Jon met with Stannis in Roose Bolton's former quarters, chambers richly furnished and kept warm by hearth fire. The decor made Jon wish to vomit, with pink upholstery, with tapestries depicting great slaughters lining the walls and Myrish rugs of pink and red covering the floor. The furniture had been carefully, expertly carved, every leg of every chair and table somehow taking the form of a contorted, tortured man or woman. A silver-plated skull rested on the table in the center of the room amidst King Stannis' many maps and letters.
The King himself towered over the table as Jon entered, his brow angry and frustrated. His skin had become thin and pale, hanging off his skull like cloth draped over a coatrack. Ned had always seemed old compared to men his own age, but Stannis seemed older still, like he had spent twenty years under siege and not one.
"You're late," Stannis growled, but Jon paid him no mind, settling into one of the chairs without a word.
"We need to move south," The King continued, still not looking up from his maps, "We need to secure ourselves against the Lannisters before pushing out. We will need White Harbor to control the sea and Moat Cailin to secure the land, but Greywater is beyond our reach and Manderly says nothing. We must..."
"I came here to discuss terms."
Still, Stannis refused to look up but Jon could see his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "What is there to discuss? You will swear fealty to me tomorrow on behalf of your brother in the sight of all your gathered lords, and that will be the end of it." Finally, he looked up, meeting Jon's gaze, "Or do you mean to go back on your word? Do you mean to give me battle?"
Jon felt fire kindle deep in his heart. "Is this your idea of a threat? You will have to do better than that. You have seven thousands? I have ten here, and five more besides who march with Mors to Deepwood Motte."
"You have sticks held by women dressed in rags," Stannis snarled. "You could have five times my numbers, and with such quality of arms it would make no difference."
Jon scowled. He had not come here to wage war. The North needed peace, needed unity. The Ironborn still held Deepwood Motte, the Lannisters still ruled in King's Landing, and the Flints wrote of black-sailed galleys off the southwest coast. With luck they might survive against all these until Winter, and then… Jon's heartfelt cold. He had to cast aside doubt and fear if he meant to prevail. Stannis would bring seven thousand swords to fight against the Others. That was what mattered.
Jon cooled his temper and leaned toward Stannis. "Those wildling dogs you so despise are my subjects," he said. "When I swear to you tomorrow, King, they will be your subjects as well. And not just them, but Barbrey and Ryswell and others who have every reason to mistrust you. I will swear oaths to you, but I have sworn to them as well, your Grace, and I do not mean to break my word."
"Your word." Stannis turned away in disgust, pacing away before returning. "Why not be more honest? Why not say what we all already know? It is your ambition that goads you onward, not your honor."
"And what if it is?"Jon, said, his face hot. "Your cause cannot survive without my support, Baratheon, and you would do well to remember it."
"Neither can your cause survive without mine!"
A moment passed, both of them staring over the table, daring the other to look away first. I could make do without you, Jon wanted to say, but he knew it would be a lie. He had to march west to the Deepwood and possibly south to White Harbor, he could not be marching east to Karhold as well.
"I will hear your demands, Stark," Stannis said at last, holding Jon's gaze. "But the days are short. Do not waste my time."
Jon leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him as he had seen his father do so many times before. "Rickon will be a Prince, not a lord, and will be accorded all the rights and privileges of that position alongside every right and privilege that our Lord Father held as lord of Winterfell."
"I have already agreed to this," Stannis stated, his eyes hard and resentful.
"The North will not be required to march south of the neck until after the end of winter." Dustin would like that. Ryswell too, and most of the wildlings. For all of them, the war in the south had been nothing more than a distant rumor, a hateful and pointless conflict. Jon wished he had gone south earlier, before the war, when his brother and father and others might be saved… but now there was no point. Only Sansa remained, and she at least would survive. "We cannot afford a long campaign while the snows are falling."
"Ridiculous," Stannis replied.
"The fight is here," Jon hissed. "Here in the North. I would have thought your Red Lady would have impressed that on you, in all those private councils you hold with her."
"I will support your sworn brothers with all I have," Stannis spat. "And I will also settle with our enemies to the south. To stand against one and ignore the other would be to stand with a knife at our backs."
"You have no idea what our true enemy is like, no idea what they can do."
"So what would you propose, then? We place every man in the North atop that block of ice and let them starve? Is that your strategy?"
"Set the North to rights, hold Moat Cailin, and-"
"And what of the Riverlands? What of the many thousands who linger under Lannister's tyranny? Have you forgotten that the men who made you king are still fighting? What of your uncle, Edmure? What of your sister in King's Landing?"
"Do not speak to me of them," Jon snarled. "You do not know-"
"I know enough. I know that you swore to follow the Watch and broke faith with them twice. I know that you swore to follow Mance and betrayed him. I know that you swore to follow me and now come with threats and insults. I know-"
Jon stood up, ears pounding with pressure, "I did everything for the survival of the Watch!"
Stannis did not reply, only held him with those cold, hard eyes of his. Jon looked away.
"We will speak of this again," he said and left without another word.
***
The cold of the godswood did little to cool Jon's temper. Baratheon was a fool, a damned fool, and Jon should have killed him when he had the chance. The man had seven thousands to his name, less than half Jon's force, and yet he thought to stand over him as king. As though Stannis were owed loyalty for being the last survivor of a failed line. We'll be lucky to survive the winter, but if we do, Stannis means to have us turn our swords south. Has he not had enough blood? Does he not understand that Ryswell and Dustin will not follow him south?
Jon stared at the twisted face that had been carved into the Dreadfort's heart tree. Its eyes and mouth and ears all leaked blood. No doubt some ancient Bolton had thought that it would strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. But the Boltons had died and their fortress had been taken, and Jon had moved past fear of ghosts. Jon closed his eyes and spoke to the tree. No secrets, as his father had taught him.
He wished he could go back to the days when men judged him unfairly for things he could not control. That pain had been familiar. Now when men accused him of wrong he did not know what to say to them. He had broken every vow, every sacred rite, and when men hated him they had good reason. Had he ever had a choice? Would he do anything differently, if given the choice? Perhaps he should have gone south when Robb yet lived before the whole of the cause had turned so sour. Perhaps he should have stayed with Ygritte and tried to persuade the brotherhood to let them through… He did not know. He could not know. That thought hurt most of all. It would be better if things were simpler.
He opened his eyes, the grotesque carving howling back at him, and he smiled.
"Are you finished wallowing in your own misery?"
He rose to his feet, startled. Alys Karstark approached him, walking through the trees of the godswood dressed in black and white with an ornate silver necklace that reached from her collarbone to her chest. Alys wore a great cloak trimmed with wolf-fur that only emphasized how thin and frail she was. A slight smile quirked at the edge of her mouth that made Jon feel as though he had been caught doing something wrong.
"I was confessing. Speaking to the trees, your ladyship." He did not know what to say. She had visited Winterfell, once, and danced with Robb, but Jon had not spoken to her then. He had not been allowed. With Jonnel Cerwyn, or Dustin, or Val, speech had been easy. There he had been a conquering lord come to treat with a vassal. But with Karstark, with Alys... things were not the same. She had sworn to Rickon, not to Jon, and as such she was more Stannis' vassal than his own, at least for today.
"Do the trees speak back?"
"Thankfully not."
That earned another slight smile. "Would you walk with me, my lord? I find myself trapped indoors too often, and in need of exercise."
He was not her lord, not yet, but he walked with her anyway. They continued in silence for some time, the crunch of the snow under their feet and the cawing of the ravens overhead the only sounds in the Godswood. Idly he wondered if Roose had been a keeper of the Green way, if he had been as pious and as serious as father had… it seemed impossible that a man so false might fear the gods, but who knew what lay in the hearts of man? Not Jon, certainly.
"All is not well between the King and yourself," Alys said eventually, "Will this ceremony tomorrow still take place, or shall we have a battle instead?"
Jon grimaced. "Who told you that?"
"The trees," she replied airily.
Jon drew in a breath. He supposed they must have been yelling loud enough for half the servants in the Dreadfort to hear them. "We will stand together," he said with finality.
"And what of your disagreements?"
"I will make the King see reason," he said. "I will make him see that we cannot march south in safety."
"Reason?" She scowled. "Does a man of reason run out from his King's presence without even asking for dismissal? Does a man of reason stew and simmer in the Godswood for hours?" She caught his gaze and held it as if daring him to contradict her.
Jon looked away. "Perhaps not," he said finally. "But there is nothing to be done. He insults me at every turn. He does not, will not, trust my council."
"Do you trust him?"
"Yes." Jon surprised himself with how confidently he said it. "He knows about the real enemy. He needs me to stand against them."
"Ah yes," Alys replied. "The real enemy. But does he need you? He has Rickon."
"My brother is five years old," Jon said, "He has the Stark name, but he's barely even a boy. Do you think Dustin and Mance are so in love with my father that they'd follow a babe into battle? Are you? Is that why you declared for him and Stannis? Were you overcome by my brother's lordly heritage?"
Alys rolled her eyes. "It was my great uncle Arnolf that declared for Stannis and Rickon, not me. His scheme was to me to marry his disgusting son, then declare against the Lannisters so that they'd execute my brother Harry and his son would inherit." She smirked. "Three days of the king's presence in Karhold were enough to have him writing to the Boltons. He meant to offer them Stannis' head. But the Maester left the letters out where a servant could get them, and so it was my uncle who lost his head instead."
Jon laughed. It was not funny, but after everything that had happened… Gods, it was good to again hear a story, a true story, where the evil man got his just deserts. All the old stories had been like that, but true stories seldom ended so cleanly.
"Stannis thought you were like my nuncle, Jon. He depended upon it."
Jon did not know what to say to that.
"He thought you would be eager to see your brother dead, to solidify your claim," Alys continued. "He said as much to his war council in the weeks before our armies met. The plan was to show you your lord brother and imply we'd kill him if you fought us."
Jon's heart sank. "And what, he had his men prepare the ground ahead of me?"
"It was inconsiderate of you to choose peace," Alys laughed. "The men worked long and hard on those pits."
"Digging in the ice and frozen earth like that..." Jon's fingers ached just thinking about it.
"It was hell for them. I'd counsel you not go near the King's camp, Lord Jon, lest a maddened Stormlander take you from behind with a blunted shovel."
Jon smiled and shook his head. A moment of silence passed, more amicable than the previous. "So why are you here?" He asked. "Why did you seek me out, here in the Godswood?"
"Why?" she snorted. "To charm you and make you fall in love with me of course."
Jon frowned. "My question was meant in earnest."
"So was my answer."
Jon looked at her in puzzlement. She scowled. "I thought my intention was clear enough."
"No," Jon replied, "I just-" He paused. "Why?"
"Why not? I won't be Lady of Karhold forever unless my brother Harry bites it. I need to make some kind of connection. You're to be Rickon's regent, you're nearly my age and you've got most of your teeth besides. That puts you head and shoulders above all the up-jumped onion knights who've been playing at courtly love since my uncle lost his head."
Jon blinked. He had thought of marriage, of course, with Val or with one of the Umber girls. He had thought of children playing in the Godswood of Winterfell in the spring. That had been his dream, his distant hope, but always something had held him back, kept him from losing himself in that pleasant notion.
"Besides which," Alys continued, "It seems to me that if you're struggling to get the King to trust you, it might make sense to seal the contract between you with a marriage. I-"
"My vows," he said, uncertain. "My vows to the Watch, they..."
"You've already gone and broken those, what's the use in pretending otherwise?" bewilderment filled Alys' voice. "You can't have seriously intended for your line to end with you before Rickon appeared. Hells, you should have been getting bastards on every whore from Greywater to Last Hearth."
"I've not fathered a bastard," Jon replied hotly.
"And all things considered, I'm glad to hear it, but what was your plan, Stark? Did you think you would remain unwed forever?"
"I just thought..." what had he thought? That he would keep half his oaths but forget the rest? That men would respect a King who fathered no heir? But then he thought of red hair splayed out against the snow and he remembered. He hated how long it had taken him.
"There was a girl. A girl I thought I might marry," he said, his eyes kept straight forward. "It was a foolish idea, a doomed notion." He paused and looked up through the bare branches of the trees, to the endless slate-gray sky above. He would have given the world to see her in brocade and silk. He would have given his life for her. But not his honor. He had given that up later.
"She died," he managed eventually.
"How long ago?" Alys' voice was very small.
Jon sighed. "I can't remember. Six months, it must be."
"The wildling girl."
A laugh escaped him. "She was four years my senior. If she was a girl, then what are we?"
"A girl and a boy," Alys replied. "Not more or less, despite everything that's happened."
Jon looked at her. She was thin and tall and straight with a hard face and eyes full of ice. Kissed by flame, that was what they had called Ygritte, but Alys has been kissed by ice. Even now she regarded him evenly, as though they were discussing the weather and not a dearly departed lover. Alys was cold... but she was not cruel.
"You have spoken more kindly to me than I deserved," Jon said. "You would be well within your rights to take offense at my behavior."
Alys shrugged. "What purpose would that serve? I lost my betrothed and two brothers in the Whispering Wood, and your brother Robb executed my father for treason. I know well enough the pain you feel and I've no cause to disrespect it."
She does know, Jon felt with certainty. "I don't know what to say," He said.
"Neither do I. Perhaps in five years, the hurt will not be so raw and I will be able to make sense of it. Perhaps not. Perhaps by then, we'll all be dead."
Jon sighed and looked toward the great Keep of the Dreadfort. "Perhaps I'd better get back up there and make peace with my king."
"Perhaps you should."
***
Stannis was still stuck over the table, glowering at the maps and letters as though he could intimidate them into saying something that they did not. The Onion Knight and half a dozen others Jon could not remember the names of were crowded around him, discussing something in whispered tones.
Stannis looked up as Jon entered. "Leave us. Not you, Davos. All the rest. I would speak with Lord Jon alone." he said, and all the knights obeyed.
Jon bowed slightly. "Your Grace," he said simply.
"Lord Jon."
"I have come to apologize for my lack of decorum earlier, and to explain myself."
Stannis slumped into a chair and gestured for Jon to do the same. Jon reached to the table and pushed the letters aside to show the map of the North that lay beneath.
"You have the allegiance of Karhold and you have conquered the Dreadfort," he said, pointing to the fortresses on the map. "Last Hearth, Winterfell, Castle Cerwyn, the Rills, and Barrowtown all support me, as well as the mountain clans and the Flints.."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Jon drew a circle on the map with his finger, "Dustin and Ryswell control a third of our heavy infantry and all our lands south of Winterfell. I defeated them in battle once, but it was an uncertain thing and I had neither time nor men enough to truly bring them to heel. Their loyalty is wholly contingent on the belief that we will not force them to march south of the Neck. If you march south, it will be without them, and if the war should go poorly for you..." Jon winced.
Stannis' frown deepened by a fraction. "You think they would turn on you?"
"What loyalty is owed an oathbreaking bastard? Their man Rakelin is here with us. He keeps a dozen ravens with him at all times, so that he might write home to his lady in Barrowtown. I intend that he should have a good report for her."
"I will not commit to peace with the Lannisters," Stannis said. "If the Riverlands are fallen and our enemies secured, then we would better off waiting for them to come to us, but if they are weak, if they are still fighting in the Riverlands, we must crush them while we still have the chance."
"What do we say then, when I take my oaths as Rickon's regent tomorrow?"
"You must bear little love for your family if you are so eager to stay away from them."
Blood rushed to Jon's head. How dare he, how dare he? Words intruded into Jon's mind, words that could not be taken back… but he stopped himself, stopped himself from speaking his mind and letting loose his thoughts.
"Your Grace," he said, after the rage had passed, "I loved my trueborn siblings with all my heart, but I have no family in the south. Not anymore. Sansa and Arya are missing and Robb and my father are dead. I want vengeance. I hunger for it. The blood of my father calls out to me from the Sept of Baelor, the blood of my brother calls out from the Twins, but if I am forced to choose between fighting for the living, and fighting for the dead? I will choose the living."
"And what of the latest news from King's Landing?" Stannis scoffed. "Men say your brother is returned, that he leads his army to victory after victory, slaying the Mountain himself outside Fairmarket?"
A weight settled in Jon's guts. "I know better by now than to believe a false hope. If the Riverlands are still fighting… we must do something for them. But these rumors are just that, rumors. Perhaps one of my brother's guardsmen has donned my brother's armor to strike fear into the hearts of the Lannister men, but I know for a fact that Robb is gone."
He did know it, that was the strange thing. He knew it more intimately than he knew almost anything. Sansa, Arya, Bran even Ygritte… any one of them could walk into the Dreadfort tomorrow and he would not be surprised. But Robb was dead, that he knew for a fact.
Davos cleared his throat, speaking for the first time. "The truth is, my lords, that news from the Riverlands has been slow and hard to come by. I think even Lady Dustin would agree that committing to any course of action at this point would be rash."
"What do you propose?" Stannis asked.
"We have already sent riders to White Harbor," Davos said, "Whether they respond favorably or unfavorably, the presence of milords will be required, and it is likely they will have more recent news than we. We can make a decision there and march further south if milords deem it necessary."
Jon glared at him testily. "And what of Dustin and Ryswell?" Had he not been listening to their whole discussion?
"Prince Rickon is Robb's heir," Davos said, somewhat uncertainly. "As his regent, you will pledge to guard his realm, no more or less. If the fight in the Riverlands has ended and the Lannisters rule there, we can in good faith say that they are no longer part of the North and wash our hands of them. But if the Riverlands are still fighting in the name of King Robb, how can Dustin or anyone say that you are bringing war to the North by marching to relieve them?"
Jon struggled to conceal his surprise. Until now he had assumed that the Onion Knight had been made Hand of the King as something of a joke on the King's part, but the man had spoken rightly.
"And so at last we come to an arrangement," Stannis said, his frown refusing to budge in the slightest. "Unless you had another request?"
"None more," Jon replied. "Not now."
***
Jon took his oaths in the Godswood the next day at dawn, with half a thousand there to witness. The ceremony was simple and short, in part out of necessity. Prince Rickon could not be made to sit still for more than half an hour, no matter how much Osha coaxed him. He had grown so tall, so fierce since Jon had known him last. Rickon had been little better than a babe in arms when he had left, constantly crying and full of tears. Now he was a boy, a boy who had grown up sleeping under hedges and stealing bread for food. He had a prideful air to him despite his age, deep steel born of suffering and hardness. Jon did not think it would not be easy to rule him. Was proud of that, or afraid?
As the final act of the ceremony, Jon placed his crown in front of his brother as an offering. The crowd cheered at that, but Rickon seemed hardly to care. Jon's heart ached to see his brother so indifferent. Jon had only had the crown made after he took Winterfell, just a few short months ago. He had wanted the crown, he had always wanted it, and now to see it go?
At least I am no usurper, he thought. At least Lady Catelyn's judging eyes would no longer haunt him at every turn. Oathbreaker, sorcerer, and traitor, yes, but not a usurper. That had been why he had agreed to be Rickon's regent in the first place.
Festivities followed in the Great Hall. Jon sat two seats below the King, next to his brother. Rickon looked like a frightened rabbit on his high seat, surrounded by so many others, but that all changed when the food came out. The boy ate like an animal and every second had some new question about which people were which and what they were named, but Jon did not mind. Rickon called him brother and that was enough.
Alys on his right was a stark contrast. She dressed even more formally now than she had on the day previous, with sapphires and silvers laced through her braid and dark black dress of silk lined with wool. She did not smile, did not talk much at all, and for that Jon was most grateful. Time alone with his thoughts was what he most sorely needed.
"Jon!" Prince Rickon barked, his mouth half full of meat. "Jon, what is this stuff?"
"It's pheasant, brother. Bolton bred them for hunting. You've had it before." Though not prepared half so well, I would warrant. The castle's garrison had surrendered to Stannis without a fight, and the Bolton cook had yet to disappoint. Wines from the Arbor, matched with fresh pork and corn. Black bread and pheasant seasoned expertly with spices Jon had never even heard of… after a year at and beyond the Wall, it tasted like heaven to Jon.
"I like it!" Rickon said simply.
Jon smiled. "You are a prince now, brother, you can have it every day, so long as you attend to your lessons."
"Shaggydog likes it too! You should give some to Ghost."
"Ghost prefers to hunt his own food, my Prince."
Rickon sniffed at Jon calling him 'prince' and then went back to devouring his food. Jon sighed and looked down at his own meal.
"Any regrets, Lord Regent?" Alys' intrusion caught Jon off guard, so much so that he nearly spilled his wine.
Jon smiled. "More than I can count. But not one from today." He felt giddy, almost lightheaded. He did not know if it was the wine or the rich food or the hearth fire… or the happy thought that they might all live through this war yet. And why should they not? The North had been willing to follow an oathbreaking bastard for a time, why should they not be willing to follow Rickon? Jon would be his strength, his support, and Rickon would grow up an honorable, untainted prince. So long as they acted as one they would be without weakness.
A sound came from the doorway, the music ceasing as all the feasters looked on in shock. Knights had entered the Hall, three knights wearing full harness. The first of them wore the mermaid of Manderly. The second wore the Glover fist and the third… the third was a woman, he realized, an old woman wearing the bear of Mormont. Jon's mouth went dry. He rose, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Who are you and what is your business here?" Stannis called, his voice cold and harsh. "Come you in peace or war?" Jon ground his teeth. House Manderly had been so silent for so many months… Had they signed terms with the Lannisters? Had they given up their imprisoned son for loss? And what were Mormont and Glover doing in attendance?
The Glover man stepped forward, bowing to Jon and Stannis each in turn, but kneeling to neither. "I am Lord Glover. These here with me are Maege Mormont and Ser Stevren, sworn sword of House Manderly. We come bearing news. Whether it is peace or war, that is for you to decide. We rode with King Robb for many months, only parting ways shortly before the treachery of the Freys. Like many, we received the letter from Mors Umber claiming that the will of King Robb name his half-brother Jon as his successor. Like many, we were eager to acclaim Lord Jon as king after the death of King Robb. But glorious news comes from the south! King Robb is not dead. King Robb is alive, and long may he live!"
Jon's knuckles whitened on the hilt of his blade. "We too have heard this tale, but we thought it nothing more than a tale. Have you proof?"
The Manderly knight produced a letter sealed with the sigil of House Umber. No, Jon thought, impossible. The Smalljon was the one who had written to Last Hearth to declare Jon as Robb's heir in the first place. The one who had declared Robb's death was now writing to confirm his life? A page brought the letter forward and Jon split the seal with his knife. His lips turned. The Brotherhood had fished Robb out of the Trident, the letter claimed. Robb's injuries had been severe but not deadly, the letter declared.
But Robb is dead, Jon repeated, his heart aching as though he was hearing word of his brother's death for the first time again. Robb is dead and I know it for a fact.
"This letter," Jon said, "It is dated almost three months past."
"We went to Winterfell first," Glover explained. "We have been seeking you for some months now."
Jon could feel every eye in the room turned toward him, even the king's. His hands trembled as he set the letter down. What did this mean? What must he do? This party of three had chosen their line of attack well. He had no time to hold council with the king, no time to think or to calm his emotions. He could not deny the letter, not in front of so many witnesses. Not when the very man who had declared Jon's right to Winterfell now spoke of Robb being alive. But what of the promises made between him and Stannis, him and Mance? Murmurs rose throughout the room, murmurs of sedition, of violence, of betrayal. Jon hated himself for wishing his brother still dead, hating himself for fearing what a living Robb could mean for the North at this fragile stage.
He closed his eyes and breathed out, imagining he was in the Godswood, speaking to that awful heart tree.
"If this tale is true, if my brother lives, I will not usurp him. But I have made holy promises in the name of House Stark. I enlisted wildlings into the army of the North, gave rights to their greatest leaders, and agreed to give over the Dreadfort to them. I pledged allegiance to King Stannis. My brother will be bound to honor these commitments."
"We have no king but King Robb," Maege Mormont yelled, "And he is not beholden to you!"
Perhaps not, Jon thought, but if he truly is my brother, he will listen to me. He must listen to me.
