authorsnote: ahhhh. I am so, so beyond hype for this new wip! I know I should update my others but when an idea like this comes to a person it has to be written!
please let me know what you think, I'm so keen to get everyones thoughts on this. this one is going to have lots of twist, divert massively from canon and has one huuuugee twist that even I didn't see coming!
this is 70% books, 30% show. I am borrowing season 6 onward a little bit but then it is going it's own way, and all of the lore will be book canon. don't me I can't class it under both. also don't be mad at my grammar, sometimes it ain't perfect, thankfully I'm getting better and no don't worry sis I do not write my stories like I do my author notes (oh the horror). also chapters will usually be a bit longer (5-10k words), this is just an opener.
fav/follow to get updates, review me your thoughts and most importantly please enjoy!
songrecs: jon's honour theme - ramin djawadi
'He's my King, from this day, until his last day!'
'The King in the North! The King in the North!'
It felt like a dream.
Here were the Northern Lords, the most powerful men in their part of the country, and they were declaring for him, they were chanting for him, they were believing in him. They roared his name, thrust their swords into the air, Sansa sat by his side, a little delighted smile on her features. Davos gave him a nod; Tormund was grinning from ear to ear. The chanting threatened to deafen him.
King.
He was a King.
The rest of the night went in something of a blur, there was lots of drinking, lots of shouting, lots of cheering, laughing, and eating. It didn't feel quite real, that this was for him, that he'd been crowned King.
He'd been a bastard, a recruit, a brother of the Night's Watch, a wildling, a traitor, the Lord Commander, a dead man, and now he was a King.
It didn't feel real, he imagined it wouldn't feel real for quite a while.
Part of him wanted to bring the festivities to a halt, to remind the Northern Lords that the Other's were still out there, that they still had wars to wage, that Cersei Lannister in the South would see them dead, that winter was coming and was coming soon. But as he watched the wildlings and Lords somehow finally getting on, as he watched the comradery and happiness, as he watched Sansa smiling properly, he couldn't break it up.
"Debating whether this is a good use of time?" As though she'd read his mind his sister teased him, grinning as she took a sip of her drink. He rolled his eyes but felt mildly surprised she could read him so well.
She was a little different now, he could see that, perhaps more than a little. She had become very, very good at reading people, at understanding them, picking them apart. It would have scared him a little if he weren't so impressed.
The Sansa Stark he had been raised next to had changed. He could still see a hint of her there, in her love of lemon cakes, in her smile, in the tiny bit of innocence that hadn't been crushed, but not much, not much at all.
"Littlefinger is going to be a problem" She followed with, and he couldn't help but tease her back.
"Now who's all business?" She rolled her eyes at that but laughed all the same, before he nodded, back to seriousness again. He could do that, and he noticed Sansa could now as well. Laugh one minute, then back to business the next. It was something they had in common now.
Necessary in the roles he had held in this world, and as he glanced at Sansa, a little furrow in her brow now he knew it had been necessary in the roles she had held as well.
Bastard, recruit, brother, wildling, traitor, leader, dead man, King.
Princess, traitor, captive, runaway, hostage, bastard, Lady.
Not so different.
"Aye, he'll be a problem, but we'll deal with him" He said, so sure, for with at least two Stark's together, and the wolf – the symbol of their house at his feet, he was sure they could do anything. Littlefinger may have helped them win the Battle, but they didn't owe the man anything. He would not wiggle his way in here.
"That we will" She agreed, and he found himself smiling, he and Sansa may never have considered themselves siblings before, but it was good to have family back now. He felt a little pang for his brothers at the Wall then, of Sam in Oldtown, but he knew he'd made the right decision, his watch had ended, and besides, he could do far more for Castle Black as King than he could Lord Commander.
"I might retire" Sansa said with a nod, and Jon nodded too, it was getting late, but the drinking had yet to die down, still Jon felt suddenly weary – it had been a long day, he didn't feel the need nor the desire to remain here getting drunk and paying for it the next day.
One benefit of King, he didn't have to be too polite.
"Me too" She nodded then, and he held out an arm for her, she took his, they nodded and made their way out, Sansa immediately launching into her plans to start building glass gardens for winter. He didn't catch Ser Davos's raised eyebrow as they exited the hall, nor how he now held himself a little differently. Not arrogance, not brashness.
No.
He held himself like a King.
The next morning and he made his way to his father's … no, his solar for the first time. He shook his head at that, making his way through the corridors. Well, that was odd to think. He may have given Sansa the Lord's chambers, but he supposed the solar was his to use. He felt a mixture of apprehensive and oddly giddy at the idea.
Once he reached the door, he took a second to go inside, alongside the slight nervousness and excitement there was a good dollop of guilt as well.
This is supposed to be Robb…
Clearing his throat, he forced himself to push the door open. Robb was gone, as was his father. The Lords had crowned him, and he had placed Sansa as Lady of Winterfell, hell she was practically Queen by his side! Well not in that way, but in the way he'd keep her counsel and she would rule by his side.
Yes, he felt he had done right by his family, at least he hoped he had, and he knew now he had to focus on the future.
The storm was coming, the worst storm, that was what he had to face, to prepare for. Sansa was on top of organising supplies and food, he needed to handle the other side of things; the battle itself.
He needed to look over reinforcements, the troops from each of the Northern houses, the wildlings, the Vale, and the few soldiers that had escaped from the Riverland's. He needed to determine how many men they had that could stand and fight, how many mounted horsemen, brawlers, swordsmen, archers.
He needed to know how many canons they had, how many horses, how much dragon glass and how to get more. He needed to know how well trained the men were and when they could get here.
He needed to know what they were working with, and what fight they could put up against the Others, against the storm.
Because he knew it was coming, the worst storm. The white raven would likely fly soon, winter is coming, and with that came the Others, came the storm, came death. Death was marching to meet them, and they had to stop it.
But an hour later, and his head was in his hands.
It was not looking good.
He had checked the numbers, the figures, three times. He had gone over the reports from squires, the reports from the smiths, the Lords, the generals, everyone. He had added the figures, triple checked them and gone back over them again and again. He had added up possibilities, had checked over predictions and ideas. It was not enough.
They simply did not have the numbers, not even close.
He knew what power the Others held, they had numbers in the tens of thousands, and they had any men they killed that would then rise with them. They had reanimated creatures, they had so many men, wights and giants and all manner of things. And then they had the Others themselves, the few that walked with the wights, screaming their garbled language, carrying swords of ice that would not break, moving with such precision and speed.
They had it all.
In comparison they did not have enough. The North had suffered in the War of Five Kings and the Bolton takeover. The land itself was okay, always harsh, and untamed it did not suffer too much under wars but the men? There weren't enough, not nearly enough. Too many injured, too many dead, not enough weapons, not enough food, not enough of anything.
They did not have enough, not nearly enough.
He sat, as he did not know what to do next. They needed more than this but where were they supposed to go to get it? The South? Any pleas would fall on deaf ears he was sure. Stannis? Dead and gone. The Dragon Queen? After what had happened to his Grandfather and Uncle, he would never trust a Targaryen. No, they had few options in reinforcements.
He was at a loss at what to do. With a heavy sigh he stood to his feet. The solar suddenly felt warm, stuffy, even as the cold raged outside. He felt the need to get outside, to get some air. He'd been working for hours; he needed some space.
With a nod to himself he strode out of the solar, cut through the castle. It was strange, seeing the servants be so deferential, seeing people nod their heads, bow and curtsey. It was odd to say the least, his head felt heavy, even though no crown sat atop it.
As he strode through the courtyard, it was too crowded for his liking. He spotted Sansa stood with the blacksmiths, in deep discussion as Lord Royce stood over her shoulder and Littlefinger lurked nearby. He was tempted to head over, but no, Sansa could handle herself and he still needed that space.
He continued on, and found the one place that was quiet here, that was empty.
The Godswood.
Even as a child he had found this to be a place of peace. He had never been devout, a believer yes but never a zealot. Here though he had always found it quiet and peaceful. He had come here often, just to be alone, to brood, to be in the silence.
Now, perhaps he believed some more, for he had risen from the dead, but which god had been responsible for that? Were there multiple gods? Which religion had got it right? He had no idea frankly, and yet he could never see himself following anyone but his father's gods.
When he had passed, in the time in between there had been nothing, no indication which God was true, not hint at what came next, simply nothing.
With a small sigh he approached the great Weirwood. It was truly a sight of beauty, a thing of power and strength. The red leaves were vibrant against the snow, the lake shimmered, a layer of ice coating it, the snow was mostly untouched with just his footprints behind him, he noticed a second set of smaller prints and smiled as Ghost trailed him, his faithful, silent companion, there was comfort in having him close.
He sat down at the base of the Weirwood, he didn't notice the cold, he hadn't much before and now he didn't notice it at all. He had planned to come here just to sit in the quiet, to gather his thoughts, get some fresh air and then head back to his planning, to the hopeless task ahead, but now sat at the base of the tree, the weeping face looking back at him he had no desire to leave, no desire to go back to disheartening figures and numbers.
No, instead, for the first time in a very, very long time, he had the desire to pray.
And so, he dipped his head, and he prayed.
'I need help, we can't win this, we can't hope to. I need help, I need … I need more than me'
That was all he could think of because it was the truth, the simple but awful truth. He needed help. He knew he would help win this war, hell he'd lead it, but he wasn't enough. They didn't have the men; they didn't have the fighters. They needed more.
He kept his head bowed for several minutes. He didn't expect anything, not really but still felt a hint of disappointment as the air remained still, as the light snow continued to fall, as nothing changed, as no reinforcements came, as his prayer went unanswered.
Well, that was until the Weirwood began to glow.
Jon liked to think he was a tough man, he had seen and experienced so much he was not one to shock easily, and yet he found his eyes widening, and his heart quickening as the Weirwood began to glow, first a pale silver and then red. He wasn't ashamed to be shocked, tell him one man who wouldn't be near bowled over at such a view.
It was oddly beautiful, even as the snow around him flickered silver and then red, even as it almost looked like blood was falling from the Weirwood, even as the glow intensified. It was captivating, perhaps a little terrifying but mesmerizing all the same.
He stood to his feet and took several steps back, placed a hand on Ghost, and stood at a distance, his eyes locked on the tree. He wouldn't leave, he couldn't, but he had no idea what was going on. But then, he supposed what man did know was far outweighed by what man didn't know. Still, he didn't feel as though he were in danger, he knew somehow there was no danger here, and so though he stood back he did not leave.
"I…" He had no words, for what could he say? Well, it seemed as a voice shook out from the tree that he need not say anything.
'You must fight Jon Snow, you must lead, you must win the war against the Great Other. You must lead, you are a King!'
The voice near rattled the walls of Winterfell and Jon had never felt so simultaneously terrified and confused at the same time. This was a voice speaking to him, if he hadn't been literally raised from the dead he might have thought it was a trick, but no, he believed it instantly, this was the Gods speaking to him. Perhaps he believed it because he had experienced so many unbelievable things, perhaps it was desperation and relief that his prayer had been answered.
Either way, he believed it.
Though what came next he didn't quite believe and wouldn't for a little while.
Shadows began to appear behind the Weirwood, faint at first and then stronger, much stronger, they were walking out of the glow, the glow that turned gold, shimmered, and sparkled. The shadows began to take shape then and Jon if he were a weaker man would have fainted, he near did when the voice sounded again.
'The pack must be reunited; the pack must fight the oncoming storm. You Jon Snow will lead the pack! Fight Jon Snow'
The shadows took shape, the faces became clear and Jon would have cried out had he not been completely lost for words and unable to speak.
Father.
Robb with Grey Wind by his side.
Rickon with Shaggydog.
Lady Catelyn.
Alive, alive and well. Eyes wide with surprise and confusion, looking down at themselves and then across at him. Alive.
Had he gone mad? Had he cracked? He turned to look at Ghost, and yet his direwolf was focused on his returned siblings. He still made no sound, but it looked like he had near whined out to his fallen brothers. Jon near did too.
'Lead the pack Jon Snow, you will hear from us twice more, but not at your call, at ours. Twice more King Jon, twice more, lead your pack'
The glow stopped then, the gold flickered away and then died all together. What was left in place were his family, the pack, not all of them, but some, returned. He could only infer those returned from the dead. His heart swelled as he registered this must mean Arya and Bran were very much alive somewhere, but for now he could barely focus on that, he could focus on nothing but seeing those who had returned.
Alive.
"Jon?" Sansa. She stood behind him, he hadn't even noticed her approach, and yet tears were on her cheeks and she betrayed his shock, he could see she was shaking and as he looked down at his own hands he realised he was too. "What is this?"
"I don't know" He didn't, not at all, and yet as he looked back to Robb, to Father, to Rickon, even to Lady Catelyn, he did know, somehow.
He had asked the Old Gods for help, and help had come.
sooo thoughts?
please let me know if you enjoyed! loved, hated, mildly disliked, complete apathy? let me know either way (but pls be constructive!).
has anyone guessed the twist yet? I always ask because way back when on another account I uploaded my first chapter of a story all smug about my foreshadowing and planned twist and someone lit guessed it in the first few reviews!
anywho, follow/fav for updates, review to let me know thoughts/should I continue? and hopefully you enjoyed!
speak soon