Sorry it took a while! Here's chapter two :) Enjoy!
Jon felt the air rush from his lungs like a dam bursting. He was vaguely aware that Sansa was gripping his arm like a vice, her nails digging into his leathers and leaving marks like half moons.
Jon stared at the scroll for a moment more, willing his limbs to move. His arms felt heavy as the branches of the great weirwood tree. Davos was watching him expectantly, the scroll still in his outstretched hand.
"You...you have to open it, Your Grace."
"I know that!" Jon's voice was sharp, snapping like the jaws of a wolf into its prey. Davos rocked back on his heels, faltering slightly. "I meant no offense, your Grace," Davos said, his tone as clipped as ever.
Immediately, Jon felt shame. It was often that he forgot where he was raised, in the home of a lord, and he should behave as such. He sighed, cursing his years in the Night's Watch amongst the reavers, rapers and murderers that had once been his brothers.
"Apologies, Ser Davos" Jon said, and the man before him just nodded his head once. Jon reached out and took the scroll from him, his hands steadier than he felt.
Sansa had been silent as the grave through the entire exchange, her fingers still digging into Jon's arm. He pulled himself from her grasp and her hand stayed, frozen like a branch in the dead of winter. Jon clasped it in his, jerking her gently. Her eyes flew to his, blue gazing into black. Today they were an ocean full of fear.
Tenderly, as if it were a flagon full of wildfire, Jon cracked the little red lion in half. He cleared a frog from his throat, praying that his voice stay steady. Aloud, he read:
"To the bastard of Winterfell and false King Jon Snow,
I have taken the seven kingdoms, as the right to them is mine by default. I am claiming the North in the name of Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm. But for you, bastard, I have a proposition you may find most appealing.
Bring me your traitorous bitch of a sister, Sansa. She must face justice for her hand in the murder of my son.
Bring her to King's Landing within the next moon, kneel and swear fealty to me, and I will name you Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and a bastard no longer.
If you deny me this request, I will bring my army to your gates, crush your silly stone walls, and kill you both myself."
Jon's throat felt like the sands of the Red Waste, burning as he swallowed. Davos was watching him, eyes piercing into his very core. But it was Sansa he turned to, searching her face. She had turned to him as well, but her mouth was set in a wary line.
"Jon..." she began, but he raised a hand and cut her off.
He was hasty, reckless, and more than anything; terrified. Their men were weak from the Battle at Winterfell just only a week ago. But he knew Cersei was right, that he was a bastard, and bastards rarely had to err on the side of caution. With deft fingers, Jon tore a strip of parchment from the bottom of Cersei's letter. He sent Dennas in search of a quill and ink, and when the boy returned, he sealed their fate, one way or another.
"Come, then."
Jon signed with a flourish, barely waiting for the ink to dry before he rolled the scroll together and passed it to Dennas again.
"Seal this, and choose the fastest raven,"
Jon told him, his voice stern. Dennas nodded, bowed, and fled he room like a man who had just seen the dead walking.
"Jon!" Sansa gasped, gripping his upper arm again, "don't! We don't have enough men, they've not recovered yet. We don't have enough food for a siege, I'll go. I'm not afraid..."
Jon shot his sister a chilling look, his jaw set in a tight line.
"The Others take Queen Cersei," he spat, "I promised you I wouldn't let them touch you again, Sansa, and I meant it."
Jon put his hand on her shoulder and she clasped it in both of hers. Jon idly recalled so many years ago, it seemed like a lifetime now, he and Sansa had lived in the same hearth but they had barely known each other. Only the gods knew what had happened to Bran and Arya, and the thought of Rickon put an uncomfortable lump in his throat. They truly were the only ones left.
"I'll be damned," Jon growled under his breath. He stood, throwing his furs across his shoulders in a violent flourish. "Davos," he said, turning to his friend, "find me Tormund."
Jon burst through the broken gates of Winterfell, his breath mingling around him like a cloud. He pulled the icy air into his lungs, drinking it in like the blood of life. Flurries of snow had begun to trickle down from the sky, but the black clouds against the horizon threatened more. He scanned the trees, wondering where Ghost had gotten to, suddenly needing him close more than ever. 'Where are you?' He thought, feeling more alone than he ever had before.
And suddenly, there he was. The hulking white wolf appeared at the edge of the trees, stark against the darkness of the godswood. His red eyes bored into Jon's very soul, searching. He took the field in three bounds, winding around Jon's legs like a cat, pushing his head under his master's hand. Jon sank his fingers into the thick fur around Ghost's neck, falling to one knee. "You were right, boy," Jon said, his voice barely more than a whisper, "they're going to come for us."
Ghost cocked his head to the side for just a moment, before he pressed his forehead against Jon's, their hot breath mingling as one in the frigid air.
Ghost followed Jon as he entered the great castle again, where Tormund and Davos were awaiting him. Sansa sat between them, her hands cupped around a mug of steaming hot sweet wine, her face pale and cheeks slightly flushed. Jon had never seen her drink wine before, and idly wondered when she had acquired the taste.
Dennas was posed by the door, and fell into step behind Jon as he entered the great hall. Jon could not help but feel a wariness about him; his eyes searched shadows for monsters that were not there. No, the monsters were leagues away, in King's Landing, and yet he felt them closer than ever.
Jon leaned forward and placed both hands on the table in front of him, poised to speak. Suddenly he felt Dennas' presence behind him like a weight, and he turned curtly to the boy.
"Dennas," Jon said, his tone falsely light, "go to the kitchens for me and see that they set aside some fresh venison, so that Ghost might break his fast."
The boy nodded once, and strode from the room, looking more confident than he had earlier in the morning. Ghost lay across his feet, licking clean the blood and flesh from his claws from that morning's kill. He hoped Dennas would not notice. Jon waited until he heard the wooden doors close before he turned to his companions.
"There is a traitor in our midst."
Sansa's face grew paler, but Tormund was the one who spoke first.
"Show me this man," he said, his hand traveling to the axe at his belt, "I will give you his skin as a rug for your hearth."
Davos glared at their compatriot reproachfully, but said nothing. He looked to Jon, his expression impatient.
"Someone has sold our secrets to Cersei Lannister," Jon said, his face grim, "someone who sat in this room when you all named me king."
Davos' mouth formed a thin, displeased line. "I fear you are right, your Grace," he said, his words heavy, "but what do we do with this traitor?"
"Kill them."
It was Sansa who spoke this time. The three men turned to face her, as if they had just noticed her there. "My lady?" Davos said, unsure.
"We kill them," Sansa's voice was cold, hard as iron, her eyes steel. "There is no other payment for this betrayal. The men in this room are to be your trusted bannermen, to sell the secrets of your King is treason punishable by death."
Tormund nodded fervently in agreement, his hand resting on his axe again. Davos could not even deny her this.
"Yes," Jon agreed, "but how many men were in this room? A hundred? And how many of those men whispered the secrets in their tents, how many ears heard? How do we pick one traitor out of a thousand? Ten thousand?"
Sansa bit her lip so hard that it turned white. She eyed her fidgeting hands. "Well," she began, "Ramsay had his ways..."
Jon shot her a look that froze her on the spot. His mouth went slack for a moment in surprise. "Sansa, no," he said, his tone full of disgusted wonder, "I won't flay these people on a cross."
It was Tormund who spoke next, running a callused finger over the head of his axe. "The lady speaks truly," he said in earnest, "if these men think you are weak, they will have you dead before the snows begin to fall. The long winter is not a time for weakness."
"Compassion is not weakness, Tormund," Jon almost spat, remembering himself. Tormund Giantsbane has become one of his closest friends as of late, despite their different upbringings. Means of torture must have seemed the norm to the Wildling, who eyed Jon as if he had seven heads. Ghost did not open his eyes, but rumbled low in his throat, sending soft vibrations up Jon's legs. Jon ran a hand over his eyes, exasperated. Sansa looked down at her hands again, chewing on her lip. Jon recalled that Arya used to chew on her lip that way, when she was plagued and worrisome. He sighed.
"We must speak no more of this," he said, standing straight. He looked to each of the people in front of him, in turn, meeting their eyes. These were the ones he trusted the most, these people and his wolf. Perhaps they were the only ones he trusted in this world. "It's not safe," he continued, meeting Sansa's glance, "matters of importance will be discussed only with the people in this room, do you understand? No one else." Sansa nodded.
Jon ran a hand over his eyes again, feeling more weary than ever before. He was sure the raven had been sent with his message to Cersei, and that meant that their time was running thin.
"The Lannister army will be on us within a moon," he said, "and we are no better than the sick and the old. Our numbers are bolstered with the help of the Knights of the Vale, to be sure, but we don't know how long Petyr Baelish plans on allowing us the use of them." Jon's eyes traveled to Sansa, who met them steadily.
"Lord Baelish has declared for House Stark," Sansa said simply, as if those words solved all their problems. "Lord Baelish has declared for many houses, my lady," Davos said, "and all of them are now dust."
His words sent a chill down Jon's spine. Sansa said nothing, her face stone.
"I have fifteen hundred men," Tormund cut in, watching Sansa and Davos warily, "good fighting men. The rest are women and children, the sick and the old. The unblooded boys requested to fight, with some training, they could bring the number back to two thousand."
The Wildlings had chosen Tormund as their leader, the King Beyond the Wall. But they had crossed the wall, and the favors Tormund owed to Jon had long been paid.
"Will you fight with us?"
Jon trusted Tormund with his life, his second life, but as he waited for his friend's answer, moments dragged into an eternity. The only sound Jon could hear was the blood pulsing in his ears, his heartbeat in his throat.
Tormund stared at him, unabashed. "I would hand you my life, Jon Snow," he said, "but some of my men distrust you southerners. They think you mean to lead us to slaughter like animals." His words were biting, but Tormund had not meant it to hurt him. Jon nodded. "I understand," he said hoarsely, "I understand that I cannot ask them to fight for me without earning their trust. I led them over the wall, I fought to save them at Hardhome, what else do you propose that I do?"
Tormund stood straighter, his hand gripping his axe now, a source of comfort.
"You can take my daughter to wife," the fire-haired man said, "isn't that how you southerners do it? See it done, Jon Snow. The free-folk know that no man would dare betray his woman, and you are not the man to do it."
Jon could not hide the fleeting look of surprise that crossed his face. He blinked once, twice, and then cleared his throat.
"These are your terms?" He asked, giving Tormund a chance to perhaps change his mind, to ask Jon to chop off his hand, something less...terrifying. But Tormund only nodded, ever silent, blinking at him.
The words came from his mouth slowly, like he had to wrench them free of a slick puddle of oil swallowing him.
"I will do it, then," Jon said, "I will take your daughter to wife."