the sword in the darkness

DISCLAIMER: Every character mentioned and anything in the world of A Song of Ice and Fire belongs to George R. R. Martin. I own nothing except the writing.

A/N: I remember Kit Harington once said, in response to being asked how he'd like Jon to die, "Sunday afternoon, peacefully. 85 years old – resting his head gently on a big iron chair." I guess you can look at this one as my attempt to write that out (technically, this is set sometime in the middle of the night, but you can assume it's a Sunday at least). And, also, you could look at this as a relation of the previous chapter.

25. question

Jon put aside his book, grunting as he reached for his cane, grimacing at the pain in his leg. The old wound from Ygritte's arrow long ago had opened up once in a battle when he was five-and-twenty, and had long since continued to pain him, especially in his old age now. Ygritte. Some of his memories might have been failing him recently, but he remembered her as clearly as if their trysts had been only yesterday.

He limped out of his solar, glancing at Sansa's bedchamber as he passed the door. Their marriage had been one of convenience, and they had stayed as friends the whole time, unable to make the first step towards love, had hesitated, had been too haunted by the ghosts of Ygritte and Willas Tyrell, both dead and gone. In the beginning, her hair had reminded him too much of Ygritte's, red and vibrant, although smooth and always intricately arranged, unlike his deceased lover's, but he had gotten used to her presence, and so had she. She had given him three healthy children, and he would always be grateful to her for that, for the blessed distraction from being a Prince of the crown, and then a King. Eddara, their eldest daughter, as solemn as her namesake, but as beautiful and graceful as her mother; Robert, for their beloved lost brother, Jon's heir; and Lyanna, named in honour of the mother Jon had never known, so like her aunt Arya that Jon had indulged her, unable to resist her charms and unwilling to squash the wild wilfulness, had always told himself that she was a second daughter, and that he would not have to have to give her away to a man she did not want and would have to bend to. He hadn't, of course.

Jon continued down the corridor, and when he came to the huge, imposing doors, he edged one forwards before pulling it closed behind him. When he walked forwards, his steps echoed loudly on the floor – almost uncomfortably loudly, but Jon had been forced to get used to the sound, as he had gone used to everybody acknowledging his every entry, watching his every move, deferring to him in all, even though his insides prickled with unease at the attention. His cane made sharp thunks every time it came into contact with the smooth floor, and Jon ascended the stairs, his eyes fixed on the throne that was his.

He had never wanted it, but there was no real choice for him. Daenerys had been unable to conceive, and she and Aegon had perished in the Battle of the Wall, when they had attacked and defeated the Others and creatures beyond the Wall, along with Viserion. When Dany died, Drogon had gone into a rage, and had been uncontrollable, until he had escaped them all, and flown away. A decade had passed before he came back, when Eddara was born – and his daughter and the dragon had developed an attachment, of sorts. Sansa had been worried at first, but Jon knew that his daughter was a warg, perfectly capable of controlling Drogon if he turned uncooperative, and that there was no separating them or destroying the bond they had formed.

Jon had ascended to the throne after the disaster of the Wall, had allowed the wildings to completely settle in the Gift under the leadership of Toregg, one of the deceased Tormund's sons. He had given Winterfell to Arya's son after both she and Gendry had gone, died in the battle, and he had heard that she had fought as bravely as any man, had killed taken down many before going down herself. He had grieved for her, and had never stopped, had waited all his life to join her and Ygritte and his father – Ned Stark, the father who had brought him up – and Robb and Bran and his Uncle Benjen and more of them.

When he reached the top, he turned himself and sat down, slowly, grimacing as his bones protested, and laid his cane over his knees before sitting back and placing his hands carefully on the arms of the Iron Throne, surveying the empty, large room before him. Idly, he wondered what they would say in the morning when they found him here, their forgetful old king lounging in his chair asleep, and shifted slightly in the chair, making himself more comfortable. When he laid his head back to alleviate the mild aching of his neck, he closed his eyes, breathing in slowly.