A/N: Longclaw here. Thanks once again to those that have given their support to the story. It means a lot. This chapter is kinda the calm before the storm, but a lot of character arcs will start to form here, so it's an important one.
BRuh4: Hey, y'all, thanks much for all the support. It's a big help. These next chapters are going to be crazy and I hope you'll stick with us on them.
Hope you enjoy.
Follow, fav, and review!
Chapter 5: Peace
Clenching his teeth, Jon bit back the cry of pain as the wound to his chest stung with the stings of a thousand wasps. "Hold still, Jon Stark," stated the red woman, needle and thread stabbing through the edges of the deep cut. "This will take time to finish." When Melisandre had offered to stitch his chest, he immediately wanted to decline. But she insisted. Using her cryptic way of speaking, of course.
They had escaped with their lives but not without consequences. Jon and Stannis were injured, along with many other Wildlings and Bannermen. Preliminary assessments between Karsi, Tormund, and Davos found twelve thousand Wildlings had been rescued by the entirety of the Baratheon fleet - of that, four thousand could be counted on as fully combat ready at that point. The rest were women, children, the elderly, or in various stages of wounded. Stannis seemed to lament mostly on this point. Jon and Davos, the Onion Knight, shaken up to the point of collapse, were far more worried that tens of thousands of Wildlings were now added to the army of the dead.
But the wall kept them out. They had time. How much time? Jon couldn't help but wonder. The Wall had held them out for thousands of years. Could it still continue to hold them back? Supposing they didn't have any way of getting past the Wall.
Having just fought them, Jon's mind stayed on the White Walker threat. He knew that Stannis wanted to move against Winterfell now. Which he knew he needed to do himself. 'For Sansa.' That was what mattered right now, saving his sister and bringing justice for his family. He was the Lord of Winterfell, it was his duty.
'But you are no ordinary Lord. You are a former brother of the watch.' A Lord that had seen the threat for himself. A Lord that had actually seen the words of House Stark made manifest. 'Winter is coming.' The White Walkers had singlehandedly wiped out the majority of a Wildling settlement. Had Stannis' ships not been there, most likely the entire population of Wildlings would've been destroyed. Entire clans wiped out.
More souls added to the Army of the Dead.
The events of the battle had him praying they still had time. 'The Seven Kingdoms aren't ready to fight the Night King.' Nowhere near ready. He could count only two major houses having seen the threat, and of them, House Baratheon was the only one with pledged bannermen at the moment. Most of the country wasn't willing to come together to fight a common enemy. The North might come together, but never under the Boltons.
They needed time.
Time.
'Any time is a gift.'
Jon needed time. Enough of it for him to defeat the Boltons - to help Stannis take the Iron Throne. 'The Stag King has seen the Night King, he knows the threat.' From the throne, he'd be able to unite everyone to fight together for once. That was their only chance. Humanity's only chance.
Unlike Jon, Stannis had refused any treatment for his leg, other than merely tying the wound closed. And for some reason that Jon couldn't decipher, the Red Woman seemed more concerned for him than for the King.
"Providence shines upon you, Jon Stark."
"Yeah, that's why I got slashed by a white walker," he remarked snidely, sweat beading on his forehead from the pain.
"You faced the other and lived. You faced the flames and lived. You faced the darkness and terrors of the night… and you lived." She took a wet cloth and applied it to the gash. It was soothing. "The Lord of Light has a purpose for you, indeed."
Jon rolled his eyes. "I thought His Grace was the one favored by the Lord of Light…" His statement was cut off as Melisandre placed a type of poultice on his wound… one that burned with the fury of a thousand fires.
Melisandre sliced off the needle, her stitching done. "Calm down. This will prevent the pox." She reached for a skin of wine, thrusting it to Jon. The Lord of Winterfell guzzled it down, welcoming the acidic warmth that spread through his gullet. "The Lord sends me glimpses. Glimpses that now feature you quite prominently, Jon Stark. I do not know what part you play, but you will play a part in the coming night."
"And Stannis?" The wine helped dull the sting as Melisandre began to wrap the bandage around his torso. He kept drinking, typically he didn't care for the taste. Yet now the sour flavor was pleasant to him.
"Stannis is the Prince that was Promised." Simple. Definitive… but for the first time since meeting the Lord of Dragonstone, Melisandre was less than one hundred percent convinced of her assessment. This man, Jon Stark, the one she had seen in the flames. She knew when she saw him that he would have a role to play. Not sure what sort of role, though. Now it seemed that role was larger than she originally imagined he'd have. However, when she had first seen him, she had immediately understood his importance, somehow.
"I've heard that wives tale," Jon said. "Prince that was Promised… he'll save everyone from certain destruction."
"It's not just a story, Jon Stark," Melisandre warned. "You know it to be true."
"What'd you mean?" He furrowed his brows.
"You've seen them… the others. You know they have to be stopped. The only one who can save us is Azor Ahai — The Prince that was Promised," she smirked.
"I think that the White Walkers are the greatest threat to mankind. And if your 'Prince' is the one to lead us… By all means…" Jon said, wincing as he shifted on the chair. Wondering how long his upper body would ache as it did now, lifting a sword would be difficult. He had a feeling that would be a good thing to be able to do in the coming weeks.
She cocked her head at him. "The Night is dark and full of terrors." The Red Woman tightly wrapped Jon's chest in gauze, "Don't be disillusioned, Jon Stark. The Lord of Light's will always come to pass."
"And what does your Lord want?" Jon asked.
Melisandre did not hesitate:
"Peace."
Stannis Baratheon didn't trust words. Words could mean all sorts of things, and people used them to their own benefit. Merely hearing the Wildlings say they'd fight for him wasn't really enough. It was mostly the way they'd say it. Not like a typical Westerosi pledge.
So, since he had saved them, the Wildlings really didn't have a choice anyway. They might as well swear it.
Stannis and his camp gathered with the Wildling elders that had survived on the top deck of the ship. Near the bow, they stood apart from each other, Tormund between them. The wind blew hard, those with longer hair had trouble keeping it out of the faces. The ocean below them, torrid waves.
Jon had tried to help Stannis understand that the Wildlings would fight with them no matter what. But the Stag wouldn't hear it.
"They'll swear to fight or I'll have the lot tossed overboard," Stannis had said. He knew they wouldn't bend the knee - that would be preferred but he understood that it really wasn't possible. That being said, he needed some way of an assurance that they'd actually help him. That they wouldn't refuse to fight or disperse into the woods once they made land.
They hadn't even specifically said they'd fight for him yet. Just danced around the correct words. He summed it up to them being generally uneducated. Jon noticed that Stannis didn't have much patience for things like this.
Karsi stood among her people, Tormund moved in to say a few words to them. Most of the Wildlings seemed open to this. Some not so sure. Stannis had sentenced their King to death. They hadn't forgotten that and likely would never.
Jon leaned towards Stannis, "My King, the Wildlings will fight-"
"I've heard it enough from you," Stannis interrupted him, sending a glare. Hiding the stabbing agony that burned within his thigh. Then his gaze returned to the Wildlings across from him. "I need to hear it from them."
Karsi stepped up before she could speak, Davos did, saying, "Do you speak for your people as a whole?"
She nodded, "I do." Closing her eyes, thinking of her children, she pushed aside her pride. "With Mance Rayder dead and many other chieftains dead at Hardhome, Tormund and I are bound to speak for our people. We… we pledge our spears and blades to the Southern King."
Slowly, Stannis stepped forward, his wounded leg clearly still bothering him, limping slightly. Though he wouldn't let on. His gaze settled on Karsi, "I, Stannis Baratheon, First of my Name, Right King of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, accept your pledge of fealty, and I vow that once the fighting is done in the North, the Wildling clans will be allowed land to reside in, near the Gift."
Karsi looked back to Tormund, who just shrugged. If not for the whistling of the wind, one could have heard Stannis' words fly over their heads.
Jon noticed this, moving up, "King Stannis promises that he will deliver the lands to you after the Boltons are defeated."
Tormund pursed his lips, then said, "Why didn't he just say that then?" Some of his cohorts behind him nodding and talking amongst themselves.
Trying to chuckle, Jon replied, "It's… Just the formal way of doing things in Westeros."
Feeling slighted, the Stag grumbled, wrapping himself tighter in his fur-lined cloak, He motioned at Jon. "Lord Stark, follow me." Glancing at Davos for a moment, Jon nodded and stepped into place behind his King.
Ser Davos watched them shift down the steps of the bow, frowning slightly, then he turned back to Wildling. He ambled over, intent on further discussion.
As they walked deeper into the innards of the galleon, Jon noticed that Stannis' limp only worsened. Free from the need to appear strong, he began to grimace more. To lean on his cane as they made his way towards his chambers. "Your Grace," Jon said, keeping his hands at the ready to keep the King from falling if need be. "Have you seen a Maester?"
"I'll be fine," was the gruff response.
"Perhaps the Lady Melisandre…"
"I said I'll be fine." The tone was curt. Not a shout, but without room to continue. Sighing, Jon dropped the matter. A guard bowed in front of them, opening the door to the King's cabin. As it closed behind him, Jon watched as Stannis removed his cloak and hobbled towards a chair by the fire. "Lord Stark, I failed to properly thank you for saving me during the battle."
Once his King sat, Jon availed himself to a seat beside him. "You are my King, your Grace. It was my duty…"
Stannis waved him off. "If I am to punish treason and failure, then I must reward loyalty and success." He grimaced, teeth clenching as he pressed against his thigh. "Had you not been there, I would have had worse than a limp. Ser Davos told me you would be a loyal ally, and he did not disappoint."
"Ser Davos is a good man. He'll serve you well on your Small Council in the capital." Honest men such as his father Eddard Stark, Maester Aemon, or the Onion Knight were few and far between. The War of the Five Kings largely proved that. Looking back upon his King, Jon saw a particular look in Stannis. A far off gaze - one the grizzled veterans at Castle Black called a 'thousand-yard stare' - at the crackling flames within the hearth. His eyes upon the flames, shutting all out, but mind whirring. Gears turning within his head upon matters not grounded in current surroundings. "Your Grace?"
Baratheon blue eyes reflecting the flames, orange tongues dancing in an intricate melee, Stannis moved not. Released not a sound apart from soft breaths. Reflecting, thinking, channeling the close to unbearable pain from his leg into himself and his will. "I have known the Lady Melisandre for years, Lord Stark."
The words were sudden, Jon startled slightly by the abrupt manner in which Stannis spoke them. Hard as ever, there was a quiet about them. Words almost a murmur. "I have only known her for a short while, but she is quite a presence."
Attempt at calming humor lost on Stannis, the King continued. "She believes in me… supports me with a zeal bordering on worship. Calls me the savior, the Prince that was Promised. Claims that I will fight the defining battle in the snow that will rescue humanity from the dark, terrible night." Jon leaned back in his chair, merely listening. "I have seen what she can do. The magic she possesses, the miracles she can perform."
"I'll take your word for it, your Grace." Having seen giants, men that could change skins, ice monsters that could raise the dead, Jon would never doubt the mystic powers again. Melisandre was one of them.
"Even seeing all of that." A tinge of derision framed his voice. "Even seeing such power, such miracles - dark, terrifying, murderous miracles, I… part of me did not believe her. Framed in the humility of a second son." He chuckled dryly, laugh not reaching his eyes. "I left the grandiosity to Robert, the ambition above one's station to Renly. I seek what I seek because it's mine by right and my destiny by duty. No more and no less."
'I could have chosen a far worse King to pledge to.' Aside from that mythical monarch who could command both loyalty and adoration - balance love and duty - there would be none more dutiful than Stannis, no one else he could follow with a good conscience.
"But after what I've seen." His eyes glowed orange, reflecting the flames. "Fighting the demons of all Seven Hells. Watching the eyes of the scourge of the earth as he raised the dead…" Fists clenched, revelation shining throughout his expression, Stannis straightened. "There is no doubt in my mind, anymore. Fate brought me to the North. Through Ser Davos and Melisandre, I was there to save Castle Black. I was there to save the Wildlings." He smacked his chest. "I was there! Me!"
"You were, your Grace." Jon shifted, slightly uncomfortable. "Your presence turned the tide. Saved thousands from becoming meat in the Night King's army."
Stannis turned, eyes boring into Jon. "Don't you see, Lord Stark. It is all preordained. The loss at Blackwater, all was preordained." The expression flashed manic as if the dour King was filled with an almost otherworldly energy. "I cannot believe I didn't see it before... I was supposed to lose so that I would come here. This day, to see the true threat. To see my true purpose. Lord Stark, we are meant for this. My destiny to fight these monsters with you by my side. To end the terrors of the night. To be the Prince that was Promised, as Melisandre told me. She was right, right all along." He turned back to the fires, relaxed, expression fading back into a scowl. A flash of mania, returning to normal. "You may leave, Lord Stark. I require my rest before we land."
Rising, bending over in a shallow bow, the contortion spawned some pain, unfortunately. His body making sure he remembered he was injured. After that, Jon made his way out of the chambers.
The Tower of the Hand had more activity than normal, an unseen dread filling all that dwelled within. Unseen, but not unknown. The movements of Stannis Baratheon had everyone on edge. Kevan Lannister, the Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table as all the other members of the Small Council loudly argued about what to do next.
"Calm down, everyone, the mild-mannered younger brother of the great Tywin said, but his voice was lost in the cacophony. Those loyal to House Baratheon of King's Landing - effectively House Lannister, as anyone truly loyal to House Baratheon was with Stannis in the North - had every reason to panic at this point. They had recently become aware of the bastard son of Ned Stark rising as a legitimate Stark. They worried some of the Northern houses would cling to his side. As the rule of the brutish Boltons was not exactly adored in the North, a rehash of the War of the Five Kings was one no one desired.
House Lannister had barely survived the last time Stannis came.
Last they had heard Stannis was lingering by the Wall but had departed Castle Black. Grand Maester Pycelle thought it would be more prudent to treat with Stannis before the size of his army grew any further. The older man remembered the Battle of Blackwater Bay all too well. "Our best course of action is to try to communicate with Stannis Baratheon before he grows too strong. Perhaps offer him Storm's End and a position on this council?"
"Stannis and his army are thousands of miles away," Mace Tyrell pointed out. As Lord of the Reach and Warden of the South, he had the least to lose, and could afford to gamble - or more accurately, his mother could afford to gamble. "It could take months before he even gets close to King's Landing."
"Who stands in his way? The Boltons?" Kevan scoffed. "If Stannis gets by them, he can make his way South. Gathering more men for his army as he travels. Do you think the Freys stand much a chance against him? Mace, you know your Tyrell army can't beat a combined Stannis-Stark host in an open battle. And that doesn't even factor a Tully restoration in the Riverlands."
"What if we band together?" Mace suggested. "Surely all of our forces combined could be enough."
The council members continued to shout over each other and would have likely continued for hours, had the doors to the chambers not swung open. In walked Cersei and Jaime Lannister, along with Qyburn - the female half of the Lannister twins carried herself with her typical arrogance, blonde hair flowing as she halted before the councilors.
Each group stared at one another, the Small Council meeting halted completely. The only sound being the small sounds of the birds chirping outside the walls, room dimly lit by the sunlight breaching the windows. After a long silence, Kevan spoke up, "Can we help you?" Eye widening at Cersei.
"We were just wondering what is being done about Stannis Baratheon," Cersei said, clasping her hands.
"As it happens," Kevan exhaled, crossing his arms, "We had just begun to discuss that."
"What had you discussed," Jaime asked, raising his eyebrows. "Specifically. This is a real issue." He had been humbled upon returning from his captivity missing a hand, but now he had a steeled anger.
"I was going to mention… the addition of Jon Snow to Stannis' inner circle," Pycelle spoke up.
"Ned Stark's bastard?" Cersei scoffed. "What does he have to do with anything?"
"Stannis legitimized him," Kevan said. "That's why it matters. He's called Stark now."
Jaime nodded, moving closer, "Some of the other Northern houses may prefer a son of Ned Stark over the Boltons." He held a chair for Cersei, then took a seat next to her. "Frankly, the North only accepted the Boltons out of fatigue from the war."
Qyburn also grabbed a seat, "What sort of force could Stannis amass?"
"We don't know," Kevan shook his head. "He has his elite core of bannermen. Some other small northern houses have already clung is side."
"Where is he now?" Cersei asked, mind harkening back to cowering in the Red Keep as Stannis attacked. Sitting on the throne, her baby boy clutched her arms, waiting to knock back a couple flasks of poison. That outcome far more welcoming than appearing before Stannis as he broke down the walls of the throne room - the brother of the man she had cuckolded with her own brother. Those fears bubbled back up in her, Cersei hoping it didn't show on her face. Under the table, her hand went to Jaime's thigh, holding on for support.
Her twin looked at her, with a worried gaze, he might've leaned over to comfort her if they hadn't been in a public place. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her forehead. Nevertheless, his hand slithered down to hers. Knowing that his beloved sister was in a fragile mental state, having their only daughter die in his hands. A sight he hoped would leave the forefront of his mind. Sometimes, if he just closed his eyes he could see her, as the light left her eyes. Even though he'd excessively washed his palms, he still felt like the blood stuck to him. Double checking everything he touched for any trace of crimson.
Truly, he felt ashamed. He went to Dorne to save his daughter. He returned with her, just not in the way he expected. Instead of in his arms, she was in a box.
"Last we heard, lingering up North, he did leave Castle Black," Kevan replied, grimacing slightly. "We don't know where he's going."
"How could you not know?" Cersei raised her voice, impatiently.
"Our spies have trouble traveling up North," Kevan sighed.
"Perhaps, we need better spies," Qyburn pointed out. "I could provide these spies."
Cersei slapped her hand down on the table, "Yes. You should."
"Wait a minute… Your Grace," Pycelle stammered, leaning forward. "I would be very hesitant to trust this man. He was-"
"I don't care," Cersei snapped. "Qyburn, you will take care of this."
"I think we should ask the King first," Kevan said.
"You are Hand of the King," said Jaime. "You can sanction this."
"It is sanctioned," Cersei replied. "We need a new Master of Whispers. Qyburn, I appoint you."
Qyburn bowed, "Thank you, Your Grace."
"Now wait a minute-"
"I am the Queen Mother, my son will agree with me." Cersei defended herself like the caged lion she was. None considered even trying to tame her, not even Jaime. Having lost yet another child, Cersei seems more and more unhinged. She grieved for Myrcella for weeks. Now grief had become anger, the Queen mother violently protective of her last lion cub.
"Where is the King?" Mace asked.
"He is very busy."
"He should be here."
The meeting continued, everyone continued to argue, making no ground in any direction. No one in King's Landing ready for anything coming South, whether it be Stannis Baratheon or the terrors beyond the wall.
"Ready, my Lord?"
Fitting his boiled leather cuirass snug against his chest, Jon only felt a slight twinge of pain from his wound. Bandages still wrapped around it, but whatever the Lady Melisandre had put on it was working. "Just about, Devon. Fetch me my sword."
Behind him, Devon Seaworth bowed, scrambling quickly to grab Longclaw from the table at the far of the room. Jon couldn't help but chuckle softly. When Ser Davos mentioned that he - as a Lord - needed a squire, the Hand of the King's young four and ten son seemed like a logical choice. 'A northern boy would be better.'
'You don't have the north yet.' The boy was eager, and choosing him would only cement his relationship with the Hand - Jon hadn't spent much time with the royal family, but he could tell Queen Selyse didn't like him. Her look was the same as Lady Stark's from his childhood, a look Jon could identify anywhere. With the Red Woman and Davos on his side, however, Jon wasn't worried.
'Politics. Fucking palace intrigue.'
Devon fastening his scabbard to his hip, Jon finished with a sharp bun to hold in his hair. Stark direwolf emblazoned on the cuirass, actual direwolf trotting up next to him, he looked the epitome of a Northern Lord of old. "Let's go."
"Lord Stark," Davos nodded as Jon took to his mount beside him. "Ghost." The direwolf barked once, having taken kindly to the former smuggler - Ghost was an excellent judge of character, having hated Janos Slynt and Karl Tanner. "Ser Seaworth," he greeted his son with a teasing lilt.
"Ready?" Jon asked.
"Just about."
"Make way for the King!" All bowed atop their mounts as Stannis hobbled by, head up high and determination on his face. If his wound bothered him, he didn't show it. Plate and mail armor emblazoned with the burning stag of House Baratheon, he truly looked every inch a king as he mounted his steed. "Is my family ready, Ser Davos?"
"They are, your Grace."
Jon frowned. "Wouldn't they be better off remaining at Castle Black…"
"My family stays with me, Lord Stark. They are my luck, as is the Lady Melisandre." He looked back at the line of mounted knights, footsoldiers and wildlings behind. "We dine in Winterfell boys! Ours Is the Fury!"
"Haw-Hoo! Haw-Hoo!" Hooted the Baratheons.
Beside Jon, Ghost tossed his head back, letting out a piercing howl into the din - echoing out across the land.
Silent for a moment, the howl sent the Baratheon army into an even more frenzied cheer - joined even by the Wildlings. "HAW-HOO! HAW-HOO! HAW-HOO!" On the march yet again, except this time they headed in a much different direction.
South.
This time with four thousand more men. Wildling warriors, capable of fighting with a level of ferociousness unheard of in the Seven Kingdoms.
Gazing up at the sky, watching the grey clouds swirl in a churning fury, Jon closed his eyes. Imagining his family, those alive, those dead, and those of whom he had no idea. "I will avenge you," Jon murmured. His father… Robb. "I will save you." Sansa. "I will reclaim our home." Arya, Bran, Rickon. Benjen.
Drawing Longclaw, Jon shouted his own battlecry. "Winter comes for House Bolton!"
The army erupted in Baratheon fury, Wildling rage, and a Giant bellow. "WINTER COMES FOR HOUSE BOLTON!"
A/N: Jon is already a favorite of the soldiers - got a better reaction than Stannis did, lol.
We've modeled Stannis' leg wound as that of Henry VIII's famous jousting injury. Basically a large puncture that refuses to heal properly and is prone to infection. Would be quite painful, both literally and to Stannis' pride. Remember it, cause it's gonna be big.
We thought it was important that Jon be mended after the slash. The wound is physical and he feels it and will continue to feel it.
The wildlings won't kneel. We weren't going to make them and Stannis understood that. But he's a old timer, and he sticks to principles. He needed a physical pledge and heat the words. Not matter what Jon tells he doesn't fully trust the wildlings. Not yet at least. Though his trust in Jon is growing.
The next two chapters are huge and we're working a lot on them. 6 and 7 are some of the best shit I've ever really seen out of either one of us. Especially myself.
Thanks again for checking this out, we really appreciate it.
Leave your reviews, follows, favs.
Tell your friends.