beholden in any way to such a man, especially a man who couldn't seem to stop raking his eyes covetously over his sister, but he grudgingly understood why Sansa maintained him as an ally. For now, he'd just have to endure it.

As the council adjourned, Jon placed his hand on Sansa's elbow.

"Stay for a moment?" he asked her. She nodded as the other three shuffled to the door.

When they were gone, Jon lowered his head into his hands.

"Gods…" he groaned, overwhelmed and suddenly exhausted.

Sansa's cool hand skimmed his cheek, and Jon leaned into her touch.

"You were incredible," said Sansa softly. "You looked like father sitting there."

Jon closed his eyes and pressed a kiss against the inside of her wrist, his longing for her reaching a devastating crescendo that left him breathless. His need for her was unbearable, and these small caresses that he couldn't seem to deny himself only stoked the flames that grew inside of his chest.

With every fiber of his will, he took a ragged breath.

"You were incredible, too, Sansa. I can't do this without you," he said lacing his fingers through hers and bringing their hands down to rest on his knee. He sat back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, anywhere but at her face.

"I want you to be careful around Little Finger," Jon said finally. "I mean it, Sansa. The way that he looks at you —"

"I will be. I have been. I've known him much longer than you have, and I know how to maneuver around him to keep myself safe. You have to trust me, Jon. You can see how much he can help us right now, and we owe him so much. If I withdraw from him, it will upset the balance between us and put everything at risk. It's better to keep him close," she said.

Jon met her determined gaze. She was so strong and fierce, and yet the icy depths of her eyes betrayed a deep vulnerability. The combination was beguiling.

"It's him I don't trust," said Jon.

"And neither do I," said Sansa rising from her chair. Their hands still hung between them entwined. Jon couldn't resist pressing one more kiss to her knuckles before releasing her. Sansa's smile was impossibly sad as she turned to take her leave.

"Sansa —" he said, but his words caught in his throat as she turned her head again to face him, one hand on the door. He wanted to tell her that he loved her. He wanted to beg her not to leave. He wanted to stride across the room and press her up against the door, and claim her with all of the roiling passion that filled him.

"Thank you," he said instead.

"Of course, Jon," she said. And then she was gone.