A.N.: My favourite review of the last chapter was "Gah!" Definitely sums up the feels!
Valyrian Steel
17
Dragonglass
It disappointed him, truth be told, how little effort it took to nurture dissention in the ranks. The natives huddled in dread, starving, while the invading hordes of wild-men roved, starving, shuddering with dread every time they found themselves penned in by the ocean. The Prince's paramour and her Sand Snakes were spitting with disappointment; the Tyrells shared disdainful glances; the Greyjoys muttered amongst themselves. They gave sound advice; and the benefit of their recent experiences; gave detailed accounts of Westeros as things lay with the surviving lords and ladies of the Six Kingdoms - Six, as the other Westerosi had immediately and irrevocably respected Jon Snow's declaration of independence.
They were too bloodthirsty, too reliant on the Queen's forces for their own ends to risk echoing the declaration. If Jon Snow spoke the truth, he had the most to lose of all of them by not winning alliance with Queen Daenerys': And yet he refused to kneel or placate her to win her. He refused to even try to win her. And that infuriated and intrigued her, to the point that it was Jon Snow's opinion alone that Daenerys Stormborn sought, and listened to.
The old crone Olenna could tell the bright young Queen words of hard-earned wisdom until she was blue in the face, Ellaria Sand could purr seductively of strategy and patience, and yet they were ignored: If Jon Snow repeated what they said, it was he the Queen would likely praise for his intuition and brilliance.
Queen Daenerys ignored her advisors, her council. She ignored everyone but the one man who had sworn independent sovereignty from her family's ancestral, now-defunct dynasty.
Of course, Jon Snow did not contribute at Council meetings. He did not repeat what Lady Olenna or Ellaria Sand advised. But they all knew if he had, the Queen would listen.
They respected Jon Snow; and it rankled that the Queen did not respect their experience, their wisdom, or their allegiance - all because one man had refused her. He had her sole focus. Except to dine with the court, Jon Snow did not show his face: He had his own concerns, and advising Daenerys on her conquest was not a priority. The first man not to fall in thrall to her pretty face or her dragons, he was a man among one million to defy her: And that was deeply attractive to a woman who had become accustomed to being worshipped.
She wanted him to worship her.
And she spent more time trying to figure out how to make that come about, than actually do anything that would remotely impress or earn Jon Snow's respect.
Jon Snow filled his days with his own tasks, and in fulfilling them, he inadvertently - at first - started to settle things on the island, sowing the seeds of admiration and respect, unknowingly nurturing loyalty. Then he realised what he was doing: And went about it blatantly.
It began with something largely unseen, inconsequential to most: A fish.
Insignificant, to those accustomed to full bellies and the abundance of summertime.
Later, maesters might venture that the fate of Queen Daenerys' conquest rested with a single fish.
It began with a fish, and with the King in the North's ship, the one ship moored off the shore that had not been forcibly requisitioned into the Queen's armada. Jon Snow did not ask permission to leave the island: He just did it. And because he did not cede that appearance of the Queen's control over him, everyone acted accordingly. They treated him as the King he was, his orders carried out without hesitation or second-guessing - or approval from the Queen or her counsellors: Jon Snow's men were not denied access to their little dinghy, laden with nets knotted by the islanders, nor were they denied the freedom to row to the King's ship.
When the King's ship sailed past the horizon, it had orders to take Arbour wine to the Saltpans to trade: And to return with barrels of salt. The King did not leave with his ship: His men found lodging in the tiny port, with the understanding that if Jon Snow caught wind that his men had laid so much as a hand on their wives and daughters, his men would lose that hand.
The King in the North would tolerate no violation of guest-right - either as host or as guest.
The islanders came out of their cottages, emboldened by a direwolf's protection, to work alongside the Northmen and fish the choicest waters around the island, snaring the migrating shoals, each haul of the nets groaning with thousands of fish. They were not too late.
First it was one small dinghy. Then a handful more were reclaimed from the armada with the King's help, flagrantly, in broad daylight. By the seventh sunrise, a sizeable fleet of liberated boats was hauling fish from the seas. No-one had asked the Queen's permission. They did not seek her forgiveness.
A direwolf had emboldened them, reminded them that they were proud, and fiercely devoted to their own survival - and that they alone knew this island and its secrets. They held the power among the smallfolk gathered, Dothraki and Meereenese and Unsullied and Westerosi, liberated slaves from every known part of the world.
The tiny quay started to bustle as natives taught Dothraki how to prepare saltwater fish; and Meereenese taught the islanders their own peculiar way to preserve fish in vinegar; the Northmen brought their own knowledge, smoking the fish - smoked Northern salmon was a delicacy that had made Lord Manderly rich, exporting shiploads to King's Landing, Highgarden and Lys. Through food, many different cultures came together and communicated, sharing their skills: Little language was necessary - everything was communicated through scent and taste and touch.
Jon Snow solved the problem of immediate starvation. He soothed rattled nerves and helped invaders form lasting bonds with natives, for one very special reason: Survival.
People remembered.
Though the Northmen had been housed by the waterfront, Jon Snow remained a guest at the castle: His presence was felt, and though he was not invited into the Council meetings nor did he ask to be present during them, his comings and goings were discussed at length.
Instead of discussing his efforts to feed the masses gathered on Dragonstone - Queen Daenerys' masses - the Queen focused on his refusal to kneel to her. Instead of questioning what Jon Snow found so intriguing among the dusty shelves of Dragonstone's extensive library, that he spent hours in there, poring over crackling scrolls, undisturbed for hours, she vacillated over the fact he had shown absolutely no interest in either asking for or accepting a seat on her Council.
Jon Snow had not pressed the issue of an alliance to defeat a mythical threat. Queen Daenerys did not question why: She obsessed over the fact the King in the North would rather stride the shorelines of the island, and share his meals with the smallfolk, than dine on foreign delicacies as her guest…
It was a curious thing that the Queen, so vicious and condescending - arrogant - toward Jon Snow upon his arrival, now seemed to consider the King in the North her guest, and consider him a guest in poor taste for not flattering her. More than that, she seemed to be doing her utmost to try and impress the King in the North. He refused to dine with her every night, preferring the smallfolk's simple, wholesome fare, and sat polite but visibly uncomfortable at the Queen's table, dining on exotic delicacies, listening to queer, unsettling music and watching foreign beauties dance and coil their bodies into intricate knots to entertain them.
And while the Queen nurtured her growing resentment toward her advisers, tempering her impatience with their wisdom, she ignored the people she had brought across the world: She did not see that Jon Snow had arrived at Dragonstone - and shown her up.
First it was the fish: Then it was the glasshouses.
"You once told me your father made you head of all the drains and cisterns at Casterly Rock," Jon said to Lord Tyrion, as they wandered the pine-scented godswood. There was no weirwood here, the residents of the island long since turned to the Light of the Seven: More recently, Stannis Baratheon had burned the statues of the Seven from the castle's sept, offering them up to the Lord of Light. The last autumn roses clung to vines that strangled their way around ancient apple trees, their perfume incongruous against the pervasive odour of sulphur and salt that permeated the air.
"All the shit found its way to the sea," the Imp sighed.
"At Winterfell we have glasshouses. Dozens of them. My father used to warn us as boys that the glasshouses kept the North fed during the worst winters," Jon Snow sighed, frowning. "Even in the deepest snows the glasshouses remained untouched; the hot-springs piped through the walls kept the glasshouses warm. Smallfolk from Winter's Town kept the glasshouses of Winterfell tended, even when they had no lord and master to guide them…they rely on the glasshouses too. Why are yours barren, my lord?"
Lord Tyrion sighed, gazing up at the ancient, dark trees. "An experienced leader trains his inferiors to the point where his absence does not affect how the army performs. Something my father taught me. The North is used to strong, wise leadership - the Starks value their smallfolk as much as their bannermen, and the smallfolk trust the Starks. Such loyalty was not easily broken, as men found to their own destruction."
"Aye," Jon Snow agreed.
"Stannis Baratheon was an effective military leader, but he was not a great lord," Lord Tyrion said, shaking his head. "He did not engender loyalty such as your father did… Every person at Winterfell knew their place, and their value; they took pride in living under Stark rule and in their small way could show their support of the Starks by maintaining Winterfell."
"Do you intend to maintain Dragonstone as your stronghold throughout winter, my lord?" Jon asked, giving him a look that reminded Tyrion so vividly of Ned Stark, who could have had no idea that two of his sons would be named King in the North.
"You can forgive me, Your Grace, if I do not share the Queen's plans for conquest with a foreign ruler," Lord Tyrion smirked, his eyes twinkling.
"Your conquest won't last long, or end the way you want, if you don't respect the winter," Jon said softly. He sighed, shaking his head. "Your glasshouses are empty."
"The Dothraki and Unsullied are many things, Your Grace; sadly farmers is not one of those things," Lord Tyrion smirked.
"They're not all blood-riders and Unsullied," Jon Snow said, giving Tyrion a look. "You visited Winterfell; you explored the castle, I remember you trying to trace the source of the hot-springs that feed the aqueducts, the watercourses that maintain the glasshouses even in the heart of winter."
"A fruitless endeavour," Lord Tyrion sighed, "and hell on my legs. I feel you are driving at something, Your Grace."
"You were at Castle Black when you designed the saddle for my brother Bran," Jon said. "You designed the drains and cisterns of Casterly Rock. Is it possible to design some sort of irrigation system to bring in thermal waters to the glasshouses here at Dragonstone?"
Lord Tyrion smiled at Jon Snow. Even removed from his own castle and lands, the King in the North cared for the safety and survival of people - whether or not they were 'his' - one of the reasons he had been named King in the North in the first place.
Within a week, the Hand of the Queen had provided technical drawings, schematics for a system of irrigation to bring thermal water from hot-springs into the castle, to the glasshouses.
And the King in the North was found, not with a sword in his hands but with a spade, one among a team of smallfolk - Dothraki, Meereenese and Dragonstone natives alike - turning over the earth in the neglected raised beds spreading across the glasshouses. Nomadic peoples and city-dwelling slaves had joined the King in the North to learn through his example, as they had when he provided the tools and experience they needed to learn how to fish and preserve their catch, and the natives of Dragonstone found themselves in a position of strength: They were farmers. Their fighting men had long gone off to war, and never returned - those who remained had grown up to fill the voids in the fields, in the fishing-boats. They shared their knowledge, and in doing so assumed positions of authority over the rest. The Dothraki and Meereenese freed-men were invaders, yes; but they were at the mercy of the natives of Dragonstone to survive the winter - winter, a foreign concept to Essos, reserved for tales of the barbaric Westerosi with their furs and wild beards.
The King in the North wore no furs as he tended the earth; his leathers were removed, the sleeves of his coarse linen undershirt rolled up, sweating profusely as he swung a pick-axe to loose stubborn earth.
"I have served a great many Kings in my time," said an elegant voice, "and yet never one such as would toil in the fields beside his people to help provide for them. Where did the King in the North learn to farm?" The King glanced up, squinting as sweat dripped into his eyes. He accepted a ladle of water from a young girl whose task was to run between the diggers and offer a drink. The King wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his undershirt, and glanced at Lord Varys - trying to work him out. So far, the Master of Whisperers had been a polite, soft-spoken man with a neutral expression and only vaguely interested in what went on around him - the great ruse, Jon knew. He was not the terrifying Spider Jon had always heard whispers about when he was a boy.
Lord Varys was…curious. A curious character in himself, and a man full of curiosity. As far as Jon could tell, he was patient, benign and charming - he had as yet to see the Spider as anything but content to observe the juicy flies caught up in his web, twitching this or that strand of silver webbing to suit him.
Jon couldn't say he liked the Master of Whisperers - he was too Southern, even if he was a foreigner: He played court politics too well, and Jon, though he understood the gist of it, could play the game but chaffed against being forced to, especially when time was of the essence.
More and more, the Master of Whisperers had made his presence felt near Jon: Sansa had warned that the Master of Whisperers had a network of spies, even probably Northmen whose swords were sworn to them - they would all be feeding him information. And yet there was little necessity for that, when the Spider himself was content to observe Jon Snow personally. At first, he had never approached, only watched; then he had started conversing with the smallfolk; then Jon's men. Finally, Ser Davos - and Jon, who'd had enough of the lurking, and sat the Spider down with a cup of Northern mulled wine around a campfire.
The Spider seemed as comfortable in silks as in boiled leathers and roughspun; less cautious with the smallfolk, and disdainful of the nobles he manipulated with such ease. He was clever, and patient, and wise.
He had served many kings for a reason. He had weathered every storm, maintaining his position of influence. There was a lesson in that.
Jon couldn't help wonder if Sansa hadn't watched the Spider performing at court, and emulated some of what she saw: His courtesy, his benevolence, his unassuming charisma.
He knew the Master of Whispers was more curious for his own sake about Jon, than for the sake of the Queen - Jon had had to learn how to read people, or he would never have made it this far, never made it out of Mance Rayder's tent: He knew enough about listening to his own instincts to know that the Queen's court was rumbling with discontent.
They weren't impressed that it was Jon Snow, a bastard named King in the North, who had brought together native islanders with Dothraki, Unsullied and Meereenese freed-slaves to fish; to overturn the barren glasshouses and plant winter crops; and to build sturdy accommodations for the thousands who would be left behind when the Unsullied and Dothraki blood-riders sailed to the mainland on conquest. They were disgruntled that Jon Snow had taken initiative in preparing for the winter, and at the same ensuring a continued supply of food - untouchable by Cersei's forces due to the fierce winter sea-storms - and rather than try and convince the Queen that it was in her interests to do it, had already organised the manpower to get the work done before the worst of the winter storms came south.
They were impressed with Jon: Not with their new Queen.
The Master of Whisperers sought Jon out at least once a day to check on his progress. He asked Jon questions, seemingly benign - about his family, his education, his memories of childhood… Anything to gently coax a conversation from Jon, notoriously quiet whenever he graced the Queen's court.
"My sister wasn't born patient. Father used to joke, she came first - too eager to explore the world around her," the King said, his smile pained, something shuttering his dark grey eyes. "We had an excellent Maester at Winterfell - Luwin. When she'd irritated the septa to distraction, Larra was sent to join me and my brothers in the schoolroom. She was the most voracious student - all Robb and Theon and I wanted to do was fight… Maester Luwin taught Larra patience through gardening. She had her own allotments in the gardens and the glasshouses…she loved them; she became meticulous in caring for her plants, and she adored flowers… Maester Luwin taught her to appreciate the details, to give things time, to nurture…to have hope… When things were bad with Lady Catelyn, Larra would go to her gardens…they soothed her… I'd be the one to go and find her and bring her back when she was ready… She used to put me to work. I learned, because she had. We'd tend the allotments, and Larra would tell me of her plans for the autumn harvest, how she'd prepare for winter… She knew she'd be left behind, to look after Winterfell for Robb…"
Lord Varys smiled enigmatically, something dark and pained in his eyes.
"I never met the King in the North, of course, your brother, Robb," Lord Varys amended, his eyes turning thoughtful, almost sad, "But your father… He abhorred the game, but he understood better than any the true nature of power. When he was Lord of Winterfell there was not a day that went by that he did not invite a stranger to dine beside him. To hear of their life, their profession, to hear their stories, and their wants, their grief and their hopes." The Spider glanced around the glasshouses, watching people turn over the earth in the raised beds, more working with the guidance of the architects to make Lord Tyrion's plans a reality.
"My father said never ask a stranger to fight for you," Jon said, and the Master of Whisperers nodded.
"You took your father's words to heart, Your Grace."
"They've never failed me yet," Jon Snow said grimly, his face shuttering of all emotion. One thing could be said of Ned Stark: His children had loved and respected him. That was a rare combination.
"I can say, honestly, Your Grace, having worked closely with Lord Eddard as Hand of the King, and having heard his reputation for many years before that…he would be very proud of your contributions to Dragonstone." He bowed his head respectfully. "It would appear that you are incapable of not improving the lot of all those you meet. Most would enjoy the time in idleness; Queen Daenerys did bring some wonderful entertainers with her from the exotic East."
"Aye, she did," Jon Snow said grimly: The beauties from far away could not turn Jon Snow's eye. He shook his head. "I can't be idle, Lord Varys… I feel like I'm failing if I'm standing still… I know there's work to be done at Winterfell - Dragonstone may well be one of the last outposts of Westeros…" He broke off, shaking his head; he had not repeated his request for an alliance, for the Queen to send her hordes North to aid Winterfell in a war no-one believed was real.
Lord Varys asked knowingly, "Has the Queen provided anything toward this undertaking?"
"After a fashion," Jon Snow smirked, nodding toward the wheelbarrows waiting, some being emptied into the raised beds. "Shit. According to Lord Tyrion the ancient Valyrians used dragon dung to fertilise their crops. Let's just say the Queen's children have provided amply toward the regeneration of the glasshouses." Lord Varys raised his eyebrows, not in the least surprised that the Queen had had only indirect involvement in a venture that would benefit those who followed her.
After the fish came the glasshouses; after the glasshouses came Winter's Town.
There were simply too many people: The island was not equipped, nor were the nomads who had accompanied the armada. The Dothraki were not used to cold: They had no experience of vicious sea-storms, or of ice. They had no comprehension of snow. They were not even used to bitterly cold winds gusting off the choppy black waters. Their tents of hide would not suffice: There was not sufficient grass to build mud-huts as the Dothraki would in their sacred city of Vaes Dothrak.
Once again it was Jon Snow who went among the people, using a translator among the Unsullied, and then Missandei, and sought out builders, carpenters and architects - and there were several, among the Dothraki freed-slaves and those from Meereen who had followed Daenerys Targaryen to a better life.
On the advice of Ser Davos, the bluntly-spoken, wise Onion Knight, Jon Snow designed a town: The first buildings rose in the shadow of the castle, protected by it, blocking the bitterest of winter winds coming down from the north and taking full advantage of the meagre winter sunlight. Drawing on his knowledge of Winterfell and Winter's Town, and Lord Varys' intimate knowledge of the best and worst of King's Landing's neighbourhoods, the town was planned, and rose quickly with the available workforce idle and becoming agitated. People were put to work: And because they were working on somewhere they would live, protected from the elements they were unused to, in preparation for a winter they had never experienced, they were happy to keep working.
They were happy to help the King in the North.
"You've done much, Your Grace, in only a very short time," Lord Varys said in a congratulatory tone, bowing his head respectfully. "I must commend you. Yet you have asked for nothing in return. No mention of an alliance with Queen Daenerys."
The King stared long and hard at the Spider, and simply said, "No." Jon chose his words very carefully.
He had gone in strong with a request for full alliance and unified military strength to defeat a common enemy the Queen did not believe existed.
Anything he might glean from her - or her advisers - would be more than he had hoped for, though less than they thought he wanted.
They were all fucked if he couldn't get dragonglass.
So, on one of the finer afternoons when Jon took himself off for a long walk along the coast, gazing northwards, and he was met by Lord Tyrion who mentioned the Spider and Jon's lack of persistence, Jon asked.
"Obsidian. Dragonstone sits atop a mountain of it," Jon told Tyrion, as the Master of Whisperers observed silently, his hands hidden in the rich folds of his heavy, exotic robes, now fur-trimmed as the Westerosi weather had started to bring on near-daily storms - the days of fishing had passed, the shoals snared just in time. "Obsidian's the only thing that can kill a White Walker, and with them all wights they turned perish. My brother Sam stabbed one with a dagger of obsidian; it shattered into a thousand pieces of ice and melted away… I would ask a guest-gift of the Queen; to mine the caves of dragonglass and ship it back to Winterfell."
"That's all?" Lord Tyrion asked dubiously, as if Jon was being absurd with his modest request.
"I don't suppose I could request the Queen allow me to commandeer one of her dragons for the war-effort?" Jon quipped; Lord Tyrion's lips twitched.
"I'd imagine the answer would be a firm no," he smirked. "Why a dragon?"
"Fire kills wights."
"I thought you said obsidian kills wights."
"Obsidian kills White Walkers, renders whatever magic created them null," Jon explained calmly. "A wight is a reanimated corpse, raised and controlled by a White Walker. Fire kills wights; but only obsidian and Valyrian steel kills White Walkers."
"How many White Walkers are there?" Lord Varys asked curiously.
"There is the Night King, and at least a dozen commanders," Jon said, glancing at Lord Tyrion. "They put your father to shame. And they command legions. After the losses at Hard Home…to say a hundred thousand of the dead march upon the Wall would be a safe estimate."
"And you intend to equip Northmen with obsidian to fight an army of a hundred-thousand?" Lord Tyrion asked.
"We'll fight; and we'll die. But what else should we do?" the King in the North asked. Neither of the Queen's advisers could answer him.
But they did grant his request.
Rather, they coaxed and bullied and wheedled and charmed the Queen into granting the request - obsidian as a guest-gift, the parting-gift a host gave someone as token that they were no longer under the protection of guest-right.
It was a subtle hint from Jon that his time at Dragonstone was nearing its end: That he would expect no favours from the Queen, or alliance, or protection. He would expect her acknowledgement that the North was an independent kingdom - and because it was expected, and because he had shown himself every inch a king, a leader the people of Dragonstone needed - Dothraki, native islanders, Meereenese freed-slaves and Unsullied alike - there were only two options open to the Queen: Accept that the North would never kneel to her.
Or execute the King in the North she lusted after, and ensure the North would never kneel to her.
The Queen was sufficiently enthralled by the King in the North that she graciously granted the use of four of her own ships to increase the volume of mined obsidian being shipped to Winterfell - and increase the chances that at least one ship would make it to White Harbour with its cargo intact: The seas were getting rougher.
Theon Greyjoy offered Ironborn to sail the ships North, through the treacherous waters.
Only the Ironborn enjoyed vicious storms! They were the only men stupid - and mad - enough to take a thrill from the brutality of the elements.
And they were the only men in the known world unafraid to sail them: The only men who could get the precious cargo of obsidian to Winterfell, through any dangers.
"Jon!" the voice echoed off the dank walls. He still couldn't get used to the cold, to the idea that Princess Shireen had grown up in this miserable place, to the sound of Theon Greyjoy's voice. They had lingered in a state of polite distance for weeks, ever since Jon's arrival; whenever he appeared at court, Theon did his best to make himself invisible - not wishing to provoke confrontation with Jon. It was the first time he had approached Jon: Perhaps because there were only the eyes of Ser Davos on him. He raised his pale eyes to Jon's face hesitantly. "Could I speak with you?"
Jon turned, paused…watched Theon Greyjoy teetering at the top of the steps, beside Queen Daenerys' jagged throne. Ser Davos caught his eye: Jon made his decision, then and there.
"Aye," he murmured to the smuggler, who nodded and departed. Jon waited for Theon to descend the steps; he walked hunched, cowering, a reminder of all Sansa had told Jon he had endured…afraid of himself, of his memories, his own shadow - and now afraid of Jon. Perhaps he always had been, since the moment he betrayed Robb. Sansa had told Jon that Theon refused to take the black, to see Sansa to the end of her journey to Castle Black, that Jon would kill him as soon as look at him.
"What you said…when you arrived at Dragonstone… You could've lied to the Queen, promised to bend the knee if she joined you… You didn't have to warn her about the White Walkers… You risked everything to tell an enemy the truth," Theon said thoughtfully.
"I came here to make peace before the North could be drawn into yet another conflict we will not survive," Jon said earnestly. "And it seems to me, we need to be honest with each other if we're ever going to fight beside each other."
"You've always known what was right," Theon said gloomily, though with that hint of respect utterly foreign in Jon's memory of him. Theon gazed at Jon, gazed through Jon, as if seeing their younger selves, sparring in the courtyard. "Even when we were all young and stupid, you always knew. Every step you take…it's always the right step."
"It's not," Jon said grimly. "It may seem that way from the outside, but I promise you - it's not true. I've done plenty of things that I regret."
Theon Greyjoy looked him in the eye and cringed in shame. "Not compared to me, you haven't."
Jon went still, his face leeched of all emotion, his eyes hard shards of obsidian in the gloomy hall. "No," he agreed, a dangerous undercurrent making his words heavy, "not compared to you."
Theon's lips parted, his eyes gazing into a distance, horror flickering across his face, and grief. Then he set his jaw in resolve, and Jon heard his gasp before he plunged ahead, stepping down to Jon's level and admitting, "I always wanted to do the right thing… Be the right kind of person. But I never knew what that meant. It always seemed like there…there was an impossible choice I had to make… Stark or Greyjoy."
Jon clenched his jaw, and strode forward - didn't touch Theon; and Theon did not flinch. He knew his brother too well: Jon would have killed him that first day he arrived, if he'd truly wanted to.
Breathlessly, grief-stricken, heart-broken, Jon rushed out, "Our father was more of a father to you than yours ever was!"
"He was."
"-and you betrayed him. Betrayed his memory."
"I did," Theon said softly, raising his tired eyes to Jon's stern face. He didn't look like Robb - he looked like Ned. Like Benjen, honour-bound to the Watch; and like Bran…who Theon had driven from his home…
And Larra…
Jon sighed, nodding to himself. "But you never lost him…" He raised his eyes to Theon's. "He's a part of you. Just like he's a part of me."
"The things I've done," Theon said shakily.
Jon sighed. "It's not my place to forgive you for all of it," he said gently, "but what I can forgive…I do." Theon raised his eyes to Jon's face, visibly stunned. "You don't need to choose. You're a Greyjoy…and you're a Stark… Thank you, for what you did for Sansa."
"When I was Ramsay's prisoner…Yara…tried to save me. She's the only one…who tried to save me," Theon said shakily. He looked at Jon. "I should've protected her. Protected Larra…our sister… The first time I ever arrived at Winterfell, she wore her hair in two plaits, and she had bloody knees, and the biggest smile you've ever seen… She thought I was another of Ned Stark's bastards. The first thing she ever said to me was 'Welcome home, brother'…she embraced me, kissed my cheek… I was vile to her. Insulted she thought I was a bastard."
"You were wounded, stripped from what remained of your family," Jon said compassionately.
"She offered me unconditional love," Theon said softly, his voice thick, "And I betrayed her."
"And she got the better of you," Jon reminded him, and a faint smile teased at the corner of Theon's mouth.
"Aye… Didn't she always?" he said sadly. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed. "I'd give anything to go back to our schoolroom."
"Aye," Jon agreed grimly, too exhausted to allow himself to linger in those memories. He sighed, squinting at Theon. "Do you remember Old Nan's stories?" Theon nodded tentatively. "Let me show you something…"
"When Maester Luwin was teaching us Geography did you ever imagine we'd both end up here? And after such journeys?" Theon asked quietly, following Jon and the flickering torchlight further into the caves that glistened deep onyx striated with multi-coloured hues when the firelight struck at odd angles.
They had found the cave early into their stay on Dragonstone, the entrance to the caves vast, unspoiled: There was only one place in the entire network of caverns that Jon had declared off-limits to the pick-axes now hacking at the walls at all hours - volunteer miners worked in shifts to ensure a constant stream of obsidian being passed out, crated up and shipped north.
"I don't think anybody could've ever predicted our lives," Jon said grimly, striding on ahead, sure-footed in territory he had familiarised himself with over weeks. As in the glasshouses, the King in the North had taken up an axe to join the men working: Mutual respect radiated from the men labouring as Jon wove past them, and the flickering torches nestled strategically around the caves, to one particular alcove half-hidden by what Maester Luwin would have called a natural optical illusion - a trick of the eyes, two rock-faces concealing a narrow passage into a small, sheltered cave. Jon had found it purely by accident, following the trail of smoke from one of his torches as the air sucked the smoke toward the entrance: The cave had once, eons ago, been a hiding-spot, perhaps even a home.
Jon slid into the cave sideways, and for a breathless, heart-sinking moment, he entered a different cave… He blinked, and took a breath, and eased into the chamber. Small, but the ceiling of the cave rose out of sight. Theon slipped into the cave beside him, and as Jon raised his torch, Theon Greyjoy's lips parted.
"White Walkers."
"Aye. And the Children," Jon said, pointing out the etchings in the obsidian, ancient markings made beyond the Age of Heroes.
"Nan's stories…they were here…they were real," Theon breathed.
"Yes," Jon smiled, raising the torch higher to show the markings. "Thousands upon thousands of years ago, the First Men came here… I think they mined for obsidian themselves…" He shone the light closer to some of the etchings - the White Walkers…the curious spirals all White Walkers and wights now left their prey, dismembered bodies, limbs… Ever the artists… He wondered why they mimicked the spirals…one of the etchings showed weirwoods growing in a similar pattern - the grove above the Wall had grown in a similar pattern, Jon remembered.
"You think Men made these drawings?"
"Aye," Jon said, showing Theon more of the etchings. White Walkers…and Children…and Men - Men riding direwolves, holding spears of obsidian…
"Starks!" Theon blurted a laugh of astonishment, and Jon's eyes glinted in the torchlight as they both smiled up at the etchings.
"Brandon the Builder," Jon said warmly, smiling.
"Brandon the Builder, riding a direwolf into battle…and here you are, all those thousands of years later…they used to say Robb rode Grey Wind into battle… The way they tell it, you rode Ghost into battle at the head of a wildling army," Theon said, his smile easy for the first time, a grin that reminded Jon of their childhood. Even the mention of Robb did not dim their smiles, for this one moment.
"Strange how history rhymes," Jon said, gazing up at the etchings. Whether it had been an etching of Brandon the Builder was anyone's guess; Jon liked to believe it was. Maester Luwin used to say that history did not repeat; but sometimes the rhyme appeared later, similar but non-identical circumstances creating unique events that echoed throughout history.
That night, gathered around a campfire on the shore, they listened to one of Jon's men - a veteran of Hard Home and a fierce warrior who refused to leave the King's side, representative of his people and warning to any who dared cross the King in the North - sing songs of the Free Folk in the common tongue, telling the stories of Brandon Stark and the Night King.
Theon sat beside one of his sisters, and one of his brothers, sharing fish stew and ale and listening to familiar but altered stories he and Jon had grown up on. They both thought of their brothers and sisters - the dead, and the living.
And Theon couldn't help compare one King in the North to the other, to their dead brother he had betrayed… And Jon, the brother who had forgiven him for it.
Since leaving Winterfell, they had both become men. Their journeys had been different, but no less difficult.
They finished their meals, finished their ale, and both went to their beds to live with their regret. And wake up the next morning, nurturing hope for a better future than the years they had endured.
A.N.: This wasn't where I had intended to go with this chapter - it ran away from me! I wanted to show time passing without having to detail every single day… I have to say, Varys has always been one of my favourite characters: He deserved better.