Chapter 5: Jon IV

Chapter Text

It was a small chamber, out of the way, in a part of the keep that had not been affected by the Ironborn invasion or by the Boltons. According to Sansa, Lord Eddard had used it when he received correspondence that needed to be kept secret.

Jon sat at the desk, littered with scrolls, and felt like he'd been there before. Any minute, he thought, Sam would knock and enter, with new letters to sign. He tried not to think of the last time he'd been faced with a deskful of scrolls, all needing his attention. Jon could still see the look on Olly's face when he'd drawn him out, to his death.

The knock at the door shook him from his memories, and it was quickly followed by the door opening. Ser Davos peeped in, and Jon beckoned him inside. He was followed by Sansa, and for a moment, Jon wanted to cringe. Then he straightened in his seat. He knew he had to explain himself, before he lost their trust for good. He hoped it wasn't already too late.

"Please forgive me for keeping this from you both."

Ser Davos and Sansa exchanged a look, and Sansa raised an eyebrow. "It was rather strange when at first you were saying that we had to trust each other now, and then . . . this."

Ser Davos, on the other hand, wasn't meeting his eyes. "I understand, your Grace." Jon winced, shaking his head, and Davos responded with a small smile. "My loyalty had always been to Stannis Baratheon," he continued, stressing the last name, "and once you found out about your true father's family . . . well."

Sansa looked sideways, and then back at Jon. "I hope you didn't think I cared about a man who died before you were even born, Jon."

He leaned back, trying to suppress a small smile. He was continually surprised by this new, practical Sansa. But her next words hit him like a bolt.

"I actually expected you to apologise for making me practically beg for your hand in marriage." Sansa tossed her head, her eyes sparkling.

Jon was sure his eyes were bulging, in a way she'd always told him made him look like a startled frog. "You told me that if I made you marry anyone, you'd cut my bollocks off! And his!"

Sansa blushed, lowering her eyes. "I said no such thing, Jon. Don't be disgusting."

Ser Davos was trying to look solemn, but his eyes were sparkling, and Jon gave him a warning look.

"You said you'd have me gelded," Jon continued, trying to avoid sounding plaintive. In truth, he'd been rather impressed at the time.

"Oh. Is that what it means?" Sansa mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. "It was just something I heard Tyrion say, once."

Jon realised his own eyebrows were gradually rising into his hairline. Sansa noticed.

"King Joffrey was trying to make us have a bedding – gods, he was such a monster." Sansa frowned, and Jon realised she was retreating into her memories of her time as a Lannister prisoner. No, that had to stop, he thought, right now.

"I actually wanted us all to have a look at the letters," Jon continued, gesturing to the scrolls that littered the small desk.

Sansa gave him a look. "Usually the Maester would be invited, not one advisor and your . . . new . . . wife." She stopped, seeming to hear the words for the first time, brows drawn.

Jon hurried to fill the silence. "Yes; Maester Luwin, he'd have been here. But this Wolkan . . . can we trust him?"

Ser Davos shrugged, while Sansa bit her lip.

"He came here with the Boltons, and was here through all the terrible things the Boltons did. I still don't know what happened to Lady Walda, and her baby. No one will tell me. And I often needed the Maester when I was here, but he was never summoned."

Gods, this was even worse than reminiscing about her time in King's Landing! Why could he not get this right?

Jon tried to feel guilty about keeping things from his wife, and failed. He knew what had become of Lady Walda and her newborn son. After he'd found out how Sansa had chosen to execute Ramsay Bolton, he'd ordered the dogs killed and the kennels cleaned out. Eventually, one of the men, face tinged with green, had told him of the other remains they'd found in the kennels – what was left of a rather large woman, and the cracked skull of a new-born baby. He'd managed to keep himself under control by gripping hard onto the armrests of his chair, until the man had left; then he'd emptied his stomach. Every day he'd thanked the old gods that Ramsay was dead, and that his line was ended.

It seemed to him that he'd missed something; he looked up at Sansa, startled.

"You say you needed the Maester, when you were here?"

Sansa winced. She looked like someone who was regretting having given away more than she intended. "I hardly think now is the time for this discussion, my lord."

Jon rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. Privately he thought that he would never understand women, not if he lived to be a hundred. He gestured to the scrolls littering the desk.

"Sam and Edd's letters are the clearest. I'm having trouble understanding the reason behind Littlefinger's words, and as for the letter from Daenerys . . . " He rubbed his eyes. He'd read that letter three times, and still wasn't sure what it meant.

Sansa picked up the scroll closest to her. Her eyebrows rose as she unfolded it, realising that the paper was much finer than usual, and Sam had managed to fit in a great deal on the flimsy sheet.

"Dear friend Jon, or should I say, your Grace? Yes, the news reached us here at the Citadel, where we are settling in nicely, I must say. I have succeeded in persuading the council of Maesters to let Gilly work in the Citadel kitchens, so we were all here when the Ironborn attacked. But don't worry! The Citadel is heavily fortified, you know! As for our icy little problem, I have been trying to find the solution, but it's rather difficult. All the old books say 'dragons', but the Maesters loathe dragons, and I suspect they have tried to purge all mention of the subject from the library. Still, I will keep searching! Your friend Sam."

Ser Davos was shaking his head. "It's a good thing Queen Daenerys told you about the Ironborn invasion, and how it was pushed back, else you'd want to take Viserion there."

Sansa nodded. "The only useful thing we've learned is that Maesters hate dragons – not telling Maester Wolkan or Lady Lyanna's man about Viserion was a good decision."

"Sam does his best," Jon mumbled, wanting to defend his friend. But Sansa and Ser Davos were right. Sam's letter was a frustrating mix of sparse facts and unfinished stories, which tantalized, more than anything.

The letter from the Wall was both less frustrating and more so. Edd wrote of White Walkers and wights being seen beyond the Wall, and with no idea of how they got through it. There must be a breach, Jon thought, but where?

Ser Davos had picked up Littlefinger's letter, but after staring at the tiny writing, gave it to Sansa with a blush. She cleared her throat, and her eyes widened as she started to read. Jon realised that she hadn't expected it to be addressed to her.

"My dearest love, my lady Sansa, our plans are close to fruition. Your bastard half-brother will not survive his next foolhardy excursion. It is the oddest luck that he survived this one. But I vow to you, my love, that I will return to Winterfell at the earliest convenience and-"

Sansa stopped reading, her eyes wide with anguish and horror. "Jon, you cannot believe that I am involved in any way with Petyr's plans!" She looked at Ser Davos, wildly, but he would not meet her eyes. She turned to Jon again. "Jon!"

Jon waved a hand, convinced. Either she was the best actress that had ever lived, and he was the greatest fool, or she was telling the truth. It wasn't as though he had a choice – he had to believe her. She was his wife, now.

"Stop, Sansa." She stared at him with tears in her eyes, unsure of him, even now. He cleared his throat, trying to choose his words with care. "Lord Baelish would never have written such an open letter if he didn't expect me to read it – this letter is meant for my eyes, not yours."

The paper crumpled in her fingers as the colour rose in her cheeks and her eyes narrowed. "He means to turn us against each other – to make you distrust me! Gods, I'm such a fool!"

Jon exchanged a puzzled look with Ser Davos, but the man shrugged. Sansa went on.

"I mean . . . I was there when he killed Aunt Lysa, after first making her believe that he loved her, that he would do anything for her."

"He killed Lady Arryn?" Ser Davos exclaimed. "But it was put about that the singer killed her, or that she took her own life . . . "

Sansa shook her head, and shuddered. Jon could hardly believe all that she'd been through, and that was before Ramsay had done to her . . . what he had done.

"My lady aunt was half mad, talking strangely, accusing me of trying to seduce Lord Baelish." Sansa's face twisted in disgust. "She tried to push me out of that damned Moon Door in the Eyrie." She paused, lost in remembrance. "Sometimes I still have nightmares of the rushing wind, the ground so far below." Sansa chewed on her lip, then caught Jon's eye. "I thought Lord Baelish had come to save me. He pushed her out, and then, when I lied to the Lords Declarant for him, I thought it gave me power over him!" She laughed, and the bitter sound of it was more than Jon could take.

"Don't you see," he added hurriedly, "that's why he urged you to marry into the Boltons – to make sure you never spoke the truth, or if you did, you wouldn't be believed."

She gave him a sideways look, but nodded. "Perhaps. But I was stupid to think I could ever deal with Littlefinger on my own."

"But you're not on your own now, your Grace," Ser Davos interjected, and she turned to him; in surprise, Jon thought. It was clear that she'd forgotten he was even in the room.

Jon gave him a thankful look – both for his words, and his expression, which was the most father-like he'd ever seen on the man. Ser Davos had obviously decided that Sansa was to be trusted, and Jon felt a huge weight fall from his shoulders. He rummaged hurriedly on the desk for the last scroll, the letter from Daenerys, and thrust it blindly in Sansa's direction. She took it, puzzled.

"This one is as foggy as Littlefinger's was clear," he added, and she raised her eyebrows. "Perhaps she was afraid it would be intercepted."

Sansa nodded, and cleared her throat.

"To Jon Snow, of the House Stark, King in the North, from Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, greetings! Now that the traitor House of the Stag is no more, the Dragon and the Wolf must unite for the good of the land, because Winter is Coming. The Dragon marches South bringing Fire and Blood, to beard the Lioness in her den. Yet the young Lion slinks to the Trident, as the gods have pronounced judgement on the breakers of guest-right, the traitors Frey. The Dragon Queen will, as a gesture of goodwill, bestow great bounty on the White Wolf and all who stand at his side.

Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen."

Ser Davos raised an eyebrow. "Half of that letter was the Queen's titles."

Sansa was back to gnawing at her lower lip. "I'm sure she left a few out, too . . . when she said that the Dragon and the Wolf must unite, she meant you and me . . . I hope."

"Of course," Jon said hastily. He hadn't been so sure when he first read it, but now he understood. It was strange how quickly Daenerys had gotten used to thinking of him as a fellow Targaryen. "Even when I was there, it was clear that the Queen and her advisors thought I should marry you – why else would Lord Tyrion release you from the bonds of marriage?"

Sansa nodded, still frowning. Jon tried to change the subject.

"What did she mean, the lioness in her den? Surely Tommen is king now."

"Then he must be dead," Sansa answered darkly. "Because there's only one lioness left, and that's Cersei Lannister." She looked at the letter again. "So Jaime Lannister is headed towards the Twins, again." She looked up, and caught them staring at her. She smiled, and Jon's breath caught in his throat. Gods, she was beautiful.

"It's quite obvious," she said, stressing the last word with a little smirk. "The young lion can only be Jaime Lannister – Cersei must have sent him right back to the Riverlands when, as it says here, the gods punished the Freys."

Jon nodded. Now that she explained it, it did seem obvious. "I wonder what this punishment was," he mumbled, almost under his breath, but Sansa must have heard him.

"I hope it was painful," she said, and he nodded.

"And slow," Jon added.

Ser Davos cleared his throat. "Will you be – ahem - flying to the Twins, your Grace? One glimpse of Viserion and both the young Lannister and whoever's still in the castle will bend the knee."

Was that how he wanted to convince people to follow him? Fire and Blood, as Daenerys had said? "I thought, perhaps, there might be a way to convince Jaime Lannister without the use of force."

Sansa's eyebrows shot up. "You mean to send Brienne? Again?"

Jon nodded. "This time she just needs to play for time – perhaps he'll be persuaded by seeing an actual dragon, perhaps not. But if she's there, he won't shoot us out of the sky on sight."

Sansa still looked doubtful.

"Let's just ask her," he added hastily. "If she refuses, I'll find another way."

Sansa's smile was sardonic. "She's not going to refuse, Jon. She'll go to the ends of the earth for that man."

Ser Davos cleared his throat again, and when Jon looked at him, the colour was high in his cheeks. "I'll go and fetch her, your Grace."

When they were alone, Sansa found it hard to meet his eyes, he realised. She was blushing, and when she spoke he understood.

"Jon, our marriage must be." She broke off, as though she couldn't bear to complete the thought. "You know that some lords will say it isn't valid until-"

Gods, why was she doing this to herself? He had to stop her. "Sansa, listen to me." Jon grabbed her hand and squeezed it, staring at her, willing her to look at him. After a few moments, she did. "We will do nothing that you do not want. Do you understand me?" She looked to the side, unwilling to accept his words. He touched her chin, gently and she turned her face to his again. "I don't care about the lords, I don't care about any of that. Nothing will happen, Sansa, nothing. Not until you're ready."

Her eyes filled with tears. Of gratitude? He wasn't sure. "What if I'm never ready, Jon? What then?"

Once again, Jon wished Ramsay Bolton to life so that he could kill that monster, slower this time. Never is a long time, he wanted to tell her. But she wasn't ready for that, he could tell. They were both young. He could wait.

"Then we live as brother and sister, my lady." He looked her deep in the eyes as he spoke, and he saw the moment when something sparked in hers.

"Thank you," she whispered, and pressed a hard kiss to his lips, catching him by surprise. Her lips were trembling, but they soon stilled. As she pulled back he caught a look of mild puzzlement in her eyes. He too was surprised – he hadn't expected the sudden longing for her that washed over him once her mouth was pressed to his, the scent of her filling his nostrils, surrounding him, a cloud of red hair obscuring his vision.

Jon cleared his throat, trying desperately to think of something innocuous to say, and was glad of the knock at the door.

Brienne of Tarth was flushed and sweaty, and immediately apologised for her state. "Your Grace, please forgive me, I was sparring with some of the Northern lords."

Jon's eyebrows rose. "Some of the Northern lords?"

Ser Davos followed behind the lady. "Some lads think that they'll impress their fathers by bringing down the famed Maid of Tarth."

Brienne flushed and lowered her eyes modestly.

Sansa looked annoyed. "Really, Jon, can't you control them? Now is not the time for fighting amongst ourselves."

But Lady Brienne shook her head. "Please don't, your Grace. I have been through this kind of rite of passage before. They will tire of the sport before long, I assure you."

Jon was about to point out that he hadn't said anything yet, but decided to take Brienne's words as an end to the dispute. Truly, Brienne was right – saying something to the Northern lords would only make things worse; for Brienne.

"Lady Brienne, you may have heard that we received a letter from Queen Daenerys – I would like you to read it, too."

Brienne took the letter hesitantly, but her expression changed once she read it. She looked at the others in the room, and Jon regretted having given her the letter at all, once he saw the mingled pain and longing in her face. Why was he doing this to her? She was hopelessly in love with that Lannister bastard, who would never love her back.

"You want me to go and try to parley with Jaime Lannister." Brienne's voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

"Brienne . . . " Sansa also seemed to regret her earlier urging, and looked at Jon, helplessly.

"We need someone who will speak for us with Lord Jaime – someone who will explain Viserion, so that I won't be struck down by his lancers." In truth, Jon wanted the Lannister to have warning, so that he and Viserion wouldn't be forced to torch half the man's army before he listened to reason. The Freys at the castle would not be extended the same courtesy.

Brienne looked at each of them in turn. "You know he told me he could not turn on his family. Especially with his nephew on the throne."

"That is why we are giving you the option to refuse, my Lady," Jon said, suddenly wishing he could take back the last few moments. This was insane – he was proposing to send a woman into enemy territory, to negotiate with a hostile force. Yes, Jaime Lannister had saved Brienne's life, and her virtue, on their travels, but he did not travel alone. He knew what they called her – the Kingslayer's Whore – and he also know what men did to women of easy virtue – all women, really, who they deemed vulnerable.

Brienne must have been reading his thoughts. "Well, they'll be calling me worse than the Kingslayer's Wh- Woman this time."

She'd corrected herself on catching Sansa's shocked look. "Apologies, my Lady. I've spent too much time in the company of rough men." She gave Jon a blinding smile, and he was surprised into smiling back. "I will prepare for the journey and leave in the morning, your Grace."

"With Podrick, of course," Jon added, "and some other men, I think-"

But Brienne was shaking her head. "I will accept Podrick's company – he is my squire, after all. But I cannot guarantee anyone else's safety, your Grace."

Jon found himself chewing on his lower lip with the insane thought of bundling Brienne and Podrick onto Viserion. But that was madness. He had no way of knowing whether the dragon would accept any other rider. Instead he nodded.

"Ser Davos will provide the horses and provisions," he added, thinking privately that he would have his own discussion with Ser Davos as soon as Brienne left. She agreed, pausing only to bid a perfunctory farewell to Sansa, before she took her leave.

Sansa gave him a questioning look. "You're not going to let her go and face Jaime Lannister with just Podrick at her side?"

"Of course not." Jon gave her a glance. Did she think so poorly of him? "I'll send some men in secret . . . someone I can trust."

Sansa nodded. "And someone who will trust her; someone who will accept a female warrior."

Jon rubbed his eyebrow. The scar there tended to itch, especially when he was tired. "You know that you're describing the free folk, there?"

A brilliant smile was his answer. "You do know that there are quite a few spearwives, I think they're called, who survived the battle?" She took his blank look for assent, though he hadn't in fact known any such thing. Jon was starting to realise that in the weeks since his return he'd been too caught up in his own problems. Sansa ploughed on, regardless. "Well, I've been thinking. They need some sort of occupation, besides fending off the men, and free folk would certainly know how to keep themselves hidden while following Lady Brienne."

Jon agreed, and decided to speak to Tormund about it. He had one last question for Sansa. "You don't think there should be a mixed group – free folk and northerners?"

"No, Jon. Besides the fact that we'd risk a fight breaking out and them killing each other and never reaching the Twins, I think the women really need some time to themselves." She blushed at his raised eyebrow.

Brienne and Podrick rode out the next morning, with spare horses and provisions. A small force rode out at the same time from the Hunter's Gate, in secret. Jon, Tormund and Ser Davos had seen them off, Jon being careful to hide his smile when he saw the women's disgust at having been furnished with leather armour, surcoats, breeches and cloaks from Winterfell. Their furs were rolled up in their packs, but they'd understood that they would be less likely to be attacked if they were seen as young men of the North riding south, rather than a group of wildlings, 'invading'. Sansa and Lady Mormont had been on the battlements, watching. He was quite sure he saw a wistful look on the latter's face.

Jon and Ser Davos had calculated how long it should reach Lady Brienne to reach the Twins, so he knew he had around three weeks. He decided he would use the time for practice flights on Viserion, until he had an idea of how long it would take on dragonback. There were no further letters, so he still spent some sleepless nights wondering exactly what kind of 'gift' the Queen had sent him.

He also occupied himself with sending out various expeditions – something which Tormund liked to call 'keeping the kneeler cunts busy' – to the Dreadfort, to the Last Hearth, to the Karhold. Of course, the lords of those Houses were dead, but the castles had not been left completely undefended. Loyal men would be guarding each keep, waiting for their lord's return.

Also, each castle would be needed in the wars to come. Though he'd have loved to take the Dreadfort apart, stone by stone, he knew he could not. What with the dead rising, on both sides of the Wall, no fortress could be wasted, no matter what his and Sansa's feelings were about the matter. It was quite a clever technique he'd developed, he thought, and then flushed when he imagined Sansa's raised eyebrow at his immodesty.

Each time, he'd taken a lesser lord and his best men, who only really needed to keep their mouths shut until they left the keep. After that, they would not be able to tell anyone that their king rode an enormous white dragon, and any communication would depend on their access to paper, ink, and ravens. And people who could read and write.

The plan, every time, was simple. They waited for nightfall, and then Jon and Viserion would fly around the castle, checking for particularly alert guards. None of them ever looked up, and Viserion, who was treating this as a game, was very quiet on those flights. Jon would land, creep down to the courtyard, and open the front gate. His men would steal inside, incapacitate the guards who were still awake, and tell the Castellan that the castle had been taken. Jon always left strict instructions – no bloodshed, no reprisals, nothing was to be done to the women or children. He hadn't needed Sansa's impassioned speeches to think of that himself. He'd only needed memories of Craster's Keep, and the horrors therein.

He'd promised to be back to check on matters, and he'd promised some reprisals of his own if his orders weren't followed to the letter.

It was only in the Dreadfort that there was any fighting – how he wished he could destroy that place of ill-omen. But of course, while sneaking down from the battlements, he'd caught the eye of one drunken guardsman looking for a place to piss. Before he knew it, he'd been fighting half a dozen, and he had to order Viserion to torch the main gate so that his men could enter. The next morning, as he supervised the last loyal Bolton men being flung on a heap to be burned, he found himself not regretting what had occurred. Throwing the banners of the flayed man on top of the heap, he felt that the last of the Bolton poison was being purged from the North.

There were no Boltons left in the Dreadfort, not even minor ones. The castellan had died in the short battle, and only very young soldiers and servants remained. Jon had them led outside the battlements, and they watched as the Bolton banners and men were set aflame by the first dragon they'd ever seen.

When Jon turned to them, they knelt. The hill-lord he'd taken with him was to be their new lord. Jon had only demanded that the dungeons and torture chambers would be cleared out, never to be used again – otherwise, the newly elevated lord was free to rule as he saw fit, but fairly.

At the end of the second week after Brienne's departure, Jon felt himself becoming restless and irritable. He felt like there was something he was missing, like he was already too late. After a few days of this, he came to a conclusion: he would leave now for the Twins. Sansa, Ser Davos and Tormund were left holding the reins of the castle, and he promised he'd return as soon as he could.

It took him two days, almost, to reach the Green Fork of the Trident. He was not interested in tiring the dragon out, so he made sure Viserion had enough to drink, and had eaten before they set out. But soon, too soon almost, the two castles which made up the Twins came into sight, and he bid the dragon fly lower.

The situation was worse than he had imagined. The Lannister army was encamped in front of the castles, and at first he could not see Brienne and Podrick. When he finally spotted them, he was filled with fury. They were on horseback, together with Jaime Lannister, but Brienne and Podrick were shackled. Jon should have listened to Tormund, who'd called Jaime the worst of the kneeler cunts – not only did he kill his king, Tormund had ranted, he'd fucked his sister!

Well, it ended now, Jon thought, and told the dragon to be as loud as he liked, as he wheeled around the encampment. As Viserion's screeches filled the air, Jon almost wanted one of the soldiers to nock an arrow, or aim a spear in his direction. Let them try him, he thought. Many shocked faces were upturned towards him, while Brienne just looked knowing. Podrick was awestruck, having been told of the dragon, but never having seen him.

On one of his last wheeling circles over the camp, Jon spotted a group of what looked like Northerners, hidden in a nearby copse. One stood up, and waved her bow in the prearranged signal – he nodded, and signed for her to wait.

As Jon urged Viserion towards the larger of the two castles, he spotted a group of men leaning over the battlements. Those must be the lesser Freys, he thought. Where was Walder? Where were his sons? Viserion hovered over the castle, flapping his great wings, and Jon decided that it was time to end this.

"I am Jon Snow! I am the King in the North! I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and I demand you surrender the castle! I demand you surrender Lord Tully!" If he'd expected the Freys to be impressed by his words, he'd have been disappointed.

"You bloody Northern bastard – you're no king of mine!" The man who spoke must have been one of Walder's many grandchildren, all called Walder, to honour him, or to curry favour. He spat to the side. "Edmure Tully, the greatest fool in the Riverlands, will stay in our cells, and hang for the murder of Walder Frey, the best lord who ever lived." The Frey gave him a toothless grin. "We know who you are, Stark bastard! We killed your kin, bastard, and we'll kill you too!"

At that, the other Frey nodded at one of the soldiers, who loosed a wobbly arrow in Jon's direction. Viserion easily batted it aside with one great claw, and Jon could feel the anger rising in the dragon's chest, because it was growing in his own. Very well. If that was the way, then that was the way. He stared at the men on the wall, making sure he only fixed his gaze on the Freys and the men defending them.

Jon did not shout, or raise his voice unduly when he spoke. He said it, quietly, loud enough for the men on the wall to hear, but not anyone else. "Dracarys."