Jon

Jon rises to his feet and silently eases Longclaw from its scabbard when he hears the slight, scraping sound of boots in the passageway beneath him. He blinks against the throbbing pain of the headache pounding behind his eyes and tries to focus, though he knows he is in no condition to take on more than a few men.

"Jon?" Arya's voice floats toward him and he lowers his sword to his side, leaning exhaustedly against the wall for support.

She appears out of the gloom, a glowing torch in one hand, and with her is Davos, his familiar, grizzled features lined with worry.

"It's a fine mess you find yourself in, your Grace." The older man lays a kindly hand on Jon's shoulder before pulling him into brief hug. He turns his head so that his mouth is close to Jon's ear. "I am so sorry, my boy," he whispers. "So very sorry."

Jon shudders and for a moment he cannot speak, instead tightening his grip on the other man's arm as he struggles to compose himself.

"I am glad to see you, Davos." Jon's voice is muffled against the Onion Knight's shoulder. "Though I'm certain you cannot say the same. I seem to keep dragging you from one mess to another."

"Aye," Davos agrees. "But as it's always in service to the greater good, I've decided not to hold it against you."

Jon pulls back.

"I'm not sure that is always true my lord, especially in light of what has happened in this place, but I appreciate your saying so." There is a long, weighty silence, and then,

"I failed again, Davos."

"We all did, your Grace." The knight lays his hands on Jon's shoulders and gives him a little shake. "Do you remember what I told you when you awoke at Castle Black, lad?"

Jon nods.

"It still holds true. You fight for as long as you can."

"Clean up as much of the shit as you can," Jon finishes with a watery grimace.

"Aye."

Jon's had time to think as he awaited Arya's return. He does not believe he will ever forgive himself for turning on Daenerys. Knows he will never be able to scrub away the memory of the surprised gasp she took or the taste of her blood on his lips. But he is unwilling to leave Westeros vulnerable to the remains of her army. He will do what he can and then he will turn himself over to face justice.

"What's the plan?" He turns to Arya who has sidled close and tucked herself under his arm, much as she had done when they were children.

"This passage connects to a series of tunnels that run under Kings Landing. We are going to follow it until we are outside of the city gates where the remains of the northern army is camped and awaiting its king," she tells him.

"And then you will return with the might of your army at your back and we will see what we can do to restore order to the city," Davos finishes.

"The people of this city – those who remain – do not need more fighting in the streets," Jon cautions. "And I am not sure that we have the numbers to take on the Unsullied and the Dothraki."

"Well, then," Davos shrugs. "We'll just have to find a way to resolve things without raising our swords."

"That's it?" Jon barks out a disbelieving laugh. "That's the plan?"

"That's the plan." The older man's lips curve upward in a wry smile. "Let's not overthink it. Things tend to go to shit when we try to plan for every eventual outcome."

Jon huffs out a tired snort then gestures to Arya who leads the way, her torch cutting through the gloom of the tunnels until finally he can see daylight. He emerges, blinking until his vision adjusts and is immediately surrounded by his men. Davos arches a brow toward a nearby captain who barks at the men to fall into formation and Jon takes a moment to gather himself and his thoughts.

"We marched south to honor the pledge I made to Queen Daenerys." Jon's voice is steady, but pitched so that every man can hear him as he methodically moves through the rows of Northmen. "To support her in her fight for the throne as she supported us to defend our people against the dead. But what happened here yesterday was not a battle between two armies. It was an extermination of civilians. I did not bring you here to be a part of this! There is no honor to be found in the wholesale slaughter of innocent men, women and children."

His chest heaves and he sucks in air to steady himself as the urgency and conviction of his voice carries over the hushed crowd of men.

"The Lannister army had surrendered. I saw it. You all saw it. The city had surrendered. We all heard the people calling for mercy. We all heard the pealing of the bells. And yet I was grieved to see many of my Northern brethren willingly participate in the sacking of the city. Was shamed to see so many of you engage in the slaughter of children and the rape of women and the execution of men who had surrendered their arms."

Fists clenched at his side, he prowls the length and breadth of the ranks of his men. His voice trembles with barely leashed rage and battle-hardened soldiers look away, unable to meet their king's gaze.

"The North has long held itself out as an example of a life lived with honor above all else. But many of you disgraced the North and your houses yesterday. Ned Stark would have been ashamed of you. King Robb would have been ashamed of you. I... I am ashamed of you."

He swipes a hand over his beard and blows out a long breath. Coming to a halt near the center of his army, his voice is a pitched growl, rough with anger, yet his words are clear to every man.

"That ends now. You are sons of the North and I expect that you will conduct yourselves with honor. You will act with discipline. You will be merciful to the weak and the innocent and you will help me to restore order to this city. I will not abide my men to bring more shame onto our homeland. If you cannot swear to do so, you must leave now, for I promise you on everything I hold dear, if I find you have brought dishonor to the North, I will execute you myself."

Hand wrapped around Longclaw's pommel, he stalks toward the front of the ranks. As the men fall in line behind him, Arya and Davos move into position on either side of him.

"And what of me?" Arya smirks.

"You are my sister. A daughter of House Stark and a spearwife of the North. Of you I have no doubts."

Beneath the many cuts and bruises littering her face, her features light up with pride.

"Well then, after you, your Grace." She sweeps a hand forward in an elaborate bow, grinning at the exasperated look on her brother's face before following her king back into the city.

TBC

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading, bookmarking, and commenting. I have no aspirations towards writing professionally or for profit. It's a fun hobby. A way of getting stories out of my head and "down on paper". Knowing that others are reading and enjoying and are engaged in a story is an added joy. I know this chapter is short, but it was ready and I wanted to post something. I hope you enjoy.