THE FREEDOM TO FAIL
Jon I
His first real act as King in the North had been a public address at the funeral pyres of several thousand slain men. Jon wasn't sure how he felt about that but supposed it was appropriate; only with all other options exhausted would the North be mad enough to name a bastard King. Even without the dead marching on the world at large, their situation was dire. Robb had taken most of the men south, all of their primary fighting force and a good portion of their reserves as well, and the slaughter at the Twins had seen only the Bolton and Karstark forces return to the North. Those who had remained in Winterfell had been subjected to brutality from the Ironborn and Boltons both, and the rest of the North had fared little better. They were heading into Winter with depleted food stores, a ravaged fighting force, farming lands either put to the torch or frozen beyond use already, and a castle full of injured men in need of supplies they didn't have.
Jon sighed and raked a hand through his hair as his breath disappeared upwards into the leaves overhanging the Godswood. It was snowing, as it had been since some point overnight, and the world was crisp and white and cold. If he tried, he could imagine he was back North of the Wall, surrounded by frigid beauty and freedom. And if he closed his eyes, he could see Ygritte's face as she mocked the way his people had greeted him with bows and curtsies all day.
His people… Gods help him…
He wondered if she'd be proud of him, somewhere beneath the mocking? He liked to think so. It was easier to consider that than to remember all the pointless deaths which had defined their time together, from her own, to Pyp and Grenn, to the Mag the Mighty, to the old horse breeder, to all the souls slaughtered at Hardhome…
They were, without question, the Night King's greatest ally.
Dragging his thoughts away from the dead, Jon sighed once more. If he could just show those memories to every Lord and Lady who simpered politely when he tried to explain what was coming and then dismissed his words. But he couldn't, and that left him trying to organize the defence of the realm with the only group of people who truly believed in the coming war.
Finding Tormund was never difficult, all he had to do was follow the noise. The red-haired man was, unquestionably, the loudest and most boisterous fellow Jon had ever met and a stark contrast to his own solitary disposition. Theirs was an odd friendship, built first on deception and then desperation, and yet it was genuine affection nonetheless. Tormund had come through on his behalf more than once, the supposedly savage wildling keeping his word even as the respectable Northern Houses broke their vows. If his rule could bring anything to the North, Jon hoped the Lords and Ladies would look to the free folk for examples of how to put aside animosity and make peace, even with those they'd been fighting for generations. It was the only chance they had at survival.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he trudged out of the Godswood and followed the noise to the stables in which the free folk had set up their own makeshift infirmary after balking at the idea of receiving treatment from Winterfell's maester. The wave of relief he felt when he stepped into the crowded building and not a single soul paid him any mind and the raucous laughter and storytelling did not falter, was almost overwhelming.
It was little wonder that so many rulers went mad…
"King Crow!" An enormous hand clapped him forcefully on the back, knocking Jon free of his musings, "You're thinking again. You should never do that."
Jon felt a smile tug at his lips. "Alas, if only I had your self-control, Tormund."
The larger man let out a booming laugh and slung an arm around Jon's shoulders. "Come, sit awhile. Or should I fall to my knees and kiss your breeches, Your Grace?"
"Never."
Tormund laughed again, but Jon caught the understanding in his eyes that would forever go unacknowledged. "Mance was right, you have spent too long with us."
Jon didn't deny it. Tormund began regaling him with a (hopefully) exaggerated tale of a misunderstanding between a few of the free folk and some Northern Lords, and he allowed himself to relax into just being Jon for a moment as he was herded toward an overturned feed-trough-turned-bench. A series of hearty claps on the shoulders and backs moved aside the men already sitting there, and Jon was deposited in their place with Tormund beside him.
"—wasn't proper," the chieftain of the free folk continued cheerfully, "How were they to know that? But the Southern soft cocks wouldn't hear it."
"Do us all a favour, Tormund?" Jon asked ruefully, "If the free folks want an audience with someone, come to me about it first."
"They were inspired!" Tormund protested, "A girl like that will have no shortage of suitors, they felt they had to move quickly!"
Jon shook his head fondly. "Be that as it may, we do not steal wives south of the Wall. Your men are fortunate Lady Lyanna was willing to let them leave intact."
Tormund waved a hand dismissively. "What other way does a man woo such a woman!"
"She's all of ten, Tormund. If they try again, I will allow Lady Lyanna to do as she pleases with them."
The redhead leered. "They may enjoy that."
"I doubt it."
Tormund laughed. "I imagine you're right."
They fell into a companionable silence. Jon took the opportunity to look around and take stock of the injured men and women scattered around the stables in various states of healing. The free folks had taken heavy casualties against the Bolton's force, just as everyone had, yet the mood around the stable was markedly more boisterous than within Winterfell. Battered and exhausted though they were, the free folk were just so damned happy to be south of the Wall.
"What did I tell ye about thinkin'?"
Jon chuckled softly as he turned to find Tormund studying him, the larger man looking almost pensive himself.
"You didn't expect it, the crown."
Jon felt the humour slip away. "No," he admitted, "It shouldn't have been me…"
"I'm glad it is." Tormund cut him off, gruffly, "Another ruler would not have taken so kindly to us."
"My sister is a good woman — "
"I don't doubt it, but she doesn't know us like you do. She hasn't fought for us like you have."
Jon sighed. "I need to ask something of you, Tormund. I'm not your king, but I need your help. The Night's Watch is less than fifty men…"
"You want us to man the other castles?" Tormund guessed, "O'course we will! Those of us who are fit to travel will head out on the 'morrow."
Jon breathed out another sigh, this time of relief. "Thank you," he said honestly, "Now, there is just one more thing I was hoping you and your people could help me with…"
By the time evening had settled over Winterfell, Jon had a plan. It was not yet fleshed out, nor was it particularly politically sound, but it just might give them a fighting chance. That was, if it didn't kill them all first. Still, that spark of hope was more than he'd had since his brothers in black had driven their knives into his chest, and he clung to it as he looked over what he'd drawn up. He was certain that he could get the other Lords on board with some of it, so long as they didn't know who had helped him draw up the plans. It was just common sense. Even if they continued to doubt the validity of the White Walker threat, the impending arrival of winter itself should be enough to convince them. The rest of it, however…
Jon leaned back in his chair as he rubbed absent-mindedly at the ache in his chest. It was best not to think about the rest of it, he supposed. It wasn't as though he intended to ask anyone for permission.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Come," he called out.
It shouldn't have been a surprise, she had told him she would join him tonight when they'd spoken the night before, but even still seeing Sansa step through his door felt unexpected somehow. When she had seen him last night, when she had seen the horrors he tried to keep tucked away, he'd been shocked. He had never known her to enter a room without prompting. Hells, he'd never known her to enter his chambers at all. Yet he'd found the same comfort in her presence that he had at Castle Black, and he liked to think she had felt it too. They may not have been close as children, but they were family, and they were all that was left of a time they would never get back.
She was laden with supplies, and he could make out a jug and bowl along with clean bandages piled in her arms. He jumped to his feet to take some of her load and helped deposit the supplies on the furs of his bed. The grateful smile she gave him only served to make the whole situation more surreal. The rightful Queen in the North, Sansa bloody Stark, fetching and carrying and helping her bastard brother…
Jon shook his head, smiling despite himself at the thought.
"What?" Sansa asked, catching his expression as she looked up from organizing the supplies.
"You came," Jon shrugged. It was nowhere near the explanation she deserved, but they were the only words that would come.
Something that could have been guilt flickered across his sister's face before she stood, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. "Of course I did. You're my brother," she said matter-of-factly, "Now, sit."
Jon obliged her without further comment. He tugged off his leathers and tunic and tossed them onto his bed before settling himself on the edge. Sansa had busied herself pouring boiled wine into the bowl and arranging a rag each for cleaning and drying. If this second view of his wounds unsettled her, she did not let on, and wasted no time in beginning her examination of them.
The steady ache Jon was growing accustomed to permeating his chest gave way to a sharp burning sensation the moment the wine touched his damaged skin. Leaning back on his hands, he breathed carefully through the pain, mindful not to disturb his sister's work. Sansa spared him a glance at the sound, her eyebrows knitted together in concern.
"I'm alright," Jon gave her a tight smile.
"Yes, you certainly look it," Sansa quipped dryly before seeming to catch herself, "Forgive me, that was — "
"Funny," he assured her gently, his smile loosening into something more genuine, "And you're quite right, of course."
Sansa mirrored his smile with one of her own before returning her attention to her task. Her fingers moved lightly, despite the sting of the wine, as she flushed each wound carefully.
Jon watched her work in silence for a while before speaking again. "You're right to be angry with me as well."
Sansa's hands paused for a moment before resuming their duty. "I'm not angry."
Jon noted the sudden stiffness in her posture, but chose not to argue. "You should be," he sighed instead, "I'm not a Stark; you are. It seems your mother was right to fear I would take was is rightfully yours."
And there it was, the truth that sat wedged between them. The same truth that had always been there, no matter how their father had tried to dissuade the notion. The same truth Jon himself had fought against all his life. Yet here they were.
"She wasn't," Sansa sighed, setting aside the wine-soaked cloth so that she might give Jon her full attention. "It's not you I'm angry with, Jon. Not really. I'm angry that my name means something only when in the hands of a man. I'm angry that I'm 'the key to the North' only when I spread my legs. I'm angry that I was, and will continue to be, overlooked based solely on my womanhood. I'm angry that the one man who claims to see my worth in truth only wants my cunt as he sits on the Iron Throne — "
"If Baelish so much as lays a finger — "
"Stop that! I don't need to be protected, Jon! I don't want to be protected! I want to be respected…"
Jon reached forward and took his sister's hands in his own, squeezing them gently. "You're right," he agreed, before smiling sadly, "You sounded so like Arya just there."
Sansa gave a watery laugh. "It seems she had the measure of the world long before I did."
Jon shrugged. "I'd always hoped you would never come to see the world as she did," he confessed.
His sister sighed heavily and extracted her hands from his grasp so that she could take a seat next to him on the bed instead. "I miss them, Jon."
Jon felt his heart clench uncomfortably. "So do I," he murmured, "Every day."
For several minutes they sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts and memories. For Jon, echoes of Sansa's confession played on his mind. Her anger was more than justified, and he held a more similar opinion than she knew. He was no king. Hells, he was hardly even a commander, as his sworn brothers had made abundantly clear. But Sansa… "I need your help. Sansa," he admitted softly, "You've got a better mind for politics than I ever will. I'm not meant to be a king, I never have been, it should have been you the North chose."
"Jon…"
"It's the truth, we both know it is." Jon kept his gaze fixed forward and therefore he nearly startled when his sister took his hand, interlacing their fingers and giving them a gentle squeeze.
"Of course I'll help you, Jon," she promised, "Always."
