Chapter Rating: T
Chapter Word Count: 4702
Chapter Summary: He would ask Sansa what she intended on accomplishing in coming here, how she hoped to save him from dragons, but he knows the answer.
Author's Note: Did some weird research for this one. Like...given that King's Landing has approx. 500,000 residents and they're piled on top of each other in slums, roughly how many city blocks would that be? And how long does it take to walk or run the length of a city block? And how long does steel take to cool? So, there you have it.
If you're looking for teasers to tide you over between updates (and yes, this one was a little late in coming, my apologies!) follow me at tumblr (username justadra). I also do a Game of Thrones/ASOIAF weekly meta on tumblr from the point of view of a medieval historian that might interest some of you.
Thank you as always for all the reviews, favorites, and kudos. You all are the best.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jon shouts for the men who have fallen at his side to be attended to, carried off the walls beside the Lion Gate, where he stood, ready to meet the advancing army. The enemy troops still stand within sight, but they are just out of range. Only the dragons have been brought into battle and they have turned back, wheeling in the sky and disappearing beyond the lines of battle. He knows they were meant for him alone, their flames the test Daenerys wanted on the day they met in her elaborate tent. He has survived them, as he promised her he would, but he can tell from the moans around him that others will not be so lucky. Some of the men make no sound at all, some have already passed into the beyond.
It would have been better for him to face this test alone, where no others might have been harmed, but he supposes Daenerys wanted a public scene, something that would turn the tide towards her quickly, resolutely. With Jon dead, his parentage disproved in a wall of fire, men would flock to her, proclaim her queen and deliver the kingdoms into her hands. Instead, he has survived to fight her and her dragons.
Dragons. He has finally seen them, faced them. They were perhaps worse than even what his fevered dreams could conjure. The one was so large it seemed as if night was upon him when its body flew over him, its wings making a draft that only seemed to fans its flames. She might have been on the creature's back, but inside his helmet with his shield held out before him and his sword held aloft, he could see very little other than hot flames and oily black scales. The attack felt endless, but as he grips the wall to steady himself, he wonders if it was not much longer than half an hour. In that time, however, he was submitted to their fire again and again until he felt as if he must roast.
There is a strange twitching uncertainty of those around him with the dragons suddenly gone and the rest of the Dragon Queen's army unmoving outside the walls of the city, and he pants, trying to catch his breath—for it can't have been more than a five minutes since he felt the last blast of heat that stole his breath—before he shouts again, louder, so that the men might awaken from their stupor and come to the aid of their fallen brothers. It does some good: a few begin to scramble to remove the dying men and replace them.
Jon is pleased by the willingness of his men to continue to step forward, for he knows the dragons could be upon them again in an instant. They are brave, braver than he, for he can survive the flames and they cannot. But despite their movements, despite their bravery, Jon feels their unease, as if they are all collectively holding their breath, waiting for the army in the distance to begin marching forward, waiting for the dragons to appear overhead once more.
It could have been worse. It might still be worse. But either his gods or the gods of the Seven, worshipped high on the Visenya's Hill at his back, have preserved them so far.
He turns his head, looking out over the walls to mark that the army truly is not advancing, but his attention is pulled back, when he hears a cry, his name, higher and more familiar to him than any other voice here at the wall with him.
His eyes find her, fix upon her red hair, the braid of it long against her back, as she pushes through a throng of soldiers that stumble back to avoid touching their queen.
"Sansa," he murmurs, tossing his helmet aside with a clatter to hurry down the stone steps to the street below, where she stands.
She's already at the bottom step, her hands outstretched to him, when he barks to the man closest to her, "Grab her."
The man only hesitates for a moment, but it is long enough that he has to lunge to catch her, and Jon has to dart back a step to avoid her reaching fingertips. Her eyes go wide at Jon's command and the man's tight grip on her elbows, and Jon can feel the spike of her fear in the pit of his stomach mixing with the relief he can't help but feel at seeing his wife, when he thought he might never see her again.
"The armor is still hot. It would burn your hands." She intended on flying into his arms and he knew that telling her to stop would do no good. Her pale flesh would have been singed red. Someone had to stop her. He promised her no one would ever lay a hand on her, but it is better to be frightened than burned.
Her eyes close, hopefully understanding and reassured by his words, and then she gives a hard jerk with both arms to free herself. "Unhand me," she says through gritted teeth, when the man manages to keep hold of one of them, her sleeve bunched in the man's big hand.
Jon nods, and the man steps back, looking down at his feet.
Sansa breathes hard, her hand pressed to her middle as she gulps the air, her cheeks are flushed, and he can see that she has run to be here with him, passing brothels and bakeries along the Street of Seeds and passing through dangerous allies to make her way to the Lion Gate. Her evident distress twists something in his chest. Everything in Jon aches to reach out to her, but his heated armor prevents him from doing so. The blasted armor is making him feel like a cooked goose, as sweat rolls down his face, chest, and arms.
"Fetch me a bucket of water," he tells the man, who looks content to escape the queen he has possibly offended with his touch.
Sansa watches the man run off and then looks back to him, her eyes darting over his body. "You are unharmed."
"Yes."
Satisfied that he is whole, her attention is drawn away from him and settles upon something behind him. She raises a shaking finger towards the gate. "That should be torn down. That should not overlook the defense of your city."
He frowns, following her gaze, and sees a statue of a man. It looks freshly erected, newer than the other monuments he has spied in this city, but the man is unknown to him. "I don't…"
"It's Twin Lannister," she says, over enunciating each word.
So a lion guards this gate, but then, the road outside leads to Lannisport, so it is no wonder the gate bears the charge of their sigil and stands guarded by one of their faces.
He knows very little about the patriarch of the Lannister family. Given the extent of the indignities Sansa suffered at that family's hands, he does not doubt that Twin was partly responsible and that is reason enough to have the statue removed, however, now is not the time. Sansa should know that.
He has seen Sansa hysterical before, but this is something else entirely. Her blue eyes are fiercely lit with a fury that he's uncertain he can contain. Even if his armor was not hot to the touch and he could pull her into his chest, he wonders whether she would allow it.
Perhaps this is what she was like when the Kingslayer found her in the Vale. Perhaps he would know how to soothe her.
Battle does strange things to a man, things Jon does not always like, and his thoughts fleetingly turn dark, something slippery bubbling up inside of him at the thought of one of these loathsome Lannisters touching, calming Sansa, of Jaime Lannister whispering in her ear.
Until he sees blood. Spots of blood on her skirts. Her fingers are tipped in blood too. The hand holding fast to her skirts and the fingers on her trembling hand still held aloft are both bloodied. He is unscathed and she is…
"You're hurt," he says, as he comes down the last few stairs to her, his hand closing around her narrow shoulder.
"I'm fine," Sansa insists with a shake of her head, her chin tilting upward, though she withdraws her hand and he thinks he can see a fine crack of insecurity in her wrath-like confidence.
She tucks an escaped strand of hair behind her ear, leaving a bright trail of blood along her cheek.
He doesn't like it, the sight of blood on her pale face. "You're hurt and you shouldn't be here."
Sansa's nostrils flare. "That woman meant to kill you with her dragons."
He would ask Sansa what she intended on accomplishing in coming here, how she hoped to save him from dragons, but he knows the answer. Her resolve to die with him should he meet his end atop these walls is as heavy in his gut as the few bites of porridge he took while breaking fast this morning. That is not a fate he wants for her, but then, he doesn't want her to live if it means being at a conquering army's mercy either. His only hope has been that she might escape, flee to the East, and live on as someone else, forgetting both Sansa Stark and Jon Snow.
He draws his hand through his hair, wet with sweat and only preserved from the flames by his helmet. "Yes, I'm aware of it, and no doubt she will try again to kill more than just me. The men need to focus on the defense and you could be harmed if an attack is mounted. You shouldn't be here," he repeats.
Sansa glances around her, inhaling deeply before she responds, "I have no wish to distract anyone from their duty. Only, I refuse to stay locked inside a tower while dragons attack you, Your Grace."
"I don't burn."
"No, but you bleed, and those beasts have teeth as long as my forearm," she insists, holding out her arm, her hand balled into a tight fist.
She exaggerates only slightly, but she is right about there being more ways to die than in a dragon's flames. If Daenerys wanted him dead, she could have ended it with a snap of one of her creature's jaws. Even now she has the advantage with her army of Unsullied at their gates, and she does not seize it. She is taunting them, teasing them, or waiting for something. If only he had a moment to sit and think what her inaction might mean.
If only he could escape this bloody armor, he only just thinks, his hand pulling uselessly at the plate about his neck, when he sees his squire stumbling forward with a bucket full to the brim held in his arms, its contents sloshing. Sansa stands aside, as he takes it from the lad, and without pause upends it over his head. He gasps at the feel of water dousing the heat, steam rising off his plate. Water courses from his hair, into his eyes, over his lips, and Jon hands the bucket back blindly.
"Keep water at hand," he instructs, as he wipes his face with his hand, clearing his eyes of water and blinking over at his wife, who looks somewhat better composed, her bloody hands coolly clasped before her and her lips less white, her cheeks less rosy.
Perhaps she can be reasoned with. "Sansa," he begins more gently, so she might listen to his concern for her safety.
"I know, Your Grace," she says, slipping her hand into his wet one. "I will take cover somewhere close by. Somewhere out of the way, but I will not stay so far, upon Aegon's High Hill."
"The men," he tries again, but she smiles calmly at him and speaks over his words, her voice rising.
"The men will take heart in their queen's faith in their forthcoming victory." Sansa turns towards the men, who stand dumb, either too confused by her presence, the lack of an attack from Daenerys' army, or the late sight of dragons overhead to react, and calls out to them, "Are your spirits not lifted by your queen rallying to your side, good men?" There is only the noise of swords clattering and armor creaking as men shift hesitantly on their feet. "Our king has no need for fell beasts, no need to hide on the back of an abomination or behind the lines of battle." Someone shouts out their agreement and Sansa's smile broadens. "He bravely leads with a sword, and while I am but a woman, following his lead I will not skulk behind stone walls." Another shout, another voice of approval pierces the low hum. "Proud defenders of King's Landing, is it not right that your queen be within sight of your glories on this day?"
The shouting begins in earnest, three men, then ten, then thirty or more, the sound of their clamor rising to a roar, as men raise their fists and clank their swords against their shields.
She has given them hope.
"You've gotten your way," he says with a grimace that fades as soon as he moves to press a kiss to her cheek.
She is not hysterical. She might be angry, she might be furious, but she is determined above all else, and Sansa is far better at this than he. If he instructed the men to drag her back to Maegor's Holdfast now, the lot of them would turn on him. But then, they seemed lost in a fog until she raised her voice. Her presence might truly do them some good. Her words already have. Daenerys' troops must be able to hear this crazed rally, they must know that a taste of dragons will not send the defenders fleeing from their posts.
"It seems I have," she agrees, stroking his damp cheeks. "You can thank me for it later."
…
Jon sits, poring over the reports from spies that have come back from skirting Daenerys' troops. His perch is inside the kitchen of an abandoned baker's shop that serves now as his command post. Sansa sleeps above in the family's quarters, finally having agreed to let Maester Mullin give her something so that her eyes might close and she might rest for a few hours. He didn't want her this close to the dangers of battle, but now that she is here, he wonders how he would have kept his calm without her. She has been a godsend, visiting the injured, bringing ale to shaken soldiers, and always an encouraging word for those whose confidence might otherwise flag while they wait for who knows what terrors.
Everyone is on edge, for all they can see from the wall and all his spies have reported is that the Dragon Queen's army sits and delays for they know not what purpose just beyond catapult firing range, and though the dragons are beyond their sight, they wait too to return and rain fire upon them once more.
Ghost must feel his anxiety, for as Jon flips over a hurried note, he rises off the ground and turns to face the door that leads to a fenced pen for animals behind the bakery. The animals have been slaughtered long ago and only guards mark the front and back entrances to the shop now. Nevertheless, Ghost's hackles stand stiff, and Jon reaches out a weary hand to assure the direwolf that all is well.
"Jon Snow."
Jon twists in his chair, turning towards the unfamiliar voice.
A small hooded figure stands inside the doorway. Someone not meant to be here. Ghost lunges and Jon only manages to catch him by his haunches and tug him back, speaking his name with authority.
"Hold that beast firm," the figure says, moving around the wooden table where the baker must have rolled out pastries and kneaded dough. "I rather like all my fingers and toes." She pulls the hood back and a tumble of silver white hair spills forth.
It can't be. Jon would rub at his eyes to assure himself that he is not in a waking dream, but he feels fixed in place, frozen like Tywin Lannister's unwanted statue.
"That mangy animal of yours doesn't much like me. Do you think he smells the dragon on me?"
Jon finds his voice, though it comes out gravely, "How did you get inside?" The walls, the gates, everything is guarded. This building is guarded. No one gets in or out without his permission.
"Your men have seen my dragons. More than one man will be willing to help me now. Loyalties are fluid."
"You might remember that, should you win this war and sit before a host of people, whose families you have killed in the process of winning that throne."
She takes a step forward with a sigh, her fingertips brushing the table. "Are you going to raise the alarm? Or run me through with your sword yourself?" she asks, nodding towards the sword that lies before him, between him and her.
"Are you alone?"
"Very much so."
He has very little to fear physically from a woman as small as Daenerys, but his kingdom, his family, his people are all threatened by her presence her in Westeros. He could end it now. But then, perhaps she has come here to end it a different way.
"What do you want?"
She spreads her hands. "To talk."
"We've already talked."
"Yes, but with an audience. One that was rather too eager to interrupt. Those two have a fondness for each other that was distracting," she says, and he can see by her smile that she is trying to unnerve him, but if she is here to talk, he can talk.
"Why have your armies not advanced? Why have you not brought your dragons to bear upon us again?" A day has waned and besides the early attack meant for him, there has been nothing.
She tilts her head, her fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. "It glowed."
He frowns. "What?"
"This sword of yours. It glowed. Like a beacon." When he doesn't respond, she looks annoyed, her brows drawing together as she pushes the sword towards him. "Your sword shone, when Drogon lit you aflame. Perhaps your men didn't take note of it."
"Perhaps not. They might be forgiven. Some of them were burning."
She sits atop the table, drawing one knee up so that her leg dangles off the table's edge. "It's war. Men die. Surely you've hardened your heart to that by now."
Not entirely. He's not sure he'll ever be able to harden his heart to it completely. Before Sansa perhaps he was treading down that road, but Sansa's ability to love in spite of the greatest cruelty is deep and real, it is a balm to him. It fills up the creeping nothingness of being something other than human that might otherwise steal over him. It makes him feel everything more acutely. He felt the pain of Aegon's death even though it was necessary, he feels the death of his men, and should Daenerys die, he would no doubt feel that too. For she is kin. She is his aunt, and if she died, the guilt would lie with him no matter who dealt the blow.
"I passed your test. Is that why you don't bring your armies to bear?"
"Yes, you passed." She purses her lips. "That makes you the only family I have, Jon Snow. I thought I might give you time to reconsider."
She was not ready for reason before, but if he can speak rationally with her now…
She looks at him with the same evaluative stare she directed at him inside her tent. "I had a brother: Viserys. He wouldn't have liked you."
Jon crosses his arms over his chest. "I had brothers as well. They wouldn't have thought much of you either."
She laughs. "Are you always so solemn? I meant to pay you a compliment. My brother was no dragon. You, at least, are blood of the dragon. You've proven that."
Having seen the beasts for himself, Jon is more certain than ever that he would rather be a Stark. A man grown, a king, and he still wishes for the one thing he can't have.
Her dark cape slides open, as she leans towards him, across the table, disturbing the impossibly flimsy pale green gown, so transparent he can see the outline of her thigh through it. "Now you might prove to be wise."
Jon raises his brows at that. "You came here to tell me something, I suppose."
"My army is not as well as it once was. It is not the same army that landed in Westeros several moons ago."
"There were bound to be some loss of life, some injuries. This is war," he says, throwing her wise lessons back in her face with bite.
She crooks one pale brow. "Greyscale. We brought it with us from Meereen, and it has spread amongst the ranks." Shireen, Stannis' little girl was afflicted. The wildlings would have nothing to do with her because of it. But, despite her disfigurement, she spread no disease. "It's rather deadly, when it infects grown men. But hold back your triumph: even without an army I can still wipe your defenses out with dragons. You've only seen a hint of what they can do."
Jon does not feel triumphant at her words; he feels a creeping horror spread over him. This is a new enemy he had not expected. "The smallfolk will suffer for it if you bring a plague into this city."
Her fingers bunch the fabric draped over her thigh, her knuckles white with tension, but he can see uncertainty in her violet eyes, when she seethes, "I will take what is mine." Her fingers flex, and as quickly as she has lost her temper, she regains it, speaking more calmly, "If you put an end to this, open the gates to me, and put aside your ambitions, I will quarantine my men outside the city; I will stop the plague's spread. It is the wise choice."
"And otherwise?"
"Otherwise I will do what I must."
"Save my people only to hand them over to someone capable of such cruelty." He looks at his sword and thinks again how quickly he could end this. But what kind of man would that make him? "I can't allow it."
"You really think I'm cruel? My throne was stolen from me, stolen from my father, from my brothers by traitors and murders."
"Stolen from my father as well then, and yet, I have no wish to wager the lives of my people to claim it."
Daenerys huffs. "You can't possibly understand. My brother fed me on the stories of the injustice against our family. You are a bastard only lately revealed, and I am willing to be generous with you, but these kingdoms are mine by right. I have only come to take back what is mine."
"Even if you kill half of King's Landing?"
"I have no wish for people to be sick and suffer. That is why I've come to speak to you. I'm not a gentle heart, but I'm not a monster, Snow."
He watches her, holds her gaze. She is lovely, but just from looking at her one can see that she is not gentle. There is proof enough of her lack of a gentle spirit: the smallfolk burnt, fields scorched, his men's flesh crackling, while the real enemy comes forth from the North.
Daenerys sniffs. "Sansa. Now there's a gentle heart from what my Hand has told me. Have you left her in the Red Keep?"
Jon thinks of Sansa lulled to sleep by a draught, sleeping unaware above them. He does not like the change in subject. He does not like that Daenerys thinks of Sansa at all. Perhaps he was wrong not to call for his men. A potential threat to Sansa is as upsetting to him as a threat to the people of Westeros.
"Don't go pale," Daenerys chides. "I like her. She was rather too free in her manner with me, but I liked her in spite of it. Because of it. But she is your sister. They say that is the cause of our madness."
"Sansa is not my sister. She is my wife."
Daenerys bites her lip, the corners of her mouth quirking. "You love her. Well, yes, she's lovely. Of course you do, but it might have been better for you to marry someone else."
"You?" he asks flatly.
"Tyrion suggested as much, but I think I am done with husbands." Daenerys looks off over his shoulder, her face falling. "I have not had the luxury of following my heart. My heart has been forged in fire, not ice. But flames are just as effective at hardening your heart for the task of ruling. If you live, you'll see how ruling makes the heart hard, how love becomes impossible."
She seems lost in some reverie, and Jon feels the opportunity slipping away to convince her that this war must end. He reaches out a hand, his scarred one, to cover hers.
"Your Grace," he tries. "I need help fighting in the North. There is a great evil beyond the Wall, spilling over the Wall, which will overwhelm us all if we don't turn all our resources towards its destruction."
"Grumkins and snarks?" she asks with a sigh.
"Others and their thralls, wights. Your dragons would be of use: the wights burn. Very little else stops them. Others are even harder to kill unless you have a hoard of dragonglass."
She narrows her eyes in confusion and shakes her head. "What is this nonsense?"
"It's a threat men thought only legend. I've seen them, I've fought them. If the Others are rising again, it could mean this winter will last a generation. The Others will come and kill everyone in their path. Would it not be better for all if you abandoned your plans to attack King's Landing and we combined our resources?"
Daenerys pulls free of his grip and her hand comes to her mouth, her fingers just brushing her lips as they dance mindlessly. "Turn north?" she asks, her eyes not meeting his.
"Yes. If there is to be a throne to save, we must act soon."
"You're serious. You believe you speak the truth."
Jon leans back in his chair, his hand finding Ghost's head. "Yes. I'm convinced of it."
"And then who rules this frozen wasteland you envision after we defeat these Others?"
"If we defeat the Others." Then she will have proved herself to him, as she insisted he prove himself to her. If Daenerys is willing to fight to save her people in the North, perhaps she is not be the cruel conqueror he imagines her to be. He would be willing to discuss joint rule or handing over the Seven Kingdoms under such circumstances. He would not feel it a betrayal of his people.
"I see," she says standing and fidgeting with her hood. "The hour is late, Jon Snow. Will you let me slip away or am I to be shackled?"
It still is not a solution without charm, and yet… "You came to talk, we have talked. We both have things to consider."
She moves towards the doorway, and Jon extends his arm. "Only, you might remember my generosity, Daenerys, should our positions ever be reversed."
"Are you so worried about your own skin?" she asks, drawing her hood up. "Or do you mean to secure generous treatment for your wife?"
"I think you know what I mean." He would die a thousand deaths to secure Sansa's safety.
Daenerys nods. "I knew you would not harm me, Jon Snow. Your wife is not the only one with a gentle heart."