Before we begin, I'm aware that the plot hole regarding the timeline during the wight hunt has not been fixed. Let's just say… Something, something, Jon took too long and Dany decided to go after him before Gendry's raven even reached her (because she's in love with him, for some unfathomable reason). And yes, I checked; when she argues with Tyrion before leaving, she never mentions any letter, so it works.
As Jon opened his eyes, pain flared behind his lids. The world was white and fuzzy, with blurred silhouettes where people should have been, and he wondered, vaguely, if this was the afterlife. There hadn't been one the first time, but maybe he just hadn't been dead long enough to experience it.
If it was the afterlife, it was remarkably cold; Jon could feel the goosebumps on his arms and his chest, though the rest of him was warmer than he'd been in a long while. He was under a blanket, he realized, and more than that, there wasn't an inch of his body that didn't ache. As Caitie probably would put it, he felt as though he'd been trampled by an entire army of Northmen, which didn't seem like any sort of afterlife he was aware of.
The preceding events came back to him, then, all in a rush: Daenerys and her dragons coming to save them, the Night King killing one with magic more powerful than Jon had ever seen before, falling into the lake, and then…
Uncle Benjen. He saved me. He died to save me.
It left Jon with more questions than answers. How had his uncle survived beyond the Wall for so long? And why hadn't he ever come back? If Uncle Benjen had been at Castle Black, then maybe things would have turned out differently. But now he was dead. Again. This time for good. Jon would never get answers to his questions, and he would have to grieve his uncle all over again.
He would have to figure out how to live with all those unanswered questions all over again.
As his eyes slowly started to adjust to the brightness of the room, Jon realized the silhouettes were only the distorted outline of a woman, sitting at what he assumed was his bedside. His heart sped up. Caitie; it had to be. He had enough awareness to realize that he was naked from the waist up, scars on display for whoever came into the room, and Davos would never let anyone see him like that except for her. Jon had fallen unconscious somewhere on the way back to Eastwatch; he had no memory of arriving there or what had come after.
Had they taken him back to Winterfell? Was he finally, finally, home? Hells, he'd never wished for something more in his whole life.
As his eyes further adjusted to the light, the person at his bedside came into clear view, and Jon swallowed a wave of disappointment.
It was not Caitie. It was Daenerys.
At any other time, he would have been infuriated by her presence, horrified that she had seen his scars, discomforted that she'd stayed at his bedside to watch him while he slept, and furious that she'd done so when he was indecent. Even more furious that she'd trapped him on one of her ships, presumably to take him south. Now, though… he was simply too confused.
Jon hadn't expected to live through the night. There was no way Gendry's raven could have ever reached Dragonstone in time for her to rescue them all from the White Walkers; she would have had to have left days earlier. He knew he should have been grateful—and he was. Hells, he was beyond grateful, but being alive was something he hadn't expected, and now he didn't know how to proceed. Because a dragon was dead, and he still didn't know how the Night King had known they were coming or had known how to kill one, but he now knew why the White Walkers would want the dragons dead.
Caitie was right. They were the best weapons they could have ever hoped for against the wights. And after seeing just how effective the dragons were, even with their vulnerabilities, Jon knew he had to do anything to get them on his side.
He would need to send a raven to her and Sansa, first, for they would know how best to go about relinquishing his crown without alienating the other Northmen. And he needed to establish the ceasefire between Daenerys and Cersei. But then… then he would bend the knee. And hope it would be enough.
A slight sniffle drew Jon out of his thoughts, and he lifted his chin, ignoring the way it hurt to move, even just a little, as he tried to make out Daenerys's expression. She was crying; he knew that much, though it took a second to realize why: she'd lost one of her dragons—and, he realized belatedly, all because of him. The King in the North who had refused to bend the knee and now had all but killed one of her children. If he was lucky, she would only take that loss out on him, but what if she didn't? What if he had doomed the North to fire and blood because she blamed him?
"I'm sorry," he found himself saying—blabbering, it felt like—because she had to know he had never meant to cost her so much. "I'm so sorry."
She shook her head, unable to form words through her tears, and Jon felt like a monster for more reasons than one. He didn't know what possessed him to take her hand; he just knew he had to do something to make up for what he'd lost her, to make sure she knew he'd never intended this. And not just because he had to protect the North from her wrath—but because she was still a person, and she had still lost something she loved because of him.
"I wish I could take it back. I wish we'd never gone."
"I don't," she said. "If we hadn't gone, I wouldn't have seen. You have to see it to know. Now I know."
Something in Jon unfurled. So I was right, he thought in relief. She believes me now. At least something good had come of his trip north.
Daenerys took a deep breath. "The dragons are my children. They're the only children I'll ever have; do you understand?"
Those last three words were full of so much hate that Jon's hackles rose again, for he couldn't discern who she would direct her ire towards, and he still feared her wrath almost as much as he feared the White Walkers.
"We are going to destroy the Night King and his army. And we'll do it together. You have my word."
He felt as though he was back in the depths of the icy lake. Where he should have been relieved, terror flowed through his veins, for all he could think was: she's coming North. She's going to help us fight the White Walkers.
The thought should have filled him with joy, yet all he could do was picture her there, in his homeland, with her army of Dothraki and Unsullied and her dragons—Gods, her dragons—in a kingdom which refused to acknowledge her as queen. They wouldn't accept her or respect her as a ruler, and what would she do, then? She'd lied about her reasons for inviting him to Dragonstone, imprisoned him and refused him ravens. She had burned the Lannister army on the Goldroad and had to be talked out of burning the Red Keep. She had insisted, up until this very moment, that Jon bend the knee, or else. She'd saved him, yes, and he wanted, desperately, to believe she meant what she said about destroying the White Walkers. But he couldn't trust what she would do once she was at Winterfell, and he couldn't tell her not to come. Even if she would have listened, they needed her dragons if they were to have any hope of defeating the Army of the Dead.
There was nothing for it, Jon realized—no other options. And it went beyond bend the knee, for Daenerys Targaryen wanted more than just to be queen. She wanted adoration, devotion, love, and his people would never give her that.
But he could.
He'd known her feelings, deep down; ever since their parting on the shores of Dragonstone, he'd known. He just hadn't wanted to believe it. Now, though, there was no choice. She was dangerous, but he didn't think she was truly evil, and if he was a part of her inner circle, he might be able to protect the North from her worst impulses, just as he'd done before with the Red Keep.
He could do this. He could, if it meant protecting those he loved. It was no different from what he'd done years before with Mance. And Caitie… Jon had always known he'd never be worthy of her. She was passionate and beautiful and made him feel alive in a way he never thought he could, for she was the most amazing person he had ever met. But he knew whatever he felt for her would only end in pain for him, for them both. She would understand—hells, she might not even care—and at least this way, he would be able to try and forget the way she made him feel. Even if he wished, more than anything in the world, that it was her at his bedside instead of Daenerys Targaryen.
Jon swallowed hard, his tongue feeling too heavy for his mouth and forced out, "Thank you, Dany."
The familiarity did not go over as well as he had hoped. "Dany," she repeated with an incredulous laugh. "Who was the last person to call me that? I'm not sure, was it my brother? Mmm, not the company you want to keep."
She didn't believe him, Jon realized. She didn't believe he could ever devote himself to her—and she's right, said a voice in his head that he quickly smothered. "All right," he said, steeling himself for his next words; words he knew Caitie may never forgive him for saying—that he may never forgive himself for saying. But even now, the queen would never allow any camaraderie between them, nor closeness, and he couldn't afford to wait. He'd just have to hope that when he got home, they'd allow him to explain.
"Not Dany. How about my queen?" Jon had never felt more disgusted with himself, or more like a traitor. "I'd bend the knee, but…" He looked away, lest she see the lie on his face.
Do you want to lead one day? Lord Commander Mormont's voice rang in his ears. First, learn how to follow.
Daenerys stared at him, hope and delight suppressing any suspicion she might have otherwise had. "What about those who swore allegiance to you?"
"They'll all come to see you for what you are."
And they'll understand that I had no choice.
Though Jon had only meant it as fact, the queen seemed to take his words differently. Hesitantly, she slotted her hand back into his, slowly swiping her thumb over it in what he supposed was meant to be comforting motions. Jon tried to ignore how nauseous it made him.
"I hope I deserve it," she said, and he hoped, prayed to Gods he wasn't even sure existed anymore that this flash of humanity meant she did. He'd bent the knee, entrusted his people's wellbeing to her. It had to mean something.
The thought gave him just enough conviction to reply, "You do."
As the queen tried to pull her hand away from his, Jon held on, though he instantly regretted doing so. It just felt so wrong. Her hand was too smooth and too clean. The ring on her pinky finger cut into his palm, and instead of making his heart burst into life the way it did whenever he so much as brushed against Caitie, it felt as though his heart had shriveled up and died at the contact.
It was lucky for him that Daenerys pulled away first, seeming flustered and upset—and he felt like the most evil man in the world, for the truth was that he didn't want the woman in front of him.
"You should get some rest," she whispered, refusing to meet his eyes, and he wondered if she had seen the lie, the panic he felt.
Jon could only nod, thankful for the out. He shivered and closed his eyes, laying back against the ridiculously soft pillows of the bed he was in. Only once Daenerys was gone did he open them again, staring up at the wooden planks above him, taking a deep breath and trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing.
King's Landing was, quite possibly, the worst place Jon had ever been, and he included Hardhome in that list.
It was winter, and yet the sun beat down upon them, burning the back of his neck, making him sweat through his clothes, and just generally increasing his misery. The palm trees that had decorated the path to the Dragonpit were such a bright green they hurt his eyes. There was nowhere he wanted to be less, but the queen had insisted they still needed to convince Cersei to a ceasefire before she would come North, so Jon had resigned himself to the charade.
For now, at least.
He could sense Theon's eyes watching him as he walked. It made Jon feel as though he were about to be stabbed in the back, though he knew it would never happen with the Dothraki, Davos, and multiple of the queen's advisors so close by.
"Why did they build it?" Missandei asked.
"Dragons don't understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn't," Jorah answered. "Land, livestock, children. Letting them roam free was a problem."
Jon's fists clenched. Dragons don't understand the difference between what is theirs and what isn't. But that described the Targaryens just as much as it did their dragons. And here he'd gone and given himself up to one like a sacrificial lamb.
"I imagine it was a sad joke at the end," said Tyrion. "An entire arena for a few sickly creatures smaller than dogs. But in the beginning, when it was home to Balerion the Dread, it must have been the most dangerous place in the world."
They came to an intersection, where some Lannister men marched towards them. "Welcome, my lords," said the leader. When no one replied, he stepped aside to reveal none other than Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne. "Your friends arrived before you did."
Jon had to catch himself before he broke into a smile at the sight of such familiar faces.
"I've been sent to escort you all to the meeting." The Lannister men parted to make way for them.
There was a tense moment before Tyrion nodded, and they all resumed their journey to the Dragonpit.
Though Jon itched to speak to Brienne, he held off. For a while, he walked in silence, watching her out of the corner of his eye while she spoke to the Hound—and though he couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, he could see the tension between them. Eventually, however, they drifted apart, and to his great luck, Brienne ended up beside Jon.
"Brienne," he said, smiling. "Did my sister send you?"
"She did, Your Grace."
Jon's smile fell. "You shouldn't call me that; I'm not a king anymore."
Brienne gave him a reproachful look. "I see. Have you told Lady Sansa this?"
"Not yet." He grimaced at his own words the moment he'd finished speaking them. Though he'd been given a raven first thing after bending the knee, he hadn't written anything for it yet. Mostly because he hadn't the first clue what to say. He'd spent the days on the ship to King's Landing writing and rewriting, and still he'd only just come up with the first half of it. What little he had written was cold and detached and nothing like himself. Sansa would be furious, he knew, if and when he sent it, but it would be too risky to put anything that might have given away his true feelings in writing.
But Caitie would know the truth, for she knew him better than anyone, and she would make Sansa understand, just like she always did.
"How was—" He stopped himself before he could finish; it would be stupid to mention her name. "How was Winterfell when you left it?"
Brienne pursed her lips. "Very good, Your—my lord. Lady Sansa has done an admirable job of keeping it for you." And then, as if she couldn't help it, she added, "Even if some people have made it more difficult for her."
"Who?" Jon asked, fists clenching as he remembered Littlefinger's smirk in the torchlight of the crypts.
Brienne refused to meet Jon's eyes. "I'd rather not say."
Ah. Jon's fists unclenched. Now he understood. Neither Brienne nor Caitie had ever made it a secret how they felt about each other, and the look on Brienne's face right then was one he'd seen many times before—and not just on her, but on all those who Caitie had antagonized in one way or another.
He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "All right, tell me. What did she do?"
It was a terrible idea to ask, especially in King's Landing, surrounded by both Lannister men and Targaryen men. He was supposed to be—not courting someone else, but at least ingratiating himself, and if the wrong person overheard… But he had to know. He had to hear about her, just once. After that, he'd never ask for information about Caitie again.
Brienne huffed. "She refused to obey Lady Sansa's orders, and… insulted her in her own hall."
Jon was smart enough not to laugh, but he couldn't help the twitch of his lips. Because of course that's what had happened. He'd learned a long time ago that Caitie was too full of life and spirit ever to be bound to an order, but now it was his sister's turn to learn that lesson.
"What was the order?"
Brienne's eyes, usually a hard, cool blue, softened at his question. "It was—"
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Davos said, shooting Jon a look that told him had they not been in public, Davos would have whacked him upside his head. "But we're almost there. Come on."
He all but pulled Jon away from Brienne's side, hauling him to the front of the group, where Tyrion was deep in conversation with the Lannister guard who had greeted him.
"If you're doing what I think you're doing with the queen," Davos muttered, "then stop looking like a lovesick fool whenever you-know-who is mentioned. You're just lucky none of her people heard you."
Jon gave him the deepest, darkest glare he could muster. But he couldn't argue, either, as much as he wanted to, because the man had a point.
At last, the Dragonpit stood before them, a great open ruin of rubble and crumbling columns. Jon could picture what it had been like in its glory: a massive domed castle sitting upon the Hill of Rhaenys like a shining crown. He wondered if Daenerys would rebuild it, if—when he quickly corrected himself—she took the throne.
There was a pavilion, draped in bright red, waiting for them at the center of the Dragonpit. As he and Davos waited for the two queens to arrive, Jon asked, in a low voice, so quiet that his lips hardly moved, "How angry do you think she'll be with me for giving up the North?"
Davos sighed in defeat, knowing there would be no use in telling Jon to stop. "She wants whatever's best for the realm. If you think this is what's necessary, she'll accept it." He paused. "Are you sure about this?"
Jon frowned, not needing Davos to explain to know what he meant by the question. "You're the one who said I was staring at her good heart."
"I was trying to warn you how she felt about you."
"And I listened."
Davos's lips thinned into a straight, grim line. "If you think you can keep her from becoming like Stannis, then I trust you. But—"
"I have no choice. We need her, Davos. And I can't let her into the North without protections in place, so this is the only option."
If Davos had a counterargument, Jon never got to hear it, for that was the moment the first of the two queens arrived. He had only ever seen Cersei Lannister once, at Winterfell, years earlier. She'd been younger, then, dressed in crimson and gold, her long blonde hair done up in a needlessly elaborate system of braids. Now, her hair was shorter than Jon's, and she dressed all in black. If not for the silver lion on her chest and the crown on her head, he would have thought she was emulating the Night's Watch.
Jaime Lannister was no less changed than his sister. His face was lined and weathered, and where he'd once had a full head of golden hair to match his sisters, now it was cropped just as short. His right hand—his sword hand, Jon realized—matched the rest of his crimson and gold armor.
The rush of hate that washed over Jon at the sight of them was so fierce it nearly knocked him off his feet; if he hadn't been about to take his seat anyway, it may well have. Nevermind the Greyjoys and the Boltons and the Freys. Nevermind Stannis and Renly. It was these the two people who had broken the kingdoms—broken his family—until there was almost nothing left. He hadn't understood Sansa's rage before, but seeing these two Lannisters, adorned in their ridiculous outfits, more powerful than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms… He understood, now.
The Lannisters took their seats, guarded by a great beast of a man, taller than the Hound, his face concealed by his overly-ornate helmet. The Mountain, Jon thought as he watched the Hound approach the man. They exchanged a few words, too low for him to hear, before the Hound turned on his heel and disappeared into the depths of the Dragonpit, where they'd stuffed the wight for safekeeping.
"Where is she?" asked Cersei.
Tyrion shifted. "She'll be here soon."
"Didn't travel with you?"
He paused, then shook his head in defeat. "No."
There was a silence that seemed to last an age before a dragon screeched overhead. Everyone flinched, even those who had expected it. The queen's brother shot up his seat to see where the sound had come from; the rest followed him, Jon included. It was stupid, for it wasn't as though he hadn't seen the dragons. There was no need to get up. And yet, there was something about them… that same strange pull he'd felt the first time he'd ever seen one up close.
They soared through the sky, circling the Dragonpit as if it were prey. Drogon's wings cast shadows on the ruins as he descended, landing a moment later, each step he took shaking the earth beneath Jon's feet, until he lowered his neck and allowed Daenerys Targaryen to dismount from his back.
She walked forward slowly, deliberately, her face blank of emotion. Behind her, Drogon spread his massive wings and took off once more to rejoin his brother.
Without a word, she took her seat beside Tyrion's. The rest of them followed her example.
"We've been here for some time," Cersei said through gritted teeth.
"My apologies."
Jon's eyes flickered between Daenerys and Cersei, feeling like he was trying to stop two feral dogs from ripping each other to shreds.
After a pause, Daenerys nodded, and Tyrion began.
"We are all facing a unique—"
"Theon!" Jon didn't know the man who'd interrupted, for he bore no sigil on his clothes; one of Cersei's henchmen, Jon assumed. "I have your sister; if you don't submit to me here, now… I'll kill her."
Ah. Euron Greyjoy.
Jon's eyes sought Theon's, who was stone faced against his uncle's attack. It reminded him of Caitie, and the way her eyes had glazed over with barely concealed terror as she watched her father during their parley with the Boltons. He hated the pang of sympathy for Theon that hit him at the thought.
"I think we ought to start with larger concerns," said Tyrion, with what could only be described as befuddled incredulity.
"Then why are you still talking?" Euron Greyjoy stood. "You're the smallest concern here."
Tyrion turned to Varys. "Do you remember when we discussed dwarf jokes?"
"His wasn't even good," Theon said.
"He explained it at the end," Tyrion replied. "Never explain, it always ruins it."
As Euron Greyjoy attempted another taunt, Jon leaned towards Davos, muttering, "Remind me why we came here again?"
"Wasn't my choice, I promise."
"Perhaps you ought to sit down," Jaime Lannister snapped, and Jon returned his attention to the rest of the pavilion.
"Why?" Euron Greyjoy asked, not bothering to look up.
"Sit down or leave," Cersei snapped. The Mountain took a step forward, and just like that, Euron Greyjoy returned to his seat beside the queen.
Without the Greyjoy taunting him, Tyrion was able to continue. "We are a group of people who do not like one another… As this recent demonstration has shown. We have suffered at each other's hands. We have lost people we love at each other's hands. If all we wanted was more of the same, there would be no need for this gathering. We are entirely capable of waging war against each other without meeting face-to-face."
"So instead we should settle our differences and live together in harmony for the rest of our days?" Cersei asked.
Tyrion looked down. "We all know that will never happen."
"Then why are we here?"
Jon took a deep breath and stood. He didn't even know what he would say; he just knew he had to say something now that he was here. "This isn't about living in harmony," he said. "It's just about living. The same thing is coming for all of us. A general you can't negotiate with. An army that doesn't leave corpses behind on the battlefield. Lord Tyrion tells me a million people live in this city. They're about to become a million more soldiers in the Army of the Dead."
"I imagine for most of them it would be an improvement."
He marched forward, barely reigning in his snarl. "This is serious. I wouldn't be here if it weren't."
If he'd had his way, he would have been back home the moment he'd returned from beyond the Wall. But no, because Gods forbid anyone make sacrifices to save the fucking world.
"I don't think it's serious at all," Cersei said. "I think it's another bad joke." She turned to Daenerys. "If my brother Jaime has informed me correctly, you're asking me for a truce."
"Yes," said Daenerys, and Jon was grateful that she had enough wherewithal not to make any speeches about being born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. "That's all."
Cersei looked as though she wanted to laugh. "That's all?" She leaned forward. "Pull back my armies and stand down while you go on your monster hunt. Or while you solidify and expand your position. Hard for me to know which it is with my armies pulled back until you return and march on my capital with four times the men."
"Your capital will be safe until the northern threat is dealt with. You have my word."
"The word of a would-be usurper," Cersei said, and Jon wanted to laugh at the hypocrisy. Conqueror, yes; invader, probably. But usurper? Coming from Cersei Lannister?
"There is no conversation that will erase the last fifty years," Tyrion said. "We have something to show you."
To Jon's relief, the wight did its job well. As Sandor Clegane removed its crate, it snarled and screeched and made a mad-dash towards Cersei, who flinched away until she realized it was bound by chains. She stared in horror, as did her brother, and even once Clegane cut it in half and then some, the wight crawled towards him, screaming its head off. The Lannister's maester picked up its dismembered hand, still moving, then handed it to Jon.
"We can destroy them by burning them," he said, and lit the hand on fire with the torch Davos had given him, feeling utterly ridiculous. It was like he was part of some sort of mummer's troupe, acting out a story, even though everything he said was the truth. The pageantry was necessary, he knew, but it left him with a new level of disgust for the southerners. "And we can destroy them with dragonglass. If we don't win this fight, then that is the fate of every person in the world."
He walked over to what was left of the wight, removed his newly forged dragonglass dagger from his belt, and plunged it into its heart. The wight went limp, the blue of its eyes sparking out as it fell to the ground. "There is only one war that matters: the Great War. And it is here."
"I didn't believe it until I saw them," said Daenerys. "I saw them all."
The Kingslayer leaned forward in his seat, and Jon could see the fear in his eyes as he asked, "How many?"
"A hundred thousand, at least."
Euron Greyjoy stood and approached the dead wight, eyes narrowing as he inspected it. "Can they swim?"
Jon shook his head. "No."
"Good." He stood and faced his queen. "I'm taking the Iron Fleet back to the Iron Islands."
"What are you talking about?"
"I've been around the world. I've seen everything, things you couldn't imagine, and this is the only thing I've ever seen that terrifies me." He sauntered over to Daenerys. "I'm going back to my island. You should go back to yours. When winter's over, we'll be the only ones left alive."
Had the occasion not been so serious, Jon would have laughed. Because Daenerys couldn't be queen if everyone she wanted to rule was dead. That was his one reassurance.
With those as his parting words, Euron Greyjoy walked away. Well, Jon thought, at least it's one less to worry about.
"He's right to be afraid," said Cersei. "And a coward to run. If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Everything we suffered will have been for nothing. Everything we lost will have been for nothing. The crown accepts your truce. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy."
Jon wasn't sure whether his sigh was in relief or fear. Because it was all he could have hoped for, and yet her words implied something more than just a truce. A coward to run, she had said. If those things come for us, there will be no kingdoms to rule. Until the dead are defeated, they are the true enemy.
All of it made her sound like she wanted an alliance to defeat the dead. And that… that was a very different thing than a simple ceasefire.
So when Cersei spoke again, a part of him was grateful. "In return, the King in the North will extend this truce. He will remain in the North, where he belongs. He will not take up arms against the Lannisters; he will not choose sides."
"Just the King in the North?" asked Daenerys. "Not me?"
Cersei chuckled. "I would never ask it of you. You would never agree to it. And if you did, I would trust you even less than I do now. I ask it only of Ned Stark's son. I know Ned Stark's son will be true to his word."
Jon's world stopped as he considered her words. He looked at Davos, who was staring back at him with the same shock he felt, and then at Daenerys, whose face was calm as she raised her head to meet his eyes. It left him in confusion; the offer Cersei had made was reasonable—beyond anything Daenerys had ever offered him. Though he didn't believe it for a moment as genuine, it was strange that Daenerys seemed so calm, so sure of his loyalty.
Almost as if she already knew his choice.
Because the truth was that Jon didn't trust Cersei Lannister. She was the woman who had helped kill his father and brother; the woman who had tormented his sister. She said she trusted him because of Ned Stark, but she had murdered Ned Stark in cold blood for the very reasons she trusted Jon now.
So Jon would not be his father. He would not blindly trust those who had proven themselves untrustworthy, and he would not consider allowing Cersei anywhere near the North. It was bad enough the Night King was on his way. Let her stay in King's Landing; he didn't need her. He had the armies, and the dragons, and the dragonglass. In this final moment, he would prove his loyalty to Daenerys Targaryen, and that would be enough.
So, for the first time in months, Jon told the truth.
"I am true to my word. Or I try to be. That is why I cannot give you what you ask." He hesitated, steeling himself for words that even now, after repeating them to himself over and over again, sounded unnatural. "I cannot serve two queens. And I have already pledged myself to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen."
Cersei stood. "Then there is nothing left to discuss. The dead will come north first. Enjoy dealing with them. We will deal with whatever is left of you."
As she and her entourage passed him by to leave the Dragonpit, a shiver ran down spine. Even though he knew what he'd done was right, Cersei Lannister's words still managed to make him cringe with fear. And it was ridiculous, because whatever she might have said, Cersei would never have honored the proposed agreement; she wanted to be queen of the Seven Kingdoms just as much as Daenerys did—and she, somehow, was even less concerned about ending innocent lives to achieve her goals.
Yet he still found himself regretting what he'd done, especially when he faced everyone who was left.
Of them all, Daenerys's look of disappointment and fury was the worst. For only now did Jon realize the truth—that what he'd believed was confidence in his loyalty had been something else, instead: permission to accept. Which made no sense, because he knew for a fact that the queen would never have let him rescind his oath of fealty, whatever the circumstances.
It was times like this he wished Sansa were here. She understood this game better than he ever could. Not that he would admit it to her.
Davos cleared his throat, breaking the long silence that had followed Cersei Lannister's departure from the Dragonpit. "I wish you hadn't done that."
Jon could only sigh. Seven Hells, didn't Davos understand?
The queen marched over to him. "I'm grateful for your loyalty, but my dragon died so that we could be here. If it's all for nothing, then he died for nothing."
"I know!" he snapped before he could think better of it. He wasn't sure who he was more angry at: Daenerys or himself. Because he should have realized how much of Daenerys's loyalty to his cause hinged on the truce. It was just like him not to think of all the angles, only the most straightforward: keep Cersei away from the North while gaining the loyalty of Daenerys. It had all seemed so easy. And now, because he hadn't, he may have just lost all the forces he had bent the knee to gain.
But maybe not, a dark part of himself said; a part that disgusted him, and one he told himself could only have existed thanks to Sansa's insistence that he had to be smarter than their father and brother. She likes you. If you play your part, she might listen to you.
The next time he saw his sister, he was going to kill her.
"I'm pleased you bent the knee to our queen," Tyrion said, though Jon refused to turn around and face him. "I would have advised it, had you asked. But have you ever considered learning how to lie every now and then? Just a bit?"
Now Jon rounded on Tyrion, unable to keep his temper at bay. He had learned to lie. He had lied to Mance and Ygritte and Tormund, he had lied to Caitie and Sansa—though he hadn't known it at the time—and he had lied to himself over and over again. Every time it had gutted him, and every time it had been on other's orders, or for other's ambitions. And now… it was just too much.
"I'm not going to swear an oath I can't uphold!" Jon cried, for he had broken oaths before, and it had only ended in tragedy. "Talk about my father if you want, tell me that's the attitude that got him killed. But when enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more answers, only better and better lies, and lies won't help us in this fight."
It was a speech worthy of Caitie, he thought. And just like everything to do with Caitie, it resonated deep in his bones as true, even as it made him hate himself for what he was doing. Because what did that say about him, that he was willing to ingratiate himself to Daenerys, despite how he truly felt?
"That is indeed a problem," Tyrion said. "The more immediate problem is that we're fucked."
Jon almost laughed. No. You're fucked. I didn't want any part in the war for the Iron Throne; I didn't want to make a truce with Cersei. You all forced my hand. But he didn't, because he was truly a liar and a hypocrite—for even now, he still cared more about those he loved than he did about honesty to the people in front of him.
"Any ideas as to how we might change that state of affairs?" Davos asked grimly.
"Only one," Tyrion said. "Everyone else stays here… and I go and talk to my sister."
Daenerys stomped forward, teeth gritted. "I didn't come all this way to have my hand murdered."
"I don't want Cersei to murder me, either. I could have stayed in my cell and saved a great deal of trouble."
The only thing worse than what Jon had done was to have it all be for nothing, and so he knew that whatever else, he had to stop Tyrion from speaking to Cersei.
"I did this," he said. "I should go."
Tyrion snorted. "She'll definitely murder you. I go see my sister alone. Or we all go home and we're right back where we started."
Right back where we started, Jon thought furiously. But how could they be right back where they started? After everything the queen had seen—how was the Iron Throne still more important?
Regardless, it still was, for Daenerys nodded, looking none too happy about it as she did. A part of Jon wanted to fight the decision, but that would require more lies, and he just… didn't have in him to lie anymore.
So he merely watched as Tyrion walked away, feeling as though he'd lost a battle.
They waited in abject silence. Jon couldn't stand it; he felt like he was back in the Battle of the Bastards, pressed in against a growing mass of bodies, unable to move or speak, suffocating under their weight. He wanted to believe it didn't matter if Tyrion failed. He wanted to believe that Daenerys would still come north to fight the Army of the Dead. He wanted to believe that if Tyrion didn't fail, it would only lead to a truce, and not something even worse than Daenerys in the North.
How he found himself down by the ruins, Jon didn't know. One moment, he'd been standing with the others, the next he'd been twirling a bleached dragon bone in his hands beside a bright red banner with a golden lion imprinted on it. It was nice to be alone with his thoughts, for once. Jon hadn't had any time to just… exist without anyone to bother him in months. He'd had an escape in the Godswood at Winterfell, but since leaving, people always saw fit to interrupt his lonesome—well, brooding, Caitie would have said. And she wouldn't have been wrong.
And now, it seemed, was no exception. The queen strode over to him, even as Jon prayed she would just leave him alone.
Not that he had a choice in the matter.
"No one is less happy about this than I am," he said by way of greeting.
"I know," she replied, and it was perhaps the gentlest he'd ever heard her. "I respect what you did. Wish you hadn't done it, but I respect it."
Caitie wouldn't have, he thought. Either she would have laughed and told him he'd done the right thing because they didn't need Cersei, anyway, or she would have yelled at him until he admitted that she was right and he was wrong. But then, she would have helped him think through a better plan than the one he'd hastily cobbled together in the first place. He wouldn't have been in this mess if he'd had her with him.
Daenerys took a few steps towards him, extending her hand with a nod to the dragon bone. Jon handed it to her without complaint.
She looked around at the ruins of the Dragonpit. "This place was the beginning of the end for my family. Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. A dragon is not a slave."
He furrowed his brows, because he recognized that language. High Valyrian; he'd heard Caitie using it a hundred times, with Maester Aemon or Melisandre or even just by herself. Her accent was much more Westerosi than the queen's, and she was much slower when she spoke it, but he would never forget hearing her.
Gods, would he never be free of this? Would he always have her in his head, beautiful and brilliant and everything he could never have?
Daenerys moved away from him, stepping down into a small alcove built into the base of what the Dragonpit had left behind. Jon followed, for once grateful for the distraction from Caitriona Norrey.
"They were terrifying. Extraordinary. They filled people with wonder and awe, and we locked them in here. They wasted away. They grew small. And we grew small as well. We weren't extraordinary without them. We were just like everyone else."
As she handed him back the bone, he said, "You're not like everyone else," and willed himself to mean it as he took a single step down into the alcove so they were face-to-face. "And your family hasn't seen its end. You're still here." That was a sentiment he knew was true, for it was one that had kept him going whenever it got to be too much—the knowledge that if he died, so would the pieces of his father, and Robb, and Rickon that he had always carried in his heart.
Daenerys sighed. "I can't have children."
"Who told you that?"
"The witch who murdered my husband."
Jon looked down to hide his rueful smile. Of course it involved a witch, because didn't it always?
Not that he was going to actually say so. He told himself it was because it would be rude and unfeeling. He told himself it wasn't really a lie. "Has it occurred to you she might not have been a reliable source of information?"
Daenerys smiled up at him for a moment, then swallowed and looked away. "You were right from the beginning. If I had trusted you, everything would be different."
Hope rose in his chest—hope that this meant she'd given up on the truce; that she would come north regardless of what Cersei said. Hope that she really was a person, beneath all the… Targaryen.
"I can't forget what I saw north of the Wall. And I can't pretend that Cersei won't take back half the country the moment I march north."
Jon sighed. He should have known it was too good to be true. "It appears Tyrion's assessment was correct," he said. "We're fucked."
Infuriatingly, his mind went to Caitie again, and how she would have burst into laughter at his use of the word. She had always found it wildly amusing whenever he swore, though he had no idea why. Not that it mattered; he would have done anything just to hear her laugh, swearing like a sailor included.
In comparison, the queen merely smiled, and Jon's heart fell in disappointment—which was ridiculous and horrible and he smothered it immediately. He wouldn't lie anymore. He would commit, as much as he could.
So he smiled back—and though it didn't make his heart stutter in his chest the way Caitie's smile did, though it didn't make him want to pull her into his arms and never let her go, or send shockwaves of desire and love through his entire being, it wasn't that bad. The queen was very beautiful, after all, even if she wasn't as beautiful as… it didn't matter. And she had been open with him, now, when he had done nothing to deserve it. That had to count for something, didn't it? Maybe… maybe I should give her a chance.
Boots on gravel saved Jon from the war within himself. He looked over his shoulder as Tyrion approached the Dragonpit and strode to meet him, Daenerys following, until they had both returned to the pavilion. The expression on Tyrion's face could only be described as stone-faced, Jon decided, which only made him wary, especially when he saw the queen and her entourage making their way back to the pavilion, too.
When she reached them, hands clasped in front of her and her chin held high, there was a pause that seemed to go on an age.
"My armies will not stand down. I will not pull them back to the capital."
Jon fought a grimace. That was… not good.
"I will march them north to fight alongside you in the Great War."
And that was somehow worse.
Jon's eyes sought Tyrion, who gave him a smug little smile which Jon supposed was meant to be a you're welcome. But Seven Hells, this was everything he had tried to prevent, and the last thing he would have wanted. How could Tyrion not understand the danger Cersei Lannister posed to the North?
"The darkness is coming for us all," she continued, though her expression was tight and angry. "We'll face it together. And when the Great War is over, perhaps you'll remember I chose to help, with no promises or assurances from any of you." She looked between them. "I expect not."
And as the queen turned to her brother and ordered him to call their banners, Jon only had one thought:
Sansa is going to kill me.
The return trip to Dragonstone was somehow longer than their voyage to King's Landing—or at least that was how it felt. By the time they arrived on the shores of the island, Jon was ready to collapse into a bed and sleep for a week, at which point, he could only hope everyone at Winterfell would have settled from their anger at him. He didn't want to imagine the looks on his family's faces when they learned he was not only inviting Daenerys Targaryen into the North, but Cersei Lannister as well, and he could only hope that Sansa would know what to do to mitigate the damage he'd done in that regard.
Unfortunately, Jon had no time to rest after stepping foot on solid ground again. They were to depart for White Harbor that very same evening, and preparations had to be made before they did.
"If we have the Dothraki ride hard on the Kingsroad, they'll arrive at Winterfell within the fortnight," he said, leaning over the map of Westeros on the painted table and pointing at the road.
"And the Unsullied?" asked Daenerys.
"We can sail with them to White Harbor, meet the Dothraki here on the Kingsroad, then ride together to Winterfell."
She nodded.
"Perhaps you should fly to Winterfell, Your Grace," said Jorah. "You have many enemies in the North. Thousands fell fighting your father. All it takes is one angry man with a crossbow. He'll see your silver hair on the Kingsroad and know that one well-placed bolt will make him a hero. The man who killed the conqueror."
If the point had been the paramount safety of the queen, Jon might have agreed with Jorah's assessment. But his priority was the North, and Daenerys Targaryen flying to Winterfell was probably the worst idea anyone could have suggested. He could just imagine her, landing in Winterfell's courtyard, Drogon roaring, unannounced and without warning. The Northerners would be furious, and she would burn them all for treason, and Jon wouldn't be able to protect them because he wouldn't be there. It would be a bloodbath.
"It's your decision, Your Grace," Jon said. "But if we're going to be allies in this war, it's important for the North to see us as allies. If we sail to White Harbor together, I think it sends a better message."
Daenerys was quiet as she thought over both points. At last she said, "I've not come to conquer the North; I'm coming to save the North." She eyed Jon. "We sail together."
He nodded, relieved she'd listened—but it was still a little strange that she would listen to him over the word of her most trusted and beloved advisor. Over Tyrion, perhaps—but Jorah? Do I really have that much influence over her?
He was still pondering this when the meeting ended, and when Daenerys called him back into the room as he tried to leave with Davos. "Jon," she said. "Stay a moment."
The two men exchanged a look; Davos gave him a grim nod. "I'll wait for you outside."
Jon turned to the queen. "Is there something else, Your Grace?"
She smiled at him, a twinkle in her eye that set Jon on edge. "I have another motive for sailing with you."
He froze at this—this flirtation—unsure what he could possibly say in reply. Fortunately, she continued before he needed to.
"I want to speak with you alone after we leave, regarding what I can expect when we arrive at Winterfell. Once we depart for White Harbor, join me in my cabin to discuss it." Her smile was soft and kind, and yet the words were unmistakably an order.
Jon swallowed bile as he nodded, straining for a smile. "Yes, Your Grace."
The moment she dismissed him, he hurried from the room, nails digging into his palms. To join the queen in her cabin, alone, at night, sent a message he couldn't ignore. And it was one thing to flatter her, or court her, but if he was right, and she expected more than just a discussion about Winterfell—Jon didn't know if he could do that. He had done so once, with Ygritte, but his relationship with Ygritte had always been complicated and strange, and he'd wanted her—eventually loved her—as much as he'd feared her. With Daenerys Targaryen, it felt… it felt more like a lie than it had with Ygritte. And he was trying so hard not to lie anymore.
Davos opened his mouth as they set off down the corridor towards the throne room, but Jon silenced him with a scowl. He didn't want advice or admonishments. He knew what he'd done, but no matter how much he wanted to reverse time, to go back to before a Targaryen had landed on the shores of Westeros, he couldn't. He could only deal with the mess he was now in.
As they crossed the throne room, a voice called out from behind. "Jon!"
Jon tensed, for he knew that voice. He turned to face the shell of the boy he'd known, before he'd before he'd been broken and twisted into… whatever he was now.
"Can I speak with you?"
Jon stared up at Theon, standing on the dais in front of the throne, and tried to remember the arrogant Greyjoy heir who had taunted him about being a bastard and fucked his way through the Wintertown brothel and had taken Winterfell from Bran and Rickon, forcing them into exile. Who had probably done a lot worse than that. He tried so, so hard. But now all Jon could see was a broken shadow, and all he could remember was Sansa recounting how she'd saved him, and how he'd saved her, the way her voice had softened when she'd spoken his name, the way she'd argued with every conviction in the world that she could trust him.
The man in front of him was Theon, yet not Theon. A man he hated, and a man he didn't know. But a man that his sister did, and loved.
"Aye," he rasped, with a nod to Davos.
Once he was gone, and they were alone, Theon hesitated. "What you did in King's Landing… what you said. You could have lied to Cersei—about bending the knee to Daenerys." He took three steps, descending from the dais, and Jon had to resist the urge to back away. "You risked everything to tell an enemy the truth."
I didn't trust her. Just like I don't trust you. But he wasn't sure he believed that last part, no matter what he told himself.
"We went down there to make peace," he said. "And it seems to me that we need to be honest with each other if we're gonna fight together."
Theon's face fell. "You've always known what was right. 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, and Gods, there had never been truer words spoken. "It may seem that way from the outside, but… I promise you, it's not true." He tried to sneer, but he could feel the tears prickling in his eyes, undercutting it. "I've done plenty of things that I regret."
"Not compared to me you haven't."
"No," he replied softly. "Not compared to you."
Theon took a deep breath. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing tears, and took a few hesitant steps forward. "I always wanted to do the right thing. Be the right kind of person. But I never knew what that meant. It's always seemed like there—" His voice broke, and he stopped in front of Jon, swallowing again before forcing himself to go on. "Like there was an impossible choice I had to make. Stark or Greyjoy."
Something in Jon snapped at that, at the name of his house and his family on Theon's lips sending him into a rage. He marched forward, only a half-step away from grabbing Theon as he'd done on Dragonstone's beach so long ago. "Our father was more of a father to you than yours ever was."
"He was."
"And you betrayed him."
"I did."
Jon's breaths came hard and fast. He wanted to hit Theon, to hurt him, to make him feel all of the pain those at Winterfell had felt when he'd sacked it. But… Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it. He'd been told that, once, though he couldn't remember where. And Theon hadn't denied what he'd done, nor the depths of the pain it had caused others—people he had once considered his family. People, Jon realized, that he still did.
He sighed. "But you never lost him. He's a part of you. Just like he's a part of me."
"But the things I've done…"
"It's not my place to forgive you for all of it. But what I can forgive… I do."
For the first time Theon looked Jon in the eye, and Jon saw it—saw him. Saw the man his sister believed in. He sighed, letting the hate he held leave his body, like water down a drain. For if Jon couldn't make his peace with Theon, how could he ever hope to make peace with himself?
"You don't need to choose," he said. "You're a Greyjoy… and you're a Stark."
Theon's face crumpled. "When I was Ramsay's prisoner," he said, unable to look at Jon any longer, "Yara tried to save me. She's the only one who tried to save me." He sniffled. "She needs my help."
Jon shook his head, allowing the barest hint of a smile into his voice as he spoke. "So why are you still talking to me?"
The gentle rocking of the ship as it sailed northward could have lulled Jon into a false sense of security, and at a different time, he might have let it. Sleeping his way through the voyage to White Harbor, refusing to engage with anyone, was more and more appealing with every step he took towards the queen's door.
He tried to tell himself he was imagining the double meaning behind her orders. He tried to tell himself that maybe she did only want to discuss the North; after all, a good queen would want to know about the lands she was coming to… not conquer, Jon thought furiously. Save. There was nothing to fear, not now that he'd bent the knee and proved his loyalty.
Unless I'm right about what she wants, and I say no to it.
What would she do if he refused her, Jon wondered. But he didn't want to find out. And he'd brought it on himself, hadn't he?
He arrived at the door, then, much too soon. He needed more time to think, to… What? You know what she wants.
And perhaps, had he been a different man, in a different place, he might not have minded. He respected Daenerys, and he owed her a debt that could never be repaid for her help beyond the Wall, and for her help now. But she was not the woman he loved—had loved for years now, possibly since the moment he had met her. Jon could lie to himself about everything else, but not that. And even if this was his duty, even if Caitie never wanted anything more from him, even if he took the queen to bed, that wouldn't change.
But… he could try to love Daenerys, too. It was better than lying to her—and if it would keep the North safe, then he would do his duty for his people, as he has always done.
So with that in mind, he took a deep, steadying breath and knocked.
Soooooo…
Yeah. I know. If you're pissed, I totally get it. But I promise it'll all work out in the end. Anyway, this is most likely the last of Jon's chapters, so tune in to AGotNW for the continuation of the story.
Oh, slight continuity error: somehow I forgot that in the show dragonglass actually does work on wights (I was using the book info where it doesn't). I only know of one instance where I write that it doesn't work, so I fixed that, but if you come across any other points where someone in the story goes "dragonglass doesn't work on wights!" just know that this is why. I will try to fix all the mistakes eventually, but… it's a long fic, man.
Also, can I just say how weird and inconsistent this show was in its later seasons? Like, in the same episode we have some of the worst dialogue I've ever seen (literally every time Euron is on screen), and then in the very next scene we have some of the best (Jon and Theon's conversation). It's so weird.