CHAPTER THREE: THE WHITE WOLF I
Jon encounters his wolf beyond the Wall. Two wolves abandon the riverlands and rush North to their brother. A king arrives at Castle Black, and offers a boon.
The white wind blows, and in the bower of a great tree, a white wolf lurks, hidden by the snows and winds. Above him, the waning moon hangs low, stars twinkling deep in the night, and he slowly moves forward, watching the men in their wooden den move about. They still do not know he is here, but something keeps him here, tells him he must stay here, rather than find refuge elsewhere.
Ghost prowls forward, ever watchful. Their food does smell good, and he's grown thin since his boy left him behind, going with the other strange men in black, out of his senses. The prospect of food is enough to blind him, enough to make him distracted just enough that he doesn't notice the trap until it's too late, the white snow that had hidden him becoming his downfall.
They taunt him, for many days after, taunt him with food and with water. One of them comes a lot, and he pictures what it would be like to wrap his jaws around his throat and pull, to feel hot blood run over his mouth again. Still, he has no sense of his boy, nor of any of his siblings. He grows restless, grows hungrier, and then, like a light in the dark, he gets a glimmer of something.
The girls, he thinks at first, but the hint of them is gone just as soon as it comes. He keens mournfully into the night, missing his boy, but missing his pack even more. He hasn't seen his sisters since they departed all those moons ago, on the human path, when his boy turned North and they went South, where none of them should go. He presses against the bars of the cage that holds him, and howls again.
And then suddenly, there is a crash from behind him. He whirls, and suddenly gets a nose-full of the scent of his brother, trapped much like he was. He howls, and his brother howls in reply, but it breaks off into a pained whine. He whines in reply, scratching at the bars to his cage. They will come soon, he thinks, And we will be free!
They do come soon, but he's held back by ropes and chains that dig into his skin as his brother is hauled into their now-shared cage. These strange men watch him with wary eyes as they close them back in, and remove the bonds that hold him down. He pads forward to loom over his brother, growling softly until the men turn on their heels and disappear into the night.
He reaches down to lick at his brother, grateful for the moment he makes a noise and finally gets to his feet. Ghost rushes him immediately, barking softly as he and his brother gently play. It's been so long since he's seen any of them, and even in this cage, it's better than nothing. His brother barks as well, louder, nuzzling his side. Ghost catches a scent that makes him pause. Boy. The little boy. The one who fell.
His brother looks at him with yellow eyes that say all, and Ghost nuzzles closer. He cannot sense the little boy, not like he can sense his own boy, but his brother seems to have knowledge of where he is, which is enough for Ghost. His own boy will come soon, he knows it in his heart, and their pack will be together again! He sleeps with his brother at his side, breathing in tandem.
Dawn comes, and Jon Snow wakes with it. His men around him wake up as he gets to his feet and looks North, troubled by his dreams. He'd caught snatches of things, of cages, and traps in the snow, of another direwolf, that if he didn't know better, he'd say was Bran's. But that can't be, he thinks to himself. Right? Sam said he saw them at the Nightfort. Why in all hell would they be here, of all places? The True North is far too big for coincidences like that.
But maybe it is Bran's, and Jon is fooling himself. He'd seen two Direwolves South of the Wall, randomly in The Gift, and he has little doubt that they are his younger brother's wolves. The black wolf and the wildness with which he'd fought the Wildings made it impossible to be anyone but Shaggydog, little Rickon's wild pup. And the wolves had known him, attacking everyone but him.
Jon shakes his head, dispelling the thoughts from his head. The new recruit, Locke, comes to stand next to him, staring out at the endless white of the True North with a sort of duty in his expression. Jon nods at the man, but does not try to make conversation, a notion that the other man doesn't seem keen on subscribing too. "What are you looking for, Snow?"
Jon snorts a laugh, looking sideways at the man. "Nothing," he says, honestly enough. What he's thinking about, though, is a whole other matter, not fit for unknown ears. He looks a little more shrewdly at Locke, that same thread of unease building in his stomach. A good fighter, with the vaguest hints of a Northern accent. Something in him twists.
Locke, too, regards Jon with a degree of suspicion. He'd picked up on Jon's youth quickly enough, picking up on his highborn training and education despite his bastardry. And he'd been quick to come along, and Jon wants to say it's for a good reason, but something still feels wrong. Even then, Locke smiles, patting him on the shoulder and saying, "I'll leave you to it."
Jon catches Grenn's eyes from across the way, and his friend just shrugs, as if to say, What're you gonna do? Jon turns away then, and before long they're in route, taking the last few miles to Craster's carefully. By midday, they're within spitting distance, and Locke offers to go out and scout the place. Jon lets him go, but frowns as he watches the man leave.
"I don't like him," Edd says under his breath, coming to stand next to Jon. For not the first time, Jon laments Ghost's absence, and his judge of character. Call it odd, but Jon doesn't think it wise to trust those his wolf doesn't like, if but for the conflict of interests it will cause when said wolf is growling up a storm every time they're in the room. "Little too convenient, don't you think?"
"What can I do, Edd?" Jon asks with a sigh. "I'm not making myself like the damn mutineers cause I don't trust the man for no good reason." His gaze hardens. "Let the man keep his secrets. His truth will come out one day, for good or for ill. Right now, this is about justice, and we need all the hands we can get." Edd nods, but doesn't seem swayed, nevermind soothed. Jon can't say he blames his friend, after how their brothers have already betrayed him.
The fight comes, and passes easily enough. There's something rewarding in the worst sense of the word, about plunging his sword through Karl's skull, dishonourable as it is. Jon looks at Karl's corpse, slowly bleeding out on the floor. He'd thought Jon was like his father in all the wrong ways–a foolish, honourable, lordling, who knows nothing of the real world. And maybe some part of Jon was, some part of him still holds the things that got his father killed within him. But he's learning, thanks to men like Karl. And Ygritte. She taught me more than anyone else. He thinks of her with a flash of pain.
Locke comes stumbling along as they're cleaning up the bodies, looking at Jon with wide, guilty eyes. Jon frowns at him, noticing the congealing cut on his brow, but before he can ask, he hears Grenn say his name, and a sudden sense of something drawing near. It runs through him like a bolt of lightning, and he turns around, to see a familiar white shadow padding forward. In the corner of his eye, he sees Locke pull away.
But he's not thinking about Locke, not then. "Where in seven hells…" he says, utter disbelief giving way to naked relief as Ghost stops in front of him. He crouches down, smiling softly at his wolf as he reaches out to pet his fur, laughing as Ghost presses closer to him. Softly, he says, "I've missed you, boy. I had no sense of you, beyond The Wall." He looks more carefully at his wolf.
Ghost is lean and larger than ever. His ear is torn a bit, some dried blood in his fur and around his mouth. Jon doesn't quite want to know whose blood that is exactly. Standing back up, he buries his hand in Ghost's fur, and looks out at the men. They're all bloody, but smiling, with the exception of Locke, who is looking at Jon with utter malice in his eyes.
They burn Craster's and before they go, he takes Edd aside and tells him to keep an eye on Locke, he and Grenn. Edd nods, and a few minutes later, Grenn is catching his eyes and nodding. Jon glances back at Locke and sees him looking at him still, fear and hatred blending together on his face. He's not trying to hide it anymore, Jon thinks grimly. Something happened during the fight. He's not what he says he is. But what is he, then?
That night, Jon (and Ghost) take the first watch. Ghost peels off after a while, probably to hunt, and Jon watches him go with relief. That wolf needs food, but he knows his wolf will not want to be any further than he needs to be from Jon, not after so long apart. Neither does Jon for that matter, but he will be no help towards Ghost's pursuit of food, and he does still have the watch.
A twig cracks behind him, and something in Jon demands that he turn and face the noise. He whirls around to see Locke, a silver blade in hand, rushing towards him. Jon's eyes widen, hand flying to Longclaw at his side, but he's too slow, there's not enough space, and Locke is closing, so he shouts–
A blur of white. Locke hits the ground with a thud, and Jon hears the men scramble up from the campsite, rushing over with confused looks on their faces. Jon, breaths coming in too fast to let him think properly, walks over to where Locke has been pinned to the ground by a snarling Ghost. He's wheezing for breath, his knife still in hand. Ghost glances up at Jon as he comes to his side, getting off Locke with a single look from Jon.
Locke attempts to rise, but Jon presses him back down into the snow with his boot, hand on his sword as he looks down at the man. "Who are you?" He asks, voice like a growl. The men surround him and Locke, and those who have not already drawn their swords have their hands on their blades, half pulled out already. Locke smiles up at Jon, teeth bloody. "What do you want with me?"
"Roose Bolton sends his regards, bastard," Locke sneers, and Jon feels his anger rush over him like a storm. "He knows you're here, at The Wall. Knows about the little ones, your brothers with their wolves, the ones Theon Greyjoy claims to have killed. He will hunt you down, hunt them down, hunt any threat to his power. Sleep well."
Jon looks around at the men, and sees cold anger reflected in their eyes. Locke may have been here on Bolton's orders, but he still swore the oath, he still was one of their brothers. And to learn that his only goal was to kill one of their own, to rehash the whole reason they were here in the first place, it would feel like a slap in the face. Edd and Grenn, especially, look nothing short of furious.
"Get him up, and bind his hands," Jon says coldly, pulling away from Locke and drawing Longclaw. Locke is shoved to his knees, hands bound in front of him, and Jon looks down at him coldly, Ghost ever loyal at his side. He thinks of his father, and with his best impression of the stern voice of the Lord of Winterfell, Jon says, "Locke, you have committed treason. You swore our oath under false pretences. For that, in the sight of Gods and Men, I, Jon Snow, of the Night's Watch, sentence you to die."
Locke tries to say something, but Longclaw swings true, whistling through the night air like a wolf's howl. It's over.
Jon feels his heart leap into his throat as the horns sound, but less so as Mance Rayder puts a knife to his throat. But more than anything, he feels confused, following Mance outside the tent as riders loom on the horizon, dressed in armour and with strong, hardy horses. They're from South of the Wall, Jon realises, trying to catch a glimpse of the sigil on their banners, to no avail.
These new men tear through the Wilding army like they're nothing more than paper, and Jon feels a sort of guilt rise up in him as he sees the terror on their faces. He glances at Mance and sees a resigned look on his face, but it's still held up by his stubborn will. Jon squares his jaw, looking anywhere but the King-Beyond-the-Wall.
Finally, Mance yells, "Stand down!" He throws his sword in the dirt. Jon closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath as the Wildings follow their king, eyes wide with horror and surprise. Mance meets his eyes, turning slowly around. He growls out his next words from between gritted teeth, "I said my people have bled enough, and I meant it!"
Then, out of the haze, comes riding two men, and Jon finally gets a good look at the sigil of these men. A fiery heart, and although Jon can make out neither a stag nor a crown from this distance, he's heard enough about Stannis Baratheon and his part in the War of the Five Kings to feel his stomach drop to his feet. Stannis fucking Baratheon is here? He thinks, for lack of a better thing to think, his brain struggling to comprehend the impossibility of it all.
Stannis Baratheon–because who else could that man at the front be, with his Baratheon looks and fiery heart on his chest plate?–regards their group, or more so, Mance, cooly for a moment, before dismounting, his men following suit. A wilding tries to rush the Southern King, and gets a horse in the side for his trouble, while Baratheon continues on, unfazed, finally stopping in front of them.
Mance pulls out his knives, throwing them to the floor. Stannis's gaze rakes over them all, lingering on Jon for the briefest of moments, an odd expression almost like recognition crossing his face for a split second. But it's gone as he meets Mance's eyes and asks him, contempt dripping from his every word in a way that makes Jon's metaphorical hackles rise, "You're the King-Beyond-The-Wall?"
Mance nods, a wry smirk on his face, despite it all. "Do you know who I am?" Stannis asks, and Jon bites his tongue, thoughts vicious as he looks at the king. Of course, he doesn't, you fool! He's lived beyond The Wall for years! What business does he have knowing Southern Lords who have never given a damn about this place until now? But another thought takes Jon, a moment later, freezing him in his boots. Father supported his claim, and lost his head for it.
It makes Jon feel an irrational rush of hatred for the king. His father died for Stannis's claim, because that's what honour decreed. And what has Stannis done with his father's sacrifice? But the hatred blows away with the next gust of wind, and Jon clenches and unclenches his fist at his side.
"Never had the pleasure," Mance drawls slowly, looking at Stannis with just as much contempt as he looks at Mance. At least they're equal in that regard.
"This is Stannis Baratheon, the one true King of the Seven Kingdoms." The man at Stannis's side says, his accent thick. Jon's pretty sure it's a flea-bottom accent, but he can't be sure, on account of never having been that far South to begin with.
"We're not in The Seven Kingdoms," Mance replies sharply before the man can say much more, as Southerners like to do with their titles. He glances down at Stannis's clothes. "And you're not dressed for this weather."
Stannis seems almost amused by it, continuing on like he's barely heard Mance. "It is customary to kneel when surrendering to a King," he says, and Jon can feel every Wilding around him tense. Everyone looks to Mance, Jon himself included, although he thinks he's one of the only ones who realises just how little Stannis knows about The Wildlings, if he's demanding that so fast.
Mance shakes his head, voice grave and stern as he says, "We do not kneel."
"I'll have thousands of your men in chains by nightfall. I'll have nowhere to put them, I'll have nothing to feed them with," Stannis says, voice just as stern as Mance's. "I'm not here to slaughter beat dogs," he says, glancing around at the camp, eyes lingering once more on Jon. "Their fate depends on their king."
"All the same," Mance says with a final shake of his head, and Jon feels his heart sink. He knew Mance would not bend the knee, but he doesn't expect Stannis Baratheon to take kindly to the insult. Or understand why. "We do not kneel."
Stannis orders the rest of Mance's men sent away, and suddenly, Jon has Stannis and the man at his side's undivided attention. Stannis furrows his brow at Jon as he gets a good look at him, like he's reminded of a memory long since thought forgotten, and is trying to grasp at it. His man speaks for him, looking at Jon with mistrust. "What's a man of the Night's Watch doing in a Wildling Camp?"
Glancing at Mance, who stands at his side, Jon speaks carefully, oddly aware of how Northern or maybe even wildling he might sound. "I was sent to discuss terms with the King-Beyond-The-Wall." Mance sends him a look at that one, and Jon knows both Stannis and his man catch it.
"You're speaking to the one true king, boy," his man says sharply, like he's scolding a child. Jon feels his jaw twitch, looking between Stannis and his man. "You will address him as Your Grace."
"I know he's the King. My father lost his head because he knew that," Jon says sharply, surprising both of them. He meets Stannis's eyes, and he sees the exact moment that Stannis puts the pieces together, as he gapes openly at Jon. "My name is Jon Snow, Your Grace. Ned Stark's second son. My father was Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North and still, Joffrey Baratheon took his head because he knew you were the true king." Let him remember why this all fucking happened, anyhow.
"The Bastard of Winterfell," Stannis says, but it's not contemptuous, it's just a fact. Jon nods, and Stannis regards him carefully for a long moment. "Your brother rose up against me in the War of The Five Kings, declaring himself King in the North. You treat with The King-Beyond-The-Wall." Jon nods, knowing there's no defending against concrete truths. "And yet…your father was an honourable man. What would he have done with him?" He nods towards where Mance stands tall.
"My father's honour got him killed," Jon says simply, almost reflexively, and Stannis's eyes narrow on him. "I was this man's prisoner once, though. He could have tortured me. He could have killed me. But he spared my life. My father would have taken him prisoner, and heard what he had to say. Winter is coming. And it's coming for us all."
"Very well then," Stannis says after a moment, nodding towards Mance. "Take him."
Jon watches Mance get led away for a moment, and sees a dark look in the man's eyes. Turning back to Stannis, he remembers one more thing. "Your Grace," he says, meeting Stannis's eyes when he turns around, looking almost surprised at being addressed again. "If my father had seen the things that I've seen, he'd also tell you to burn the dead before Nightfall. All of them."
Stannis looks at him for a moment, and then nods, relaying the orders to his men. But he does not go to follow him, instead stepping closer to Jon, looking at him like he's a piece to a puzzle that Jon can't see. When he speaks, there's a new threat to it, and Jon feels his heart clench in his chest. "Your brother was a traitor, and a usurper. How do I know you aren't serving him in secret? How do I not know you are a threat to me?"
I'm a bigger threat to the Bolton's than I am to you, he thinks to himself, but he doesn't say that out loud. That will bring up questions of Locke, of Craster's Keep, and of the chance that Bran and Rickon are still out there. Stannis doesn't need to know about them being alive still.
"I serve The Wall, and I serve The North," Jon says plainly. "Forgive me if that looks like me serving House Stark, the rightful Lords of Winterfell. I know my brother is a usurper in your eyes. I will not try to change that. But he is still my brother, and I still love my family. Winter is Coming, Your Grace, and we need everyone we can get."
"Indeed," Stannis says, before calling a man over. "Get the bastard a horse for his return to The Wall." He turns to Jon. "Tell whoever is in charge upon The Wall that Mance Rayder has been captured at my hands, and that I, my court, and my army, will be upon The Wall by tomorrow morning."
Jon nods, but a voice calls from behind him. "Sir! Riders from The Wall are approaching!" Stannis looks at Jon then, who just shrugs, but his confusion is short-lived as he sees Edd come through, astride on a horse, a black banner held aloft. He looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Jon recognises who's following him with relief, glad that Pyp is back on his feet already.
Edd comes over to Jon, looking as exhausted as Jon feels. They must all look terrible, so soon after the battle, but Jon doesn't really have the capacity to care about how good he does or does not look. Edd nods at him, and then dips his head at Stannis Baratheon. "Thank you for the help, Your Grace," he says, sounding more genuine than Jon's ever heard. Behind his back, Jon exchanges an amused look with Pyp. "We'll be taking Jon back, now."
"Your liaison to Mance Rayder, yes," Stannis says, and Jon's pretty sure he doesn't quite buy Jon's story about being sent to discuss terms with Mance.
"Yep," Edd says, though, looking nonplussed by the news of Jon's supposed liaison-ship. Sam's work, no doubt, Jon thinks, and his suspicions are confirmed as Edd shoves Longclaw into his hand, looking harried. "Here's your sword, you twat. Your wolf is lurking around here, too, and I'd rather get out of here before he finds a snack for himself."
Someone cries wolf not a moment later. All of Jon's brothers look at him, Edd winning the award for looking the most entirely done with the whole situation. Jon wonders who convinced him to go, or if it was lots and Edd's ever rued lack of lack. Raising two fingers to his mouth, Jon whistles sharply, and in an instant, Ghost is streaking through the camp, coming to rest at his side. Looking at Stannis Baratheon, he sees a contemplative look on the King's face that has him burying his hand in Ghost's fur for comfort.
"Thank you," he says as a horse is brought over for him. He gets up on it, and with one last nod towards Stannis Baratheon, he and his brother's head back to The Wall, travelling in silence at first, until Edd rounds to a stop in front of him, glaring at him. Jon makes a sheepish face.
"What were you thinking? Did you know about–" Edd gestures wildly. "That?"
"No, I did not," Jon says honestly. "And I was thinking about how to end this, once and for all. Seems Stannis beat me to it." He runs a hand over his face, looking up at the Wall with an imperious but tired expression. Edd grumbles something incredibly violent about what he'd like to do with Jon's existence out from behind him, but Jon pays him no mind, and they cross back through the gate unobstructed. The giant's corpse is still there, but Grenn, Donal Noye, and their men have already been cleared out, brought to Maester Aemon or the pyres as the case may be.
Most of the rest of the day passes in a blur, and before nightfall, he heads out back North, and follows Tormund's wish for Ygritte, avoiding Stannis and his men as he does so. He watches the flames consume her body for a while, Ghost his only companion, and as the sun begins to kiss the horizon, he heads back to The Wall, unseen or at least unhindered by Stannis's men. That night, he dreams of the cave, of her voice, of kisses in the dark.
Come morning, and he and what men are well enough to stand receive Stannis Baratheon and his court. Ser Alliser looks unhappy but resigned to it, still healing from the fight. Grenn is the worst off of all the men in the courtyard, bandaged to high heaven, still limping, and held up by Edd and Pyp, but he'd insisted on being here, against Maester Aemon's better counsel. The Maester stands by Jon, Sam at his side. Ghost is here too, sitting next to Jon, getting the occasional pet from the men around him, much to his delight.
At Stannis's side, is a woman dressed entirely in Red. Across the courtyard, her eyes snap to him, and he feels a chill run up his spine. She looks at him like she knows everything about him, and he gets even more uncomfortable as she sends an intentional look towards Ghost, still against Jon's side. Jon pets him, and feels how tense his wolf is with a pit in his stomach.
Soon enough, they're all released to do whatever they want, and Jon decides to busy himself with helping clean up the forge, seeing Donal Noye's ghost in every corner. He'd been a good man, and The Watch will rue his absence. They'd burned the dead right after Jon had returned from burning Ygritte, and it had been hard to watch the flames rise to the sky, knowing that every death made The Watch that much weaker.
Ghost curls up in the corner as Jon takes to picking up some of the strewn-around weapons and tools, piling them into a corner. Edd works with him, neither of them saying anything to one another, too exhausted and wrung out to even try. A shadow falls over the forge, and Jon turns to see, to his surprise, The Red Woman from before.
"Jon Snow," she greets, and Jon glances at Edd, who just gives him a look. Deal with this yourself, it seems to say, and he's brushing past the woman not a moment later, leaving Jon alone with the strange woman. "Do you know who I am?"
"Can't say that I do," he says honestly, glancing at Ghost as he gets up and comes to his side, looking at the woman with a suspicious look. Her gaze lingers on him for a moment, before she turns to look at Jon, a peculiar look in her eyes.
"I am Melisandre of Asshai," she says, coming closer to him. She's beautiful, and Jon notices that with a sort of discomfort. She's the type of woman who uses that beauty as a weapon, he realises after a moment, burying his hand further into Ghost's fur. She glances down at his wolf, and offers a hand. "What is his name?"
"Ghost," Jon says, watching his wolf carefully. Ghost sniffs at her hand, but does not do anything further, almost pulling away from her in a sense. "I named him that for how quiet he is. Even as a pup, he barely wailed." Ghost presses closer to Jon and he scratches between his ears. "What can I do for you, my lady?"
"My King spoke of Eddard Stark's bastard being at the wall," she says breezily. "He and his wolf. I wanted to see the boy for myself." Her gaze rakes up and down him, and he feels that same prickle of discomfort settle at the back of his neck. She looks at him like she knows more about himself than he does. It's not very…comforting.
"Well," he says. "Here I am."
"Indeed. Here you are." She meets his eyes, and reaches out to him, cupping his face in hand. He and Ghost both still, but she seems heedless of their reactions, her gaze sharp as it studies him. Her eyes linger on the scars from Orell's eagle, briefly. Finally, she lets go of him, pulling back and looking at him like Stannis did–like he's a piece to a puzzle. "The Lord of Light has plans left for you, Jon Snow. As does Stannis. He will call upon you soon." Her gaze darkens. "Be there."
"Do you know who rules Winterfell now?" Stannis Baratheon asks him atop The Wall, looking at Jon cooly. The wind whistles around them, and just behind Stannis and his man, Ser Davos Seaworth, he can see the North, extending on and on, blanketed by snow as far as the eye can see.
"Roose Bolton," Jon agrees, forcing the name out from between gritted teeth. He knows all too well, remembering Locke, and his words. Roose Bolton sends his regards, bastard. He knows you're here, at The Wall. His burned hand flexes at his side.
Stannis nods. "The Traitor who betrayed your brother, Robb Stark, helped to kill Catelyn Stark, your brother's wife, their unborn child, all to put himself in your home." Stannis eyes him critically, and Jon hopes he can see how Jon looks at him, the darkness in his eyes. Stannis is using Robb against him. He knows it. And it stings. "Don't you want to avenge him? Your family? You told me yourself: you still love your family."
"I want a great many things, Your Grace, but I'm a sworn brother of the Night's Watch," he tells him, trying to not think about the day the news of his father came for him. Are you a brother of the Night's Watch, or a bastard boy who wants to play at War? "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. My duty and my oaths keep me here."
"I've been talking to your sworn brothers," Davos Seaworth adds, and Jon purses his lips. "Many of them love you. Many of them don't." Jon just tilts his head at the man. "You were seen taking the body of a wildling girl north of The Wall. Why?"
"It's where she belonged," he says, looking anywhere but this Southern King and his advisors, looking towards the home that she so desperately loved. We should have stayed in that cave, she'd whispered, dying in his arms. Her weight in his arms may never leave him, and he damn hopes it doesn't. She deserves better than that.
"Some of the Night's Watch say you have too much affection for the Wildings," Davos continues, looking at Jon shrewdly. "I know you know what they call you. Wildling lover. Turncloak. Skinchanger." Jon tenses slightly, thinking of Ghost, down in the training yard.
"They were born on the wrong side of The Wall," he says evenly. "Doesn't make them monsters. And with Winter drawing ever closer…" he looks out at the North (The True North, a voice that sounds like hers whispers in the back of his mind), and shakes his head, not putting his thoughts to words. What will these Southerners know of The North? What can they ever hope to understand?
Stannis proclaims that he intends to take the North back, and Jon grits his teeth as he reveals how. He thinks I have them in my damn pocket, Jon thinks later, after his unsuccessful talk with Mance. And Tormund, but at least Stannis isn't planning on killing Tormund. He thinks that just because he's a king everyone is gonna fall over at his feet and do what he tells them to. But he's Southern. Jon looks down at the pyre. Too Southern.
In the end, the decision is easy enough. An arrow through the heart, the mercy of the North, the only land he ever truly knew. His father raised Jon to know mercy through his actions, and even when Locke betrayed him, all Jon did was swing his blade. No fire, no Lord of Light nonsense. Just a simple death, as straightforward as the North from which they both came.
Stannis calls on him the next day, and that's no surprise. He seems almost impressed by Jon's gall, but that doesn't change the fact that they both know what him shooting Mance did. "A king's word is law," Stannis tells him, and Jon thinks of his brother. If he'd deserted, all those years ago, like he planned, what would Robb have done? Could he have killed Jon for his crime? Stannis keeps talking, "Show too much kindness and people won't fear you. If they don't fear you, they don't follow you."
Mance didn't rule through fear. My father didn't. Robb didn't, Jon thinks. Joffrey did. But something tells him that Stannis wouldn't take kindly to the comparison, so instead, he says, "With respect, Your Grace, the Free Folk will never follow you, no matter what you do. You're the man who burned their king alive."
"Who then?" Stannis says, looking at Jon with an odd face, almost amused. "You?"
Jon sighs, glancing at Davos. "No, only one of their own." He tilts his head at Stannis. "You're not a Northerner, even. Born in the South. You've never seen the Wall until you came through and crushed their army. It has to be someone born beyond The Wall, someone who is one of their own. Truly one of their own." He thinks of his own betrayal, the way Ygritte had looked at him. It still hurts.
Stannis reaches for something, and pulls out a slip of paper. "Do you know this wretched girl?" He says, pushing it forward for Jon to grab. "Lyanna Mormont."
"The Late Lord Commander's niece," he agrees, reaching forward to grab it. "I…I remember when she was born. She was named after my Aunt."
"The Aunt who was kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen, yes, I remember," Stannis says, and Jon suddenly wonders what he thinks of his brother's lost love with a sort of protectiveness over the aunt he never knew. "Lyanna Mormont is the Lady of Bear Island, with her sisters and mother either being missing or imprisoned. And a child of ten. I asked her to commit her men to my cause, and this is her reply.
BEAR ISLAND KNOWS NO KING BUT THE KING IN THE NORTH, WHOSE NAME IS STARK.
Jon smiles a bit as he reads it, hoping Robb knows, wherever he is, how fiercely loyal House Mormont has remained to him. At his side, Longclaw hangs heavy. But Stannis seems less amused than he is by the loyalty, saying sharply, "That amuses you."
Jon's face falls, grip on the paper tightening, ever so slightly. His voice cools, "I apologise, Your Grace. The Northerners…are a bit like The Free Folk. Loyal to their own," he says, wincing at the thought of how that statement would be received by his brother's bannermen and their armies. "And the last Southern King who demanded their loyalty chopped my father's head off."
"Joffrey was no true king. None of them are," Stannis grinds out. On that, we can agree, at least, Jon thinks. But Stannis seems to relax slightly, looking at Jon carefully as he continues, "I know, though. My brother Robert went on often and loudly about how difficult it was to control." He looks properly at Jon then, and he feels a bout of unease take over him. "Even with your father's help."
"Tonight, the Night's Watch elects a new Lord Commander. Ser Alliser Thorne is going to win," Davos says, and Jon nods, much as he would like it to be otherwise. Davos raises a brow at him. "Unpleasant man. He thinks you're a traitor. What's your life going to be like here at The Wall with Thorne in command?"
"Unpleasant, I expect," Jon says, already well aware of how shit his life is about to get, especially with Thorne's attitude towards Ghost. Jon sent Ghost away when he went with The Halfhand for his own safety, but what Thorne would demand, it would be entirely different.
"Your bravery made him look weak," Stannis surmises, looking up at Jon again. And yet again, Jon feels that cold, creeping, unease fill him. "He'll punish you for it. I don't punish men for bravery, I reward them."
Suddenly on edge, all Jon can say is, "I don't doubt it, Your Grace." Stannis looks at him sharply, and he finds the need to continue, suddenly getting what Stannis might be saying. "But I am a brother of the Night's Watch. I've pledged them my life, my honour, my sword." If I turn back, if I leave, I dishonour my father. What would Robb have to do, if he knew? "I don't know what I have left to give you."
"You can give me the North," Stannis says, like it's that simple. The understanding comes a moment later, and Jon feels his heart stop in his chest, for the briefest of moments. Even then, even with Stannis looking at him in a way that Jon suddenly understands, because he isn't a puzzle, he is the missing piece, even then, he says–
"I can't. Even if I wanted to, I'm a bastard. A Snow."
"Kneel before me, lay your sword at my feet and pledge me your service, and you will rise again as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell," Stannis says. Jon's world screeches to a halt.
He thinks of Robb, smiling in the yard, snow in his hair. Next time I see you, you'll be all in black. He thinks of Lady Stark and her endless terror at him stealing her son's spot. I'm the Lord of Winterfell! He can hear his heartbeat in his ears. I thought I forgot that. Robb's smile. His laughter. His back against Jon's. Farewell, Snow. And you, Stark.
Sansa, perfect and southern, with her needles and her friends. Half-Brother. Arya, and her crooked smiles, and her thin little sword, the one he made for her, because what else could he give, bastard as he is? Little sister. His father, always at an arm's length. Ghost, the white of a Stark Bastard's banner, Theon's voice, ringing in his ears. That one's yours, Snow.
Robb, betrayed by Roose Bolton, who tried to kill him too. Winterfell, a ruin. His family scattered to the wind. A dream of Bran's wolf, Shaggydog and he standing in the rain, coming to Jon's aid. Robb, somewhere out there. Still alive, no matter what people might whisper now. Jon knows it in his heart. Robb lives. The decision is as easy as that truth: He will not usurp his brother, that crime that Stannis is so high and mighty about. Something hardens in Jon's heart.
"My brother still lives, Your Grace," he grinds out, even as his heart aches for the one thing he ever wanted. I want a great many things. But there is nothing he wants more than his family, nothing he would trade in for them. To take the Stark name at this man's hand, to let Stannis, a kinslayer by some accounts, name him Lord of Winterfell, it would break any trust or love Robb had for him.
"I will not usurp my brother. I know you think him the usurper, but no matter how you swing it, the rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North is Robb Stark. Or, at the very least, one of my sisters," Jon says, shaking his head, even as he feels his hope fade into the wind. He knows his yearning bleeds into his voice, try as he might to bleed it out. "You want The North? Free my brother."
"Your brother will be dead as soon as Cersei remembers she has him," Stannis says simply. "Your younger brothers were killed by Theon Greyjoy, a man who was, by all accounts, trusted by your brother. That tells me your brother is a fool. I don't suffer fools. And your sisters? Your sister Sansa has been missing since Joffery died, and is probably dead. The other girl, too–"
"Arya," Jon snaps. "Her name is Arya. My sisters live. You want Winterfell, Stannis? Get it from them. I am a man of the Night's Watch, and I will not abandon it for a man who would kill his brother for his throne. I love my brother. I love my family. I will not betray them by doing this. I know that's not what you want to hear. I'm well aware of it. But they're my family."
He turns on his heel and leaves without another word. He makes it halfway to his quarters before the tears come, and he rushes the last of the way with a hammering heart, and blurry vision. He hears Sam call his name as he passes by, but he ignores his friend, slamming the door to his room shut behind him, heaving for breath as a breathless sob escapes him.
All his life, he wanted to be a Stark, more than anything. He never thought that he'd say no if it was offered to him. But yet, he'd never thought that the cost would be betraying his family, betraying Robb. He almost deserted for Robb, dragged back by his friends. In what world would he betray his best friend, the man he grew up with?
"Robb," he groans, remembering all the stories he's heard about the Red Wedding. Tywin Lannister had made sure that Robb saw his wife and mother murdered in front of his eyes, made sure he broke Robb before making him his prisoner. "You fool."
A knock at the door. "What?" He mutters, and the door opens to reveal his friends, Sam at the head. Groaning, he says nothing as they file in, sitting on his bed. Edd shoves him, and Jon gives him a look, to which the man just raises a brow at him. Rolling his eyes, Jon runs a hand over his face and says, knowing they're going to ask anyway, and deciding to save them the trouble, "Stannis Baratheon offered to legitimise me. Make me Lord of Winterfell."
For a moment, his friends are silent. And then the room breaks loose with congratulations and claps on the back, but Jon doesn't join the revelry. They all go silent again after a moment, looking at Jon with confused expressions. "You're going to take it, right?" Pyp asks, and Jon sighs heavily, glancing out the window. Snow is falling softly.
There had been snow in Robb's hair. All these years later, and he remembers how he looked in detail, the image of the last time he saw his brother, his best friend, seared into his mind. The next time I see you, you'll be all in Black.
"No," he says, and they all open their mouths to ask why, but he continues before they can keep on nattering. "He offered me Winterfell, at the cost of usurping my brother and betraying my family. I will not do that. As long as Robb lives, he is the only man Stannis should be looking to as his Lord of Winterfell. If Robb dies, it falls to my sisters, or my brothers, if they're out there. "
"Your brother is King in the North, though," Sam says, and Jon hangs his head. "Stannis might put him to the sword for treason."
"And the War of the Five Kings starts all over again. It's a cycle, and Stannis knows damn well that killing Robb will ignite the North against him. Cersei and that boy king hopefully know it, too, but we've seen what that family is worth when it comes to making the best decisions." Jon shakes his head. Grenn rests his hand on his back.
"All my life, I wanted to be a Stark. More than anything. But then it's offered to me, on a silver platter, and I say no!" He laughs, feeling slightly unmoored by the utter absurdity of it all. What type of Bastard turns down legitimisation? Bastards who love their family. "Seven hells, what am I doing? Thorne's gonna be Lord Commander, and I'm turning down offers from Kings to get out of that."
"Don't remind me," Edd grumbles, brow furrowing as he glances at Sam. Jon follows his gaze, but just sees his friend smiling at him, and so he thinks little of it. Edd pats Jon on the back, "Well, when Thorne pushes you off the top of The Wall, I'll make sure the Wolf gets out of here."
"Thanks," Jon says.
"Speaking of wolves," Grenn snorts, when a howl breaks through the Castle. But Jon pauses, firstly because Ghost never howls, not really, and two because even when he does…that doesn't sound like Ghost. Jon scrambles to his feet, shouts rising from the courtyard.
"That's not Ghost," he says, rushing out of the room, his friends scrambling to follow behind him. He's rounding the corner, and he runs into the boy, Olly, who looks up at him with wide eyes. "What is it?" He asks the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder. Olly just points to the courtyard, and Jon goes off without another word, hearing the shouts from even around the corner.
"Where's Jon Snow?!" "Who's wolves are these?" "Does anyone know how they got here?" "Keep away from 'em!"
He gets to the Courtyard quickly enough, only to see a crowd forming around… something. He frowns, and walks forward purposefully, frowning further as the crowd breaks open the second they realise he's there. He looks at what they were all looking at, and gets only a moment to register the sight of two grey wolves the size of small horses standing shoulder to shoulder in the yard before he's being rushed.
He's on his back in the snow before he can blink, but instead of being torn apart, the wolves are all but bouncing on top of him, licking him within an inch of his life. He tries to get an arm up, but fuck they're heavy, and very exuberant. People shout all around him, and he hears someone shout "Watch out!" Before there's a blur of white.
The wolves get off him then, and Jon is helped to his feet by Edd and Pyp, but all he can do is gape at the sight of Ghost, playing with what are unmistakably, two other direwolves. He struggles to place them, for a moment. Not Shaggydog, because they're both grey, not black. Greywind would be bigger than them, he thinks, and both of their eyes are too light. Bran's wolf…unlikely. Which leaves–
"Lady?" He asks, and the smaller of the two looks to him immediately, barking as she sees him again, jumping slightly. His face splits with a grin, and he breathes out the next name, dropping to a knee and letting the girls come at him now with open arms. "Nymeria!"
"Hi, hi, hi," he says breathlessly, as they crowd him, pressing kisses to both their brows. The crowd largely dissipates then, all of them either realising that Jon knows these wolves and will want a moment with them, or losing interest with the whole thing. His friends remain though, looking at Jon oddly as he finally gets to his feet, surrounded by three direwolves.
"My sister's wolves," he explains, smiling when Nymeria barks, pressing close to him. Someone laughs at that, muttering something about Fucking Starks and their wolves, but Jon barely pays them heed, heart thundering. His sisters' wolves, here at The Wall? How in the world? But he can't demand too many answers, too happy as he is.
They follow him around for the rest of the day, and when he tries to sit on his bed, they take it over, like it's theirs alone. He looks at them with a single raised brow, and ignores them, choosing to sit instead at his bed. Ghost seems happier than ever, at least, and Jon can't remember seeing him so excited since they split with the girls on the Kingsroad.
That evening, though, he puts them away before going to the main hall, feeding them some food and promising to be back soon enough. His friends smile at him from where they sit, having left a space for him. A few more people trickle in, and Maester Aemon stands, silencing the hall into a sort of anticipatory silence.
"Does anyone wish to speak for Candidates, before we cast our tokens for the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?" Maester Aemon says, and to little surprise of anyone, Janos Slynt is on his feet in an instant. Jon meets Grenn's eyes from across the way, and they both roll their eyes, Edd hiding his snort with a sip of his drink.
"Ser Alliser is not just a knight, he's a man of true nobility," Slynt begins, and as he keeps on lauding Thorne, Jon feels his good mood from earlier fall right back into the turmoil following Stannis's offer. Thorne will send Ghost and the girls away, no doubt, Jon says, thinking of the three of them with a pang. To lose them, so soon after getting them all back…
Someone rises for Mallister, and Jon considers the man. He might have a little love left for Jon's uncle, as a ranger who has been here for longer than any other, and Jon knows he's not likely to have forgotten the way House Stark has always supported The Wall. Life under Mallister would be better, but the wolves might still be sent away. Even then, Jon knocks his cup against the table.
"If there is no one else, we will begin the voting," Maester Aemon says. "The triangular tokens count for Ser Alliser Thorne. The square tokens count for Ser Dennis Mallister–"
"Maester Aemon!" A far too familiar voice says, and Jon whirls in an instant, meeting Sam's eyes with an expression he hopes he can read, for both their sakes. A murmur passes through the crowd, and Jon glances at his friends, to see them all exchanging glances and smirks. Did these fools conspire against me?
"Samwell Tarly, go on," Maester Aemon says, and Jon shakes his head in a last-ditch effort to get Sam to shut up! But his friend seems resolute in his decision, and much to Jon's chagrin, people are listening. Edd pats him on the back.
But Slynt gets one last jibe in, and Jon grits his teeth. "Sam the Slayer. Another wildling lover just like his friend, Jon Snow. How's your lady love, Slayer?"
Laughter fills the room, but Sam doesn't seem perturbed, almost seeming amused. "Her name is Gilly. Brother Slynt knows her quite well. They cowered together in the larder during the battle for The Wall."
"Lies!" Slynt tries to yell over the laughter, which only keeps growing as Sam continues.
"A wildling girl, a baby, and Lord Janos. I found him there after the battle in a puddle of his own making," Sam says with a smirk. Even Jon has to smile, the laughter rising to a fever pitch. But Sam's face grows a little more serious. "Whilst Lord Janos was hiding with the women and children, Jon Snow was leading."
He turns to Thorne, nodding slightly. "Ser Alliser fought bravely, it is true, but when he was wounded, it was Jon who saved us. He took charge of the Wall's defence, he killed the Magnar of the Thenns, he went North to deal with Mance Rayder–knowing it would almost certainly mean his own death. Before that, he led the mission to avenge the Lord Commander Mormont. Mormont himself chose Jon to be his steward. He saw something in Jon. And now we've all seen it too. He may be young, but he's the commander we turned to when the night was darkest."
They called my brother the Young Wolf, he thinks inanely.
Jon grimaces as cheers go up, heart hammering in his chest. But it's the sound of Thorne's voice that makes him look up, their eyes meeting from across the way. "Can't argue with any of that," he says, but his eyes are dark. "But who does Jon Snow want to command? The Night's Watch? Or the wildlings? Everyone knows he loved a wildling girl. Spoke with Mance Rayder many times."
He turns to the crowd, voice rising. "What would have happened in that tent between those two old friends if Stannis's army hadn't come along? We all saw him put the King-Beyond-the-Wall out of his misery. Do you want to choose a man who has fought the wildlings all his life or a man who makes love to them?"
"What Stannis was doing was cruel," Jon says, voice breaking through the crowd. The room goes silent. "Burning a man alive. I was raised in the North, you know this Ser Alliser. Many of you have spent good portions of your life here, as well. Does The North butcher men? Is that who we are? Do we prolong the death of traitors, like those summery folk down South?" He shakes his head. "Mance got his justice, in the end. Doesn't matter how it happened."
Thorne scowls, but sits down. Maester Aemon rises, and with that, so begins the arduous task of voting. Jon watches as he and Thorne's tokens rise higher and higher, heart hammering loudly in his chest. He thinks of the wolves, out there in the cold, and how it would feel like betraying Arya and Sansa to send them away. His hand clenches tighter around his cup.
"There appears to be a tie, Maester," Says the man at Aemon's shoulder, and the entire room holds its breath as Aemon reaches out with a shaky hand, feeling for something before…
Dropping it on Jon's spoke.
The room erupts into cheers in an instant, and his friends laugh loudly, clapping him on the back. He smiles, not quite believing it. He catches Sam's eye, and he's on his feet in a second, dragging his friend in for a hug as The Watch takes up a chant of his name. Thorne and Slynt look displeased, but Jon can't help but feel relieved.
The Wolves will stay here. Stannis will not ask again. The Wall is his.
"Come in!" Jon says when the knock at the door comes, not looking up from Longclaw as he runs a cloth over it. Janos Slynt had made his choice clear, and so had Jon, in the end. If he is to be Lord Commander, he must act as one. And the wolves didn't like him either, and he's not going to not listen to his wolf, or his sister's wolves. They're not natural, he thinks as he glances at them, harkening back on the whispers of the men. They make them nervous, but Jon is firm on keeping them here.
"Lord Commander?" A girlish voice asks, and he's on his feet in an instant, finally realising who it is. Little Shireen Baratheon looks up at him with her father's blue eyes, dressed in Winter furs, her hair hanging loose around her. There's snow in her hair and in her furs, and Jon realises, with a pit in his stomach, that her mother most certainly has no idea she's here.
Her mother has made it very clear what she thinks about Jon, his wolves, and his general presence here at The Wall time and time again. And her jibes at the Old Gods, and her muttered comments about his brother have not made him any warmer towards her. Just because she is a Southern Lady, the wife to a King, does not mean that she can demand everything be given to her.
Even then, he knows his courtesies, (or, more accurately, Sansa's voice rings in the back of his mind, and he's half sure she'd appear out of nowhere to slap him upside the head if he didn't treat this girl with due respect), and so he dips his head at her and says, "Princess. What can I do for you?"
Her eyes flicker, immediately, to the three wolves, curled up in a pile of white and grey at the front of the fireplace, leeching all the heat for themselves. First my bed and now the only source of joy in this damned Castle, he'd thought despondently when they'd sat themselves there, unable to do anything but pull his cloak tighter around him. Now, his eye twitches. Her mother will not like this. Stannis might not, even. He doesn't, but not one Southerner has asked for his opinion since they got here.
"May I?" She asks hesitantly, and he nods. All three of them perk their heads up when they sense her approach, but where Ghost and Nymeria lay back down, content to stay where they are, Lady untangles herself from them both, and sits up, right as Shireen comes up to them. Jon, on his end, steps away from his desk and crouches next to Lady, burying his hand in her soft fur.
"Let her sniff your hand first," he says, and Shireen offers a hand. Lady sniffs it curiously, then gives it a lick, which makes the young princess laugh, a twinkling, girlish sound that makes Jon think of Lady's owner, sweet Sansa, all those miles South of here. But his aching heart aside, he does laugh, petting Lady softly as Shireen rests her hand on the wolf's head. Even sitting down, Lady is nearly as big as Shireen. And to think she's the smallest of them all!
"She likes you," he decides after a moment, smiling when Shireen looks at him with wide eyes. He looks at Lady, laughing when she decides to give him a lick as well, getting up at that and dusting himself off. Ghost perks his head up again, but Jon waves him down. "Her name is Lady. She's my sister Sansa's wolf. Best behaved of the lot, too, thanks to her."
"Everyone talked about the Starks and their Direwolves, when the war started," Shireen says, innocently enough, but Jon's jaw twitches as he remembers the stories. Robb, the Young Wolf to the Northerners, Northern to the Bone, with the Wolf's Blood running hot in him. In the South, they sang a different tone. Skinchanger, they called him, venom in their voices. He and his massive direwolf kill everyone who stands in their path. "I never thought I'd see one."
For a while, Jon had thought much the same, thinking he'd never see one of them again. Beyond The Wall, he had no sense of Ghost, let alone of Lady and Nymeria. He's not even sure how they got here, and all of Arya's letters, never mind father's, had skirted around what had happened to the wolves on the road South. Nothing good, if they never made it to King's Landing as he's suspecting. Sansa never wrote to him anyhow, so he has no idea what she might have to say about it all. But they're here now.
"They're…" he tries to say, struggling for the right words. Stannis, Davos, and the Red Woman had heard the rumours by the time they got around to summoning him, and he has no doubt the Queen has heard them as well. He looks a little more carefully at Shireen, with the greyscale that mars her face. Would Selyse have told her daughter about the rumours of the Bastard of the Wall, to scare her away from him? Skinchanger. Oathbreaker. Warg. Wildling lover. Turncloak. Heretic. "They're loyal companions. I wish my sisters had them, but until they return to them, I look after the girls."
"Why don't your sisters have their wolves?" Shireen asks, blinking up at Jon quizzically, not seeming to notice how he grimaces. She pets Lady again, and Jon thinks that Lady must be enjoying feminine attention again, deprived as she is of Sansa and her brushes and bows. Jon is man enough to admit that he's not nearly as nice company as Sansa. "Robb Stark did. You do. Everyone knows that."
"Something happened on the way South, probably, and they got separated," he says vaguely, because he truly doesn't know. And as close as the three wolves stick to his side when he lets them out, they don't have the capacity of speech, (thank the gods) and his dreams only extend to Ghost. The girls are not his wolves, not really. He shrugs. "Direwolves are creatures of The North. They wouldn't fare well down there, anyhow."
He turns to the Princess, smiling wryly. "You know I've never been South of White Harbour?" He asks her, smiling widely as she gapes at him. He scratches under Lady's chin, and Ghost whines from behind him. He rolls his eyes and ignores his wolf and his constant need for attention. "Guess it makes sense I'm up here then. Too Northern for those Southern Folk, just like these ones."
"Well, I think they're beautiful," Shireen decides, and Jon is just about to reply when the Queen's voice echoes from around the hall, calling her name. The young girl seems to deflate, and she pulls away from Lady, just as Selyse Baratheon comes in, without knocking, of course. Jon grits his teeth at the utter gall of the woman, lightly nudging Lady away. Shireen dips her head. "Mother."
"Your Grace," Jon says, voice having gone cold. Selyse Baratheon meets his eyes with utter contempt, and he knows it must grate on her Southern Sensibilities, that the true power at The Wall is some Northern Stark Bastard.
"What are you doing here?" The Queen asks Shireen, ignoring Jon in entirety, sending a worried look towards the wolves. Jon glances back at them, to see all three of them alert and staring at the Queen. They don't like her, or the Red Woman. The followers of the Lord of Light, he thinks grimly.
"I was here to thank Lord Commander Snow for his defence of the Wall. Father says I must appreciate all men for what they do, as his heir," The Princess says smoothly enough as Jon sits back down. He looks at the Princess with a new eye, and smiles to himself as the Queen eats it up, although she still doesn't look pleased at her precious gem being within five feet of the wolves.
Finally, she addresses Jon, sounding utterly full of herself and convinced of her inherent greatness over him. He's used to it. Most Southerners think of Bastards that way. Most people do. "Keep your beasts away from my daughter, Lord Snow, or I will see them fed to R'hllor," she announces, voice shrill. Jon raises a single brow at her, saying nothing, as cold as The Wall must seem to this fiery fanatic, and twice as bold. "They aren't natural."
"Down," he says sharply when Ghost moves to get up, and Ghost obeys without question. He stands slowly, looking at the Queen with a cool expression which seems to make her falter, despite her arrogance. "They're well trained, your Grace, and they're my wolves. I am the Lord Commander of The Wall. Try and feed them to your flames, and you will find your men dead and my wolves alive. This is not a threat, before you say so. It is a warning, and a promise."
His eyes narrow into dark slits. "You can keep your Gods. I will keep mine. So long as you are in the North, on the Wall, I will suffer no insults to any God, whether that be the Seven, The Old Gods, or your Lord of Light. We are one against The Night, Your Grace. Divide does us no good. Farewell." He dips his head at Shireen, and then at her. "Princess. Your Grace."
Selyse does not seem happy to be taking such dismissing orders from him, but she turns on her heel and ushers Shireen out anyhow. He sits with a sigh, and Ghost rises then, coming to Jon's side, resting his head on his lap as he buries his hand into his fur. "She will not be happy that I told her that, and Stannis will be forced to intervene on her behalf," he muses to Ghost, aware that talking to wolves won't make him look any more sane to these strange Southerners and their flames.
But Jon is The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and Stannis Baratheon and his court seem intent on running roughshod over him. But if he fails to remind them that The Wall is his, and that they are his guests, he will lose the men. They take no part in the politics beyond the Wall, they are the shield that guards the realms of men, and nothing more.
"Stannis wants to make himself King of the Wall and The Seven Kingdoms," Jon tells Ghost seriously, shaking his head. Ghost is a good listener, he decides, with his intent gaze and nuzzles. The girls are no help, curled around each other by the fire, both asleep or close to it. It's just Jon and Ghost. He pets Ghost's head. "And me, his Stark Pet." Ghost makes a low sound, like a growl. "Yes, I know."
Stannis Baratheon does come around within an hour of Selyse's departure, just as Jon expected, but at least the man has the same decency as his daughter, and knocks. But he looks at Jon cooly as he rises, an expression Jon matches in turn, which seems to surprise the man. It's not just that I told Selyse to stuff it with her gods, he realises. It's that I threw his offer of Winterfell into his face.
But Robb is out there, and Jon knows it in his heart. They all are, he can feel them in every beat of his heart, in every night spent as a wolf, spent as Ghost. The Direwolves live, and therefore, so do his siblings. Jon will not usurp them, he will not abandon The Wall for titles given by a Southern Lord who the North's opinion on is very clear. The King in the North.
"You threatened my wife, spat on her gods," Stannis Baratheon says, voice noticeably even. He hadn't come alone, two guards trailing him and looking at Jon in utter distrust bordering on disdain. Queen's men? Jon wonders. Or Stannis's? But the king's eyes seem to shift, and he tilts his head at Jon, looking at him with an indecipherable expression. "Or so she tells it. So tell me, Lord Snow: what did you say to her?"
"Her gods, Your Grace?" Jon questions immediately. Stannis Baratheon grits his teeth, and Jon feels the satisfaction rise in him. There it is. He's no true believer. His wife is. But not Stannis. He doesn't press it though, knowing better, and knowing that no position will protect him from the wrath of a king if he goes too far. Joffrey made that clear, at the very least. And the ice is thin under his feet. Stannis might not kill him, but there are other ways to teach lessons. "And it was a warning. Not a threat."
Jon glances at his wolves, now all by the fire again. Stannis follows his gaze, meeting Jon's eyes with a thread of suspicion. "Your daughter came by to speak to me, thank me for my service. Said that you told her that all servants of the realm were to be thanked, and that was her duty as your heir. Something like that. The Queen took issue with her being around the wolves, and told me she'd feed them to her God's flames if I let them near her again. I simply warned her what the results of such actions would be."
"And what would they be, Lord Snow?" Stannis says from between gritted teeth.
"They might be well trained, but they are still wild, Your Grace. The result would be the death of the men who tried to drag them to the pyre, and me kindly asking you to get off The Wall." His gaze hardens on Stannis. "I thank you for your help, Your Grace, all of the Watch does. But The Wall is mine, and I will not suffer offences at The Old Gods or the Seven. Your wife can keep her fiery god, and I will keep mine. Otherwise, the Watch will do as we always have, and bar against the cold alone. My wolf, and my sisters' wolves, are not to be touched. The Weirdwoods will be left alone."
Stannis opens his mouth to say something, but Jon keeps talking. It's dangerous, speaking to a king like this, but Jon will not have his authority undermined one more fucking time. His brothers chose him to be their Lord Commander, not Stannis Baratheon, and if this Southerner cannot understand that The Lord Commander has always and will always answer only to himself and his men, he will make him.
"I know what your Red Woman wants the Wildings to do, as they pass The Wall. The Weirwoods will not be burned, and if I hear of that when I return from Hardhome, consider The North lost to you." Stannis grits his teeth, but says nothing, and Jon takes that as a good sign. "You know The North does not trust you. Lady Mormont made it clear where The North lies. You know I am a Northerner."
Stannis seems to grasp what Jon is saying a moment later, and he looks at him dangerously. Jon meets his gaze evenly, burned hand clenching into a fist on the table. "The North knows no King, but the King in the North whose name is Stark, " he growls the words out slowly. "I take no sides, as a man of The Watch, yes. But as a man of The North, as the King's brother, as Eddard Stark's son, that is my truth as a man. If you want The North, if you want my brother to consider ever bending the knee to you, you respect The North. The Weirwoods go unburnt. Otherwise, you lose it all."
"I am a king, boy," Stannis Baratheon says, anger in his voice. "And I will be riding to free your home, before long. Or have you forgotten that?"
"Aye, you are," Jon agrees. "Doesn't mean you're my King. I love my brother, Your Grace. I will always love my brother, Wall be damned. But I love The North even more, and that is what I am trying to defend here. I know you Southerners think us quaint, think us fools, think us undeveloped. Maybe we are, by your standards. But The North remains, and The North remembers. Burn The Weirwoods, and The North will never accept you."
"And I know damn well what you're about to do for House Stark. I thank you for it. But I take you for a man who appreciates honesty, who doesn't like gilded words. Are you?" Stannis nods slowly. "Good. You might yet survive The North. The flames were sparked when my brother was crowned, and it will take more than you and your fiery sword to stop that. Get Winterfell back. Respect our Gods, and keep your Red Woman away from my wolves, and we will have no issue. I am Lord Commander, Your Grace. The Wall is mine."
Stannis Baratheon glares at him for a long moment, like he's trying to discern something. He expected my father, Jon thinks bitterly. Old, naïve, Ned Stark, who lost his head because of it. But I am not my father, and I will not make his mistakes. Honour dictated he named Stannis the true heir, and my honour demands I hold to what I believe in. He meets Stannis's glare. Southern Kings be damned.
notes:
-I'm keeping Pyp and Grenn alive for the entirely selfish reason that I want Jon to have more than two friends that aren't any of his siblings or his uncle or his slightly overgrown wolf. Sue me.
-Stannis and Jon...what a combo. They're incredible together, both on screen and on page, and I hope I conveyed an inch of that. We'll get more into how and why Robb lived, and where he is mentally and physically, but Jon is still SO loyal to his family. And much like Ghost returning in the books helps him decide what to do with the whole Stark thing, Lady and Nymeria's arrival helps him stay firm in his commitment to the North and House Stark. Not very "Night Watch plays no part" of you, Jon.
-I've wondered a lot about what Robb surviving TRW would do in regard to Stannis and Jon's interactions, and the basic conclusion I came to is that Jon gets just that much more stubborn. He knows his brother is out there, and he's still holding out hope that Robb will free himself, and join the fight. Jon knows he needs Stannis, but he also knows that Stannis needs him, in his own way. Jon's also less afraid to throw his weight around, because especially as Lord Commander, if Stannis kills him, it ignites the North again, and we've got War of the Five Kings 2.0, as I've pointed out here.
-For some things, such as Hardhome, I am really not changing much, if anything, and thus, I'm not gonna devote time to it. Writing Hardhome, for example, would basically be another 3k words or so where I change basically nothing, and where the result is the same. Sometimes, though, I will play around with timelines between book and show, or a few things will happen slightly differently, and in those cases, I'll either write it out or make a point to mention it.
Next up: we travel to the cells beneath Casterly Rock...