Chapter Text
§§§§§§§§§§§§§
Forever, and ever
The scars will remain
I'm falling apart
Leave me here forever in the dark
Give Me A Sign by Breaking Benjamin
~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fire was crackling in the hearth, casting shadows on the dark walls, throwing out a feeble warmth in defense of the cold. It didn’t reach Jon from where he sat, staring into the flames, despite every instinct warning him against it. Night blindness could catch a man unawares, get a man killed.
It almost made him chuckle, as if that would get a man killed. No, trying to keep thousands of people from being slaughtered would.
He was hollowed out inside, empty like a corn husk, void of any substance. He could remember the words For The Watch, the feeling of a knife sliding through skin, slick as through butter, sharp as Longclaw. Looking up at the black of night, the sound of Ghost trying to rattle to door off its hinges. Then….
Ghost nudged his hand, bringing him back into the moment, the snapping of the fire, the sound of his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Feeling the burn of anger inside his chest. The thoughts in his head were a jumbled mess, tangled together like threads of yarn. Hopelessly knotted. Maybe it was better to throw it away and start anew.
“Jon?”
His attention snapped to the older man sitting by the fire. Ser Davos was watching carefully, as if he half expected Jon to fall over dead again. Jon half expected it also, to be truthful.
“What next?”
It was an endless question, reaching out forever, what next , and he did not know. Before, he had the Watch to fall back on, but now he was adrift, his family all dead or hostage, what was supposed to be his family, his chosen brothers had killed him.
He was alone and it was terrifying.
“I don’t know.”
And that was not entirely the truth. He did know. He wanted to run feral through Castle Black, he wanted to maim men, run them down and sink his fangs into… Jon shook his head, trying to displace his thoughts, looking down at Ghost.
He had told Ser Davos that he remembered nothing, that it was a void of black, but that had not been the complete truth. It had been a nothingness, a void, no gods in the afterlife as everyone told themselves. But it had also been more than just that, like one of his wolf dreams, seeing himself laid out on the table, watching Melisandre perform her ritual. Feeling the anger feed through him, but it wasn’t the same anger that flowed through him as a man, no, it was wild, no rational thought of right or wrong. It was the basic needs to protect, to kill and it almost frightened him.
Almost.
Except, he had been betrayed and murdered and somehow seen it all through the eyes of his direwolf. And he was not sure if he had seen it or if it was a memory he pulled from Ghost. Either way, it made him feel different, unbalanced as if he was standing at the edge of a bottomless abyss, contemplating the decision to jump. He had carried out his justice, exacted his revenge and was still restless, ready to crawl out of his skin at any given provocative.
“Are you staying here then?”
Jon snapped his gaze up, fighting the beast inside of him that was hackled up, teeth snarling in self defense. “I don’t know. I know I cannot, not after what happened, but I’m not sure where to go.”
The confession lifted a slight weight off his chest and he took a deep breath, grateful for the sensation of filling his lungs. Where does one go after he is no longer part of the Watch? His shoulders felt lighter without the heavy clock of leadership adorning them, but he also felt exposed, all of his soft spots vulnerable.
“I don’t think I will either.” Ser Davos gave an understanding look. “I suppose I can go home now, see if it is still there. You’re welcome to come with me.”
The offer was appreciated, soothing some of his rough edges even though he wasn’t sure if it was something he could do. No, he knew it wasn’t something he could not do. “Thank you. I will think about it.”
They were both aware that it was not an option.
“Or if you’re planning on anything else I might be stayin’ for the duration of it.”
Knuckles cracked at he flexed his fingers, absently noted the scars adorning the skin stretched tight and he heaved a sigh. He knew what needed to be done. He was no longer sure he had it in him. “The Night King is comin’. That hasn’t changed.”
“No, I suppose not. So what are we going to do about it?”
The we was something that blossomed in his chest, something that felt close to hope, but he pushed that away, shoving it back down behind the despair. It did no good to get one’s hopes up. Things like that would get a man killed.
“Right now I don’t know.” He blew out another frustrated breath. He’d need to talk with Edd, to Tormund, knew that even with the Freefolk, it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. Looking up he tried to give Davos a small smile, reassure the man that he hadn’t gone completely numb to it all. “Come up with a new strategy?”
“Easy as that then?”
His laugh was a dry and brittle sound, ready to turn to dust and blow away with the wind. How do you stop an army of dead men? “Aye, as easy as that.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You should still be wearin’ this.”
Edd’s voice pulled him out of his endless stare of the overwhelming number of books on the shelves in the library. He needed to see if any held any sort of information that might help and he was not sure where to start. Sam was better at this but he had sent Sam off. Davos had offered, taken an armful back up to his room with the warning that he was slow reader.
“No I shouldn’t.”
“You’re the better man for this.”
The sharp taste of anger, of betrayal, sitting on his tongue. The sharp ringing of Longclaw pulling free of the scabbard. The creaking of ropes twisting tight. The gurgling of dying men. A dying boy.
“I think we were proven otherwise.” The wounds on his chest gave a throb to remind him of that, taunting him cruelly. As if he was in danger of forgetting it.
A rustle of fabric and the shift of wind alerted them to another presence. Jon felt another tangle of emotions he did not want to examine when Melisandre stepped through the door.”
“Lord Commander.”
Edd’s eyebrows raised at the Red Woman’s tone. She managed to make it a greeting and a dismissal and unease crawling down the back of Jon’s neck as Edd stood, nodding his understanding.
The breath left his lungs with the departure of the Lord Commander and he fought the urge to fidget like a child at their lessons. There was a movement from his side then the large head of Ghost was pushing into his hand. He curled his fingers into the shaggy fur, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. The Direwolf was reluctant to leave his side as of late and Jon had no qualms about the giant white shadow at his back.
“Hiding is unlike you Jon Snow.” She settled into a chair across the table, a finger trailing down the cracked binding.
“And how do you know what I am like, or unlike?” The smile was forced, not friendly and his face felt like it would crack with the effort.
“Don’t act coy. You know who you are even if you are pretending it’s not there. You have a role to play in the Great War. You cannot hide from it.”
There was an ache in his jaw from clenching it so tightly, the words forced out from behind his teeth. “I am not hiding.”
The blue eyes narrowed at him. “You have a duty-“
“What if I don’t want this duty? Nobody asked me about it. And yet, I’ve been chosen?” The rage was bitter in his mouth, coating his tongue with a burn. He was exhausted, mind and body, tired of fighting, of the feeling of having to watch his back, of not knowing who to trust. Of having everyone looking to him to figure it all out.
He’d almost found escape of it. The blackness that could consume him could be a relief from all of this. It would no longer be his problem to solve, let the rest of the world sort it out. He gave brief pause to the thought of leaving this desolate land, boarding a ship, visiting the lawless lands across the Narrow Sea, letting this place fend for itself.
“The Lord Of Light is not done with you yet Jon Snow.”
The steady tone of the red witch was the feeling of nettles in his skin, digging in with a bite, grating and chafing. “What does he want with me? Tell me that.”
The sigh she let out he could almost feel, even across the expanse of scarred and well used wood.
“I cannot see that clearly, but you are important. As is another. You are ice Jon Snow and your counterpart is fire.”
“What does that mean?” It was like trying looking at the bottom of a stream that someone had walked through, stirred up with mud and silt, not leaving a clear view.
“You ask too many questions.”
“You don’t give enough answers.”
It was a silent standoff, his fingers curling with agitation at her almost amused look. As if this was some jest instead of lives being at stake.
She broke first, standing and smoothing down her robe. “You will soon have answers. And you may find that you did not want them.”
With that cryptic parting blow she left, closing the door behind her and Jon took a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill and hold the air before letting it go, trying to relax along with it.
Her words left a cold chill in his gut. Trying to ignore it, he picked up a book, opened it up, stared blankly at the page while his mind tried to decipher the puzzle of her words.
Ice and fire.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was an ache behind his eyes, the throbbing in his head not lessening with another cup of ale. He tossed a bit of bread at Ghost, lips twitching as it was devoured without tasting it and then the look of betrayal from the red eyes at it not being a strip of meat from his plate.
He should have dined with the rest, but could not bear the weight of all their eyes on him, the unspoken questions sitting on their tongues. His appetite was sparse as it was, the staring made him lose it all together.
The quiet was ruined with a knock at the door, hesitant and muffled. Out of reflex, Jon grabbed for Longclaw, muscles tightening in defense. “Who is it?”
Instead of Davos or Edd like he expected, there was the timid voice of one of the Watch’s newest members. An orphan, like Olly.
“There is a man here to see you. A Lord Reed.”
Jon shook his head trying to clear it of any residual prejudice against young Kevan, he was not Olly and instead concentrated on the name of his visitor.
Lord Reed?
It was there, a tickle in his mind, the familiarity of the name just out of his grasp. Belatedly he realized he was still staring at the closed door and sheathed Longclaw, reassured by the sound of it sliding back into leather. Ghost raised his head up in curiosity but deeming the visitor a non threat, dropping back to the floor.
He opened the door to the wide eyes of the boy and a man he did not know. The man was small and wiry, looking agile and adept even with his age, which Jon guessed to be close to his father’s. What his father’s would be, if still he were alive. The look of the man did not spark any remembrance.
“You are Jon Snow?”
The man was peering at him, as if he already knew him and instead of bristling at it, he was just more confused by it.
“Yes.”
The cold wind was blowing again, pushing it’s way through the open door. Jon hardly felt it, long frozen in this desolate place but noticed the shivers running through the two in front of him. “Forgive my manners. Thank you Kevan. Come back in a bit. Lord Reed, please come in.”
Closing the door again, Jon motioned to a chair, taking his own back. Ghost finally stirred enough to sniff the man’s boots before rolling his eyes to Jon and yawning.
“Should have known a Stark would have a Direwolf at his feet.”
Jon snapped his gaze up from Ghost to the man sitting there, the unwelcome jealousy crawling back up to settle around him at the mention of the name. “I’m not a Stark.”
“Oh but you are, boy.” The man leaned forward, again studying Jon’s features. “I’m Howland Reed. I knew Ned Stark from the time we were young boys.”
The Rebellion. Howland Reed had accompanied his father to try and rescue Lyanna Stark.
A foreboding wave came over him, taking him off balance, leaving him unsettled in its wake. “My father spoke of you, on the rare occasions he ever spoke of the Rebellion.”
The man gave a small sad smile. “Ned was a dear friend.”
Jon sat in silence, trying to come up with one reason a man from the Neck would be at the Wall. Lord Reed seemed to be content to let him ponder until he couldn’t take the silence. “It is always nice to meet someone who knew my father, but I must admit, I’m not sure why you are here?”
The man seemed to hesitate as if looking for the words to say and another layer of apprehension settled around him, mouth going dry with the weight of it in his chest.
“I have something for you from your brother.”
The words were like a sharp slap, the sting of loss suddenly thrown back at him and he struggled against it, his reawakened heart pounding madly. “My brother is dead.” His voice cracked, hoarse and broken.
“I am so sorry for all of your loss. I truly am.” Reed reached into his jacket, pulling out rolled parchment with the Stark sigil pressed into the wax. “And there is no easy way to do this. I received this after his death.”
The air left him in a rush, leaving him gasping as it was pressed to his hand. “Do you know what it is?”
“Yes. But I advise you to open it and confirm what I know.”
Trembling hands broke the seal, tears springing up at the sight of Robb’s familiar handwriting, thrown viciously into the memory of them as children, taking their lessons, trying to hurry through bookwork so they could race each other outside for their lessons with Ser Rodrik.
Trying to wipe at his eyes discreetly, Jon read the words, disbelief coursing through his veins, abused heart skipping at the volley of information. He read it again, trying to absorbed it all before he looked back up.
“Robb made me his heir?”
“So it seems.”
A strangled sound left his throat, his hand rubbing over his face as he tried to make sense of it all. “What do I do with this?”
“I am confident that you’ll figure that out.”
Jon was not sure how many times his heart could break, how many times he could recover from it, but felt the pain return to settle there, overwhelming on his already raw sense.
“I have more to tell you, I believe, if you can bear it?”
No.
He wanted to throw the man out, lick his wounds in private, but instead he found himself nodding, voice having left.
“What did Ned tell you about your mother?”
That look was back on Reed’s face and Jon felt his hackles rise up, that ache in his chest that had sat dormant, never completely going away, pulsing inside of him. He bared his teeth in a snarl, Ghost rolling up and alert. “What kind of trick is this? My father never said anything about my mother.”
“Ned loved your mother, very much.”
“Really?” His word was colored by the hostility he was feeling. How much of this was he supposed to take before he broke under the burden of it? “He loved her so much that he never spoke a word of her to anyone?”
“Yes. She made him promise to keep you safe. And he did.”
“Safe from what?” The pounding returning in his head. “ I feel like we are just speakin’ in riddles here.”
“At the end of the rebellion, Ned learned that his sister Lyanna was in Dorne and we rode to get her. When we arrived we found the Kingsguard there, Rhaegar’s very best knights were sitting in door while their king had been dying somewhere else.”
“I’m not sure why you are tellin’ me this. It is known that he brought Lyanna’s body back north with him.” But the thread of presage was building through him at Reed’s words. Because if the man was telling him this now, then maybe Ned Stark had kept a bigger secret. And Jon was not sure if he wanted to know it.
“I’m telling you this because you need to hear it. And I might be the only one left who knows the truth of it. What Ned found in that tower was his sister dying from childbirth. She made him promise to keep her son safe, her’s and Rhaegar’s.”
No, don’t tell me this. Do not say it. Jon could feel the bile rise in the back of his throat, a panic settling deep within him and he fought the urge to cover his ears, block out the man’s voice.
“So he took that boy home, gave him a different name and raised him as his own.”
I am not Ned Stark son. The realization was like a blow to the face. Like another knife to the chest. Something to send him back into the black abyss of nothing. Everything I know is a lie. He grasped at the edges of himself, trying valiantly to hold himself together, latched onto the least important detail. “So I’m Sand, not Snow.”
It was not a question, just the stunning realization of everything he knew was a lie. Ned Stark had lied to him. He was not even born of the north.
“No.”
Howland Reed’s voice broke him out of his dark spiral and he looked up in surprise, unsettled that he could even be more surprised than he was. His anger rising at the man who was currently dismantling everything he’d ever known. “Everyone knows that Rhaegar Targaryen stole Lyanna Stark and if I was born of that.” Something inside of him numbed at the thought. “Born in Dorne, then I’m a Sand.”
“No. Ned told me what happened as we left. They were married. She ran away with him. You are a true born Targaryen.”
The air left him in a hurry, leaving him dizzy, off balance. He took a gasping breath, then another trying to regain some semblance of control. “This cannot be true.”
“But it is. I wish he had given you the truth of it, but he could not. Your life depended on it. Robert Baratheon would have had you murdered in your crib and Ned Stark’s love for his sister was too great for that. He gave his word to her.”
“And he let me come up here to rot.” There was a bitterness coating the inside of his mouth, a resentful wall building against any good memories he had of the man he thought his father. A part of him understood, deep down where his sanity had retreated, understood that he would have died without Ned’s greatest secret, biggest lie. But a violent reaction was building inside of him, waiting to snap, to dismantle anything in his path. He curled his fingers into his palms.
“I cannot speak on his decision for that, but he loved your mother and he loved you. That is all I know.”
The muddle of information was making his wits slow, like slogging through mud as he tried to lay out the information, to make sense of it instead of hiding from it. “You’re lyin’. Rhaegar already had a wife.”
“Annulled and remarried. There is record of it all if someone spent the time to find it.”
“Is that even allowed?” His hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers pushing in where he could feel the knots of tension. He was strung tight as a rope, as a noose. The morbid thought almost had him chuckling in madness. Maybe he really was a Targaryen .
“It was. Apparently. Ned got bits and pieces from Lyanna and the rest of the information from her handmaiden. And I’m sure I don’t have it all and I’m sorry for that.”
His laugh was humorless. “Why? You’ve already told me more than my fa-, then Ned Stark ever did.”
“He wanted you safe Jon. Safe from Robert Baratheon’s wrath.”
He was floundering in icy water, chest paralyzed with the cold of truth, drowning in the lie he had believed all his life. “I think I need a few moments please.”
Lord Reed stood, a look of sorrow across the man’s face. “Of course. I am sorry that I was the one to give you all this. Please, if you need anymore information or just have questions, come and get me. But for now I’m going to go find supper and a bed.”
Jon forced himself to stand and open the door, call out to young Kevan and ask him to show Howland Reed to his chamber, make sure he was fed.
Once the footsteps faded away, he threw his fist out, letting it collect solidly with the thick wood, the pain reverberating up his arm, dulling the pain in his chest.
Ghost came up to him, leaning into his side, the heavy weight of the wolf keeping him from falling apart as he pressed his forehead into the door.
How was this possible?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who was he?
The question kept circling around in his mind. A cruel familiar taunt, but now even more complex. What he thought he knew was wrong, everything was wrong.
The fact that Robb had decreed him to be King in the North was hardly even crossing his thoughts, instead sitting behind the turmoil of other revaluations, his mind was whirling like a strong cold wind, twisting and turning, chilling him down to the marrow of his bones.
He pressed his fingers to his eyes, in hopes of relieving the ache that had taken up residence there. This new knowledge was an overload to his already taxed mind. The rage living inside of him leaving him drained of energy. He needed to concentrate on the Army of the Dead, not be caught up in the turmoil of being a secret Targaryen prince.
Gods, a Targaryen. It was hard to believe since he lacked their features. He had been told so many times as a boy how he had the Stark features. He thought wistfully for a moment of Maester Aemon. The man would have been what, a Great Uncle? Great Great? He shook his head, it mattered not, though the old man would have probably enjoyed the knowledge of it.
But that did not matter now, because now he needed to figure out what to do. He did not have the time to dwell on the fact the man he thought was his father, had lied to him, could not focus on the feeling of betrayal. No. Now he needed to figure out what to do, figure out how to fight the war to come. And what to do about Winterfell? He was named heir by his brother… cousin... Would retaking Winterfell help them in the Great War? Could it provide sanctuary for those who would need it? Would it help ease the rage inside?
He lay back against his pillows, rubbing a hand over his face, ignoring the rock of despair sitting in his gut. Pretended that anger didn’t boil in his veins. How could he alone, convince everyone that there was a more pressing matter than a Lannister on the Iron Throne? Most of Westeros would never believe him. And he needed more people.
From the dark crevices of his memory, Maester Aemon’s voice spoke. It was something that the old Maester had said to Sam as he had came through the door. He had heard it and dismissed it because at the time it was not important. It did not apply to him or what he was doing.
But now?
A Targaryen alone is a terrible thing .
Maester Aemon had been talking about Daenerys Targaryen, who would be his Aunt, close to his age if he remembered the stories correctly. Again, it was a detail not important, but what was important was the fact she had three dragons.
He remembered standing on top of that wall, looking down at Mance’s army and wishing for a dragon. Or three . He would think the Gods to be full of tricks, cruel jesters, if he knew there weren’t any Gods, that he might have just had a solution to their problems dropped into his lap.
Dragons could help him win the Great War. Dragons could change everything.
From within his jumbled thoughts an idea took root, fed by his anger and despair, growing like a fed flame as he thought it out. It was certainly a mad plan, but mad enough it could work.
He sat up, lighting a candle and crossed, bare chested, scars on display as if to say, look, look what happens when you try to do the right thing , to the table in his room. He needed to get a raven to Sam.
He needed to find out if this was the truth.
~~~~~~~~~~
Howland Reed was saddling a small hardy sorrel when Jon found him the next morning, after a long restless night. He felt the clutch of betrayal, the man shoving all this information at him and then leaving without another word?
“Jon.”
The man had spotted him and called out, face creased, haggard from the lack of sleep. Jon was sure he looked no better.
“You are leaving?” It sounded like an accusation, like he was hurt by it and Jon cleared his throat, trying to get a grasp on himself.
“Not going far. I was going to see if anyone had word of my children. They came this way.”
“I didn’t know.” Thrown off balance and confused, trying not to lash out at the man undeserving of his wrath, he raised his chin stubbornly. “Do you have time to spare?”
“Yes.”
Lord Reed’s voice was gentle and Jon felt a shuddering in his chest, feeling like like his armor was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Turning silently he strode across the wet muck of snow and mud, ignoring those who watched him, leading the way back to the library.
Jon waited until Howland Reed settles into a chair, peeking around the corners to make sure they were truly alone and made himself sit down, even though he was spooky as an unbroken horse.
“Lord Reed, while revisiting the information you gave me last night, a thought occurred to me. This decree was written by Robb, my brother-“ because he was. Even with the truth coating him, Jon could never think of Robb as anything but his brother. “and he died some time ago.” The thought of it ripped another hole in his chest, sore and weeping with the agony of it, a fresh wave brought on by the new knowledge of his lineage.
“I received it after your brother’s murder. And then, I did not quite know what to do with it. I ask forgiveness for that, but you were here. But knowing your true parentage paired with this information, you needed this information… Do you realize that you’re the heir to the Iron Throne?”
“I am not.” The words snapped out of him, other coating of red anger around him. “It no longer belongs to the Targaryen’s.” It was hard to wrap his tongue around that name, even more so when it now included him .
“I think that you should at least consider Winterfell. It’s not right that it is no longer under a Stark.”
“I am not a Stark.”
“You are just as much Stark as anything else.” The pause was thick. “You look like her.”
“Who?” A stupid question, he knew exactly whom Lord Reed was referring. He did not want to admit the small thrill it gave him to finally know, because the thrill seemed unfit a reaction for the situation.
“She was wild and stubborn. Courageous. I listened to stories last night Jon and it seems like you might have some of her nature in you.”
Tears stung his eyes, confusion with trying to sort out it all out. He had always wanted to know and now that he did, he partly wished that he was still ignorant. He could barely make out the shape of the other man when he stood, patting Jon’s hand.
“I’ll leave you be.”
Jon sat there, frozen to the spot, rumpling Ghost’s ears when the Direwolf placed his head in his lap.
“Jon.”
He looked back up.
“She named you Aegon.”
Another knife in his heart, a twist, black fury clouding his vision. Jon. Aegon. Snow. Stark. Targaryen. Did it matter? He was lost and adrift, everything that had been built by Ned Stark crumbling like an old stone house.
He could do nothing but sit in the chair, listening to the bustling of men going on with their day trying to overcome the emotions running wild, trying to look past it to focus on the imminent threat. Letting himself build on the thought in his head.
When Ser Davos made an appearance, a book under his arm, Jon barely restrained himself from speaking until the older man sat down across from him. He needed to get the weight off of him before he buckled under the strain.
“I might have a plan.”
“Let’s hear it.”
The man I thought was my father isn’t my father. My parent’s started a Rebellion. I have an exiled family member I never knew of and she might be able to help us. It’s a terrible plan. It’s mad and it might be the only thing that works.
“I’m going to Essos.”
“What was that?” Davos’ tone was that of disbelief.
“I am going to Essos to find Daenerys Targaryen. We need an army. She has one. She has one that is not currently preoccupied with squabbling over houses and thrones.”
“Why would she help you?”
He handed over the scroll, the lump in his throat, the burn of loss, of guilt and watched Ser Davos unroll it, read the contents. The man paused to look up at Jon, surprise clearly written across his features.
“That is why she’ll help me. I’ll forge an alliance. She helps me take back Winterfell, we’ll back her for the Iron Throne. Then, united we will fight the Army of the Dead.”
“You know nothing about her and you are going to sail across the Narrow Sea and ask for help?”
“I’ve heard Sam talkin’ about her. Freein’ slaves isn’t nothin” He could feel resolve tightening his muscles.
“This is madness.”
“Maybe I’m feelin’ a bit mad.” He flexed his fingers, making a fist, watching the scabs break back open, feeling the ire under his skin. “What else am I goin’ to do? We don’t have the numbers to even take back the North, let alone fight the undead. Is it a terrible plan? Yes. Do I have any other ideas? No.”
“Do you think the North will rally behind the Targaryen name?”
“When the Dead show up, names won’t matter. Stayin’ alive will be our only concern. And to do that I think we need Daenerys Targaryen.”
“I don’t understand why you’re not going to just try and take Winterfell, why you wouldn’t just ask the Northern Houses for help? You know there are Houses that will support you. House Mormont for one, so why do you need Daenerys Targaryen?”
“Remember she said Stark. I am-“ his voice, his words faltered for a moment, the lie getting stuck behind his teeth. “my father’s bastard son. My last name is Snow, not Stark. I don’t know how many others of the North will come to my aide. How many are still loyal to the Stark’s, let alone a Snow? Winterfell will hold against three times the numbers I can get. I need more men and she needs alliances in Westeros. I need to try and persuade her to fight with us.”
“And you think your name being Snow is what matters to them? Your brother named you his heir.”
“Aye. And some of his men betrayed him. I owe it to him, to my family to take it back. But more importantly we need allies. I don’t know if or when Daenerys Targaryen plans on sailing for Westeros, so I need to go to her."
Davos sat back with a sigh and Jon could feel the man’s gaze weighing his, trying to get insight on what was going on in his head. Jon wished he could explain it, wanted to sort through it, try and see past the hurt, the fury that was scorching his insides, that his whole life had been a lie and try to understand why he had the desire to flee to the sand and find his new relative. He buried it down deep again, feeling more than a little unhinged.
“You wouldn’t take this offer from Stannis.”
“Stannis wasn’t my brother.” Cousin . The word flew into his head and he squashed the thought right then. Brother. The whiplash of jarring thoughts almost making him nauseous. He almost confessed it all to Ser Davos right there, the overwhelming need to have it off his chest, but bit his tongue. This was not information to share, but something to keep close and guarded, like Ned Stark had for all those years.
“I don’t understand.”
Jon didn’t know how to put into words the ultimate rejection he would feel if those Houses turned him down, how he had the overwhelming need to step away from it all, see if his animosity, this disjointed feeling went away. He found himself with the utter lack of need to do the right thing. He needed to be inspired. Maybe she could do that for him.
“He asked me while I was a sworn brother and now I am no longer in the Watch.” Was everyone going to question him every step of the way? “And this is from my brother , so this is my plan.” He straightened his shoulders. “If you have a better one, please let us hear it.”
Davos ignored the sharp tone, a calculating look in his eye. “I think my smugglin’ days were easy than this.”
“There was a little less at stake.”
“Who else is going with us?”
There was a flood of gratitude at the man’s words. “I’m not expectin’ you to go with me.”
“You seem to have a knack for gettin’ into trouble by yourself.” Davos’ sigh was heavy and long. “I hope you or that wolf don’t get seasick. It’s going to be a terribly long journey.”