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Sometimes Jon forgets how cold the North is.
He doesn’t mind it though, not after all these years. It feels like a welcoming embrace, the cold snow on his cheeks and the frigid wind ruffling his hair. There’s nothing quite like the ice on the roads crunching under his horse's hooves or seeing the wisps of his breath curl up into the air.
He’s happy to be back. Well, not happy. He’s not too sure what happy means anymore. He’s seen too much and died too often, physically and emotionally, for him to really understand how he feels. He thinks he’s probably traumatised, got some of that battle fatigue that Davos talked about once or twice.
It doesn’t matter though. He’s left behind all of that. He’s turned his back on the South, on the Iron Throne, on Daenerys.
A part of him still bleeds for her, her name like a dagger through his heart. He thinks of Kings Landing though, the madness in her eyes, and he thinks that if he really loved her, it wouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter that Ygritte tried to kill him and destroy the Nights Watch. He doesn’t know if that’s different or not.
He’s already passed Winterfell. He should probably go in, see Sansa and Bran again. He’d be King in the North again. He thinks of Lyanna Mormont, braver and stronger than he’ll ever be. She believed in him, a total stranger, a Stark to her.
He’s not a Stark. He’s not a Targaryen either. He’s a Snow, and he’s okay with that. He never knew his mother, whether it was the supposed whore that Ned Stark lay with or Lyanna Stark who died on her death bed. He didn’t know Rhaegar Targaryen besides the stories, and the father he did know spent Jon’s entire life lying to him.
He’s not mad at Ned Stark. But he hasn’t quite brought himself around to forgiving him yet.
So he’s left Winterfell behind. Left his parents in their crypts under the city and left his sister or cousin, whatever she is, to lead them. She’s the best ruler they’ll ever get, he thinks. Sansa Stark has all the best qualities of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully, and some damn good ones she’s learnt herself along the way. No one will ever compare to her in leadership, not even Jon.
Castle Black isn’t too much further ahead, two days at most. Jon’s tempted to go Beyond the Wall. There’s no much there for him after all. Sam is in the capital now. Edd, Pyp, and Gren are all long dead. Jon has no attachment to the others that are now stationed there, he doesn’t even know who the 1000th Lord Commander is now. Whereas, beyond the Wall, there’s some of the Free Folk. There’s Ghost. There’s Tormund.
That makes Jon pause. Tormund. Jon misses him more than he ever expected. If he sees him, he’ll be called Little Crow. He’ll be tucked into Tormund’s side and never let go, and Tormund will be fierce in his guardianship of Jon. He’d be looked after, there’d always be room for him, Tormund already said himself.
And surprisingly, Jon’s heart stutters a little at the thought. The idea of being taken care of by someone who loves him, who will never demand things that Jon can’t deliver, who has no expectations of him and accepts him for who he is? It’s overwhelming, and Jon’s head spins at the thought and he leans over his saddle to press his face into his horse’s neck.
It takes those last two days for Jon to make his decision. He stares into the fire on his last night of travel and nearly laughs at the thought of Tormund being kissed by fire. He’s lucky he’s endearing, Jon thinks, or he probably would’ve been beheaded by now by someone.
Top of the list is probably Sandor Clegane and Brienne of Tarth. Unfortunately, one is dead and the other is preoccupied with her own Lannister idiot.
He’s to take the black as he came here to do. In a way it’s penance, he thinks. Becoming a nameless ranger again is what he deserves. Going north of the Wall to Tormund and Ghost? He’s never going to deserve that after what he’s done. All those people he saved from the Night King, only to subject them to dragon fire and death. He’s a failure. Tormund doesn’t deserve a failure.
The Wall comes into sight much quicker than Castle Black. Jon keeps his eyes on it as he approaches. He wonders if all the white walkers are gone now. The Night King is dead. There’s no way for them to exist, but Jon has been killed and brought back to life before. Anything is possible at this stage, but Jon hopes they are all gone. He just wants to rest, to stop fighting. He doesn’t know why everyone else won’t.
The gates are opened for him long before he even reaches them. It’s not surprising though. Most of them are new here, only a few old Night Watch members still alive, but they’re in the new age where there’s no worry from Free Folk or white walkers. They’re there more as tokens now than actual defenders. Most of them are down the way at Eastwatch anyway, trying to rebuild and figuring out a way to patch up the wall.
Jon thinks they should just tear the damn thing down. But the only way of doing that has long since flown off to God’s know where.
He raises his hand in greeting and acknowledgement as his horse trots through the gate. There are a few shouts and cries down the battlements that Jon ignores. Signals to the Lord Commander. He’s been on the receiving end of that a few times himself but it’s not pleasant remembering his short stint as Lord Commander. Alliser Thorne made damn well sure of that.
He dismounts in the middle of the yard and a fresh-faced recruit rushes up and takes the reins from Jon’s grip. There’s awe and recognition in his eyes as he stammers out a greeting that has the word King in it. Jon grits his teeth and waves him away. He came up here to avoid that bloody title. He doesn’t want it. Never has.
“Jon bloody Snow!”
It’s bellowed out across the yard, and if anyone wasn’t aware he was here then they sure as hell are now. Jon vaguely recognises the voice, having only met the man twice when he was in Eastwatch, once on the way through and once on the way back with a crate holding an undead in it, but he turns to see Cotter Pyke striding his way with the Lord Commander’s coat wrapped around his shoulders.
Jon gives the man a grim smile as he holds his hand out. Cotter grasps it with a grip tight enough to bruise, and he gives Jon a toothy grin back.
“What’ve we done for the pleasure of your company?” he asks. He seems genuinely happy to see him which surprises Jon. He’d have thought they’d have heard of his failures up this way by now. How Daenerys had razed Kings Landing to the ground and Jon did nothing to stop her.
“I’m here to take the black,” he announces, forcing his voice to be strong. He suddenly doesn’t want to be here. Maybe Castle Black was the wrong idea. Maybe he should’ve just disappeared into the wilderness and just not come back. Looking at these people who admire him is suffocating. He doesn’t deserve praise. He deserves their condemnation.
To his credit, Cotter doesn’t even blink. Instead, he lets Jon go and beckons for him to follow. Jon doesn’t resist, he just falls in behind Cotter and tracks the familiar path up to the dining hall of Castle Black. The place is a bit broke, but there are builders everywhere that are fixing the broken railings and torn upstairs. Jon doesn’t remember leaving the place like this, but Edd had mentioned they’d been attacked and very few survived. The ones further down the way at Shadow Tower were the luckiest.
The dining hall is a welcoming warmth and Jon pulls away to head towards the fire. He hadn’t realised how cold he was, his hands nearly blue and definitely numb. He nearly sticks them directly into the flames to warm them up.
“So,” Cotter calls from behind him and Jon glances over his shoulder. Cotter’s older than him, nearly the same age that Ned Stark would’ve been had he been alive. His hair is long, a mix of dark and white where it sits in a ponytail on his head, he’s got crows feet at his eyes and there’s a large scar running down his face. It’s fresh. Maybe caused by the undead?
“So,” Jon repeats when Cotter doesn’t progress. He turns his back to the flames but moves his hands to settle on his lower back. There is a pins and needles feeling creeping over his fingers, but at least he’s getting feeling back.
“What makes you want to take the black again?” Cotter asks, tilting his head to the side. “Last time, it didn’t end so well for you.”
There must be some older members of the watch here if Cotter knows that. Jon knows that Edd wasn’t the only one to make it out, but he hadn’t been able to account for many of the others. There’d been a war on. He’d struggled to remember anyone.
“You know about that?”
Cotter snorts and shakes his head. “I accompanied a fan of yours as I headed back up this way,” he says. “A certain red-headed wildling? Sings your damn praises enough. My Maester, Sputter, thinks he’s got a bit of a crush on you.”
It can only be Tormund, and Jon drops his gaze and stares at the cracks on the paved ground. He wonders what Tormund thinks of him now after the sacking of Kings Landing. There’s probably no praises for him anymore.
“I need to atone,” Jon ends up saying after a long silence. He glances up to see Cotter looking back with raised eyebrows. “For the things I’ve done-“
“Like save us from the Night King?” Cotter interrupts. “Pretty sure we should all be thanking you for that.”
Jon shakes his head. “For saving you then subjecting you to...” He trails off. He just can’t find the words as they wrap around his tongue and hold it tight. He doesn’t need to close his eyes to see the memory of Kings Landing burning. He can still taste ash and smell burnt flesh. It makes his hands tremble and he grips them together as tightly as he can.
Cotter sighs. “What happened at Kings Landing wasn’t your fault,” he says, surprisingly gentle for such a beast of a man. He reminds Jon a little of Sandor Clegane. “You could never have known that Daenerys Targaryen would lose her mind and devastate the city.”
“I should’ve known,” Jon snaps though. He is at fault. He should’ve prevented Daenerys from going to Kings Landing, from making the strategic mistake. Sansa warned them, told them their armies needed rest, but he didn’t listen. He was too scared to listen.
“Based on what?” Cotter asks. “Based on her lineage? Based on that stupid coin-tossing theory the damn Lannister’s came up with years ago?”
Jon grits his teeth. “I’m a Targaryen too,” he points out, frustrated that only Daenerys gets accused of being mad because of it and not him also. “Or has the news not travelled this way yet?”
Cotter snorts. “News travels fast, but news like that travels faster,” he says. “But you’re not a Targaryen. You’re a Stark.”
“My father was Rhaegar Targaryen,” Jon protests, and Cotter waves him off.
“And your mother was Lyanna Stark,” he finishes. “You’re a Stark, boy. You have Stark in you. Daenerys Targaryen’s parents were brother and sister. The Lannister boys, Joffrey and Tommen, their parents were brother and sister too. Insanity runs in incest.”
Jon blinks at him stupidly. “How do you...” he starts to say, but Cotter laughs.
“Anyone who knows a Baratheon knows they’re dark-haired,” he says with a wicked grin. “And anyone who knows a Lannister knows they’re yellow-haired. It doesn’t take a genius.” He laughs again before he shakes his head. “Incest or not, Jon, she was going to go mad one way or another. I’ve heard the rumours from Essos. We’ve all known what she’s capable of. Not to mention the poor girl undoubtedly had the battle fatigue business going on after what she’d been through.”
Jon frowns. He didn’t think that battle fatigue would be a popular term, especially not this far up in the North. He’s only heard it once or twice himself, whispered amongst his men and mentioned by Davos. Cotter must catch his frown though as he shrugs.
“Your man, Seaworth was it?” he asks, and Jon nods his head slowly. Of course, it was Davos. “He saw us off at the gates when we left. Explained a bit about that madness and pointed out a few boys to watch.” Cotter’s face turns dark. “He was right. Had to put a few out of their misery on the way up here.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon apologises, feeling worse and worse by the second. He shouldn’t have come here. There are not many places in Westeros that Jon will be able to settle in, and he’s just realising that Castle Black will never be on that list.
“Stop brooding,” Cotter demands. He gets up and moves to stand in front of Jon, gripping Jon’s shoulders tightly. “Beating yourself up over all of this nonsense and taking it as a personal failure helps no one. Especially yourself.” He gives Jon a small shake. “I’m probably not the right person to be talking to but there is your-“
He’s cut off by the door squeaking open a small boy poking his head through. He reminds Jon of Olly, as if that doesn’t send a pang through his body.
“Sorry, sir,” the boy says, his voice slightly squeaky. Jon wonders how old he is. “But he wouldn’t stop scratching at the door and Sputter said to let him in and-“
He’s cut off by the door being pushed open even wider and Jon’s knees damn near buckle as Ghost shoves past the boy to burst into the room. In only a few quick steps, Ghost is at Jon’s side and Jon doesn’t hesitate in dropping to the ground and shoving his face into Ghost’s neck.
His fur is soft but smells like a mix of smoke and damp fur. Jon’s nose wrinkles in disgust, but it’s overridden by the sheer joy he feels at being reunited. Last time he’d seen Ghost was when he left Winterfell and he’d not said goodbye. He couldn’t have. The pain in his chest that'd arrived at the very notion stopped him from trekking across that small space to wrap his hands in Ghost’s fur, and he knows that if he had then he never would’ve gone South with Daenerys. He would’ve wanted to stay in Winterfell, stay home, stay and just be Jon damn Snow.
“You’ve seen better days, huh, boy?” he murmurs into Ghost’s neck before he pulls back. He’s ashamed to feel tears prickling his eyes and he wipes them away before they fall. Ghost looks grim with half an ear missing, claw marks over his body, and deep gouge marks on his face. Fur won’t grow back in those patches, just thick scars. Jon shakes his head. “You’ve sacrificed too much.”
For once, Jon wishes that Ghost wasn’t silent, that he could at the very least whine or growl, vocalise something. Instead, he just watches Jon with those big soulful eyes, but he does bump his nose into Jon’s chin after a moment and Jon smiles at him.
“None of the boys have ever seen a Direwolf, you know,” Cotter suddenly says, breaking the moment. Jon leaves his hands buried in Ghost’s coat as he glances up. “Imagine their surprise when they had one accompanying them up this way. A couple thought he was a pet, but that wildling of yours put them straight.”
Jon can see it. Tormund has always had a soft spot for Ghost. It’s why Jon entrusted him to the man.
He frowns. If Ghost is here, then... he wonders for a moment if Tormund is as well? But that can’t be. Tormund was leading the Free Folk back home beyond the Wall. It makes sense that Ghost would break off, always a lone Direwolf with a mind of his own, but Tormund staying at Castle Black?
His thoughts are answered though as he hears yelling outside the doors and he turns his gaze just in time to hear a loud “fuck off!” followed by the door nearly being smashed to smithereens as Tormund Giantsbane crashes through with all the grace of a damn elephant.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he bellows as he strides across the room with a ridiculously large grin on his face. “My little crow has finally arrived.”
Jon barely has time to stand up before Tormund crashes into him, his arms coming around to grip Jon tight, and Jon struggles to breathe for a moment as his face slams into Tormund’s chest and his furry coat nearly chokes the life out of him.
It takes a moment, but Jon lets go of Ghost to wrap his arms around Tormund and he grasps the man as tightly as he can. He smells just as bad as Ghost, worse even, and that nearly has Jon recoiling but he’s exactly what Jon needs right now. He needs this solidarity that Tormund can provide, and he squeezes his eyes shut as Tormund drops his chin on top of Jon’s head and huffs.
“You’re alright,” Tormund says. He must feel the small trembles wracking Jon’s body. “It’s over. It’s all over.”
Tormund’s not the best at consoling, never has been, but Jon thinks that the fact he’s trying is reassuring enough. He doesn’t care that Cotter is nearby and watching this. Jon’s been strong for too long. He just wants to be able to lean on someone else for a change and not have any damn consequences because of it.
“Bout time you got back from that cesspit,” Tormund growls in his ear. He doesn’t let go though, and Jon’s hands are sore where they grip Torment’s fur coat with white-knuckles. “You don’t belong in the South. You’ve got too much North in you, boy.”
Jon doesn’t know what to do. There are so many words bubbling in his throat that he feels like he’s going to choke on them. But Tormund’s hand is resting on the back of his head and his fingers are pressing down hard and Jon just feels safe.
For the first time in gods knows how long, he feels safe.
Eventually, they break apart when Cotter clears his throat obnoxiously loud. Jon doesn’t have to even give him a look though as Torment lets Jon go and whirls around to glare at the other man.
“Fuck off, Lord Crow, before I snap your bones and pick my teeth with them,” Torment snarls, and Jon blinks blankly for a moment. He’d forgotten how volatile Torment can be, but he feels a small wave of warmth at knowing that it’s in defence of him.
Going back years, and it would’ve been the opposite. He still remembers Tormund’s glare, arrows in his back, spittle flying as he’d been dragged up the steps of this very castle. I should’ve thrown you from the top of the wall, boy, he’d snarled with such ferocity that Jon is surprised he wasn’t struck dead from Tormund’s sheer will.
How they’ve grown.
“Tormund,” Jon calls as he reaches out to place a hand on Tormund’s elbow. “It’s fine.”
“Settle down, carrot top,” Cotter says with a roll of his eyes. He smiling though as he watches the two of them. “He’s been cantankerous for weeks now. Waiting for you at the gates like a love-sick tramp.”
Tormund starts to growl, a primal noise in his chest, but Jon squeezes his elbow as he tugs him back. “What do you mean waiting?” he asks. He’s confused. He hadn’t sent any sort of raven or messenger ahead to say he was coming?
“Your brother, the three-eyed pigeon-” Tormund starts to say, and Jon nearly bursts out laughing.
“Raven,” he corrects, but Tormund waves him off. It’s obviously trivial to him, and Jon can’t blame him.
“-told me before we left Winterfell that you’d be heading up this way after taking Kings Landing,” Tormund continues. “Didn’t say how Kings Landing would turn out though. He’s almost as useless as Orell was.”
“Orell was only a warg,” Jon points out, but Tormund huffs and shakes his head. “Where are the rest of the Free Folk?”
It’s Cotter that answers. “They were meant to head past the wall as they intended,” he says as Tormund nods. “But instead they’ve all headed over to Eastwatch to help with the rebuilding instead.”
“Change of heart,” Tormund says with a toothy grin. Jon shakes his head. Like hell.
“Sure,” he agrees anyway. “Not the idea of settling in the Gift?”
“Last Hearth, actually,” Cotter says, and Tormund shoots him a harsh glare. Cotter raises his hands in surrender. “You weren’t the only one to get raven’s from Lady Stark.”
The mention of Sansa has Jon’s ears pricking up, and he raises his eyebrows in expectation as Tormund gives Cotter a rude gesture before turning back to him.
“If we assist in the rebuilding of Eastwatch,” Tormund explains, “your family is willing to give the Free Folk the lands of Last Hearth. They all took the option. Hardhome is no more and there’s not much left for us north of the wall.”
Jon nods. It makes sense. House Umber no longer exists and the few that made it to Winterfell before the massacre didn’t seem to have intentions on going home. It’ll be a good home for the Free Folk.
Tormund clears his throat, catching Jon’s attention. “If I’d know the woman was going to burn the place to the ground,” he says, “I would’ve come with you.” He claps a hand on Jon’s shoulder and nearly sends him through the floor with the force of it.
Jon shakes his head and exchanges a glance with Cotter, who looks slightly amused by Tormund. “I’m not too sure how that would’ve helped,” Jon says. “You just would’ve burnt with the rest of the city.” The thought makes him feel grim. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to get away from the reminders of these constant wars he’s had to fight.
When Jon looks back up it’s to see Tormund’s gaze has softened surprisingly, and Jon doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tormund look so gentle. His hand is still on Jon’s shoulder and his thumb is moving reassuringly over Jon’s collarbone.
“What happened, happened, Jon,” Tormund says staunchly. He’s full of a conviction that Jon has long since lost himself. “You could never have foreseen it.”
“I could’ve stopped her.”
Tormund shakes his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Cotter silently get up and slip from the room. It’s tactful, and Jon is easily distracted by Ghost shuffling around as he sits to lean against Jon’s leg heavily.
“That woman had a fire in her that no one could tame,” Tormund points out. “Those that tried to tame it all died. You never would’ve stood a chance in stopping her.” He gives Jon a grim smile. “There’s a reason she was nicknamed the dragon queen. Fire and blood was in her nature.”
Jon’s grip on his own hands is painful. If he had nails, they would be biting through his palms until he drew blood.
“You can’t stop a wolf howling or men from fucking and killing,” Tormund continues. “It’s in their nature.”
“But what does that mean for me?” Jon suddenly asks, the question ripping from somewhere deep in him. It’s painful, like a knife stabbing what’s left of him. “I’m a Targaryen too.”
Tormund snorts and shakes his head. “You’re not a Targaryen, little crow,” he says affectionately. He reaches up and ruffles Jon’s hair. “You’re a Stark if the others are to be believed. Or a Snow. You’re a king to some, nothing but a bastard to few, a hero to most.” He pokes Jon in the chest, right above his heart. “Blood doesn’t matter when it comes to what’s in your heart. Ygritte taught me that.”
The mention of Ygritte makes his chest ache, another he’s lost to his foolish decisions. He wonders how many others he should be adding to that long list but he’s distracted as Tormund slips his hand down to pinch Jon’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts Jon’s head back to meet his eyes.
Tormund smiles and it crinkles his eyes. It’s a good look for him. “You’re just Jon to me.”
Just Jon. Jon searches Tormund’s eyes as he repeats that in his head. He’s just Jon, and it makes his chest warm and his head feels light all of a sudden. Being just Jon sounds… it makes sense. Jon thinks he’s okay with that. Maybe he is a Targaryen, a Stark, a Snow, a bastard, maybe even a king.
But he’s just Jon.
He surges forward and wraps his arms around Tormund’s shoulders. Tormund lets out a surprised noise but doesn’t hesitate in pulling him even closer into a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” he mumbles into Tormund’s chest, his voice muffled. “I don’t know what this broken man has done to deserve you, Tormund, but thank you.”
There’s no reply, and Jon starts to frown before Tormund gently pushes him away and tilts his head back up. He barely has time to blink at him before Tormund is leaning in incredibly close, and it’s only when Jon feels Tormund’s breath against his lips that he realises what’s happening.
He’d be lying if he says he’s never thought of this. The boys had always joked that Jon has a thing for red-heads. If only Edd were here right now to see this. Jon isn’t sure how he’d react, but he’s almost positive he can hear the echo of his laughter anyway.
Tormund has paused, his eyes searching Jon’s as if he’s looking for permission. It makes Jon’s shoulders relax as he breaks out into a small smile. Tormund, for all his boisterousness and vulgarity, is a gentle giant when it comes to those he cares for. It’s heartwarming to know that Jon has the privilege of being one of them.
He gives a minute nod and braces himself. He doesn’t need to though as Tormund smiles back before he leans in for what Jon will always consider the most gentle kiss he’s ever experienced.
It’s a simple press of their lips, Tormund’s unruly beard scratching against Jon’s cheeks as his hand slides up to wrap around the back of Jon’s head. His fingers lace into his hair and tilt Jon’s head up just that little bit more. It doesn’t last long, enough for Jon’s eyes to flutter shut and to revel in how surprisingly soft Tormund’s lips are, but then Tormund is pulling away and Jon’s mouth drops open in a small gasp.
“You’re not broken, little crow,” Tormund murmurs. Jon keeps his eyes shut as he feels Tormund press his lips to his forehead. “A little battered and bruised, but not broken.”
Jon nearly cries as he feels a fresh wave of sadness crash over him. But he won’t. He needs to pull himself together. He refuses to bawl like a child over spilt milk. Life is hard, Ned Stark always taught him that. He’s just finally learning that lesson.
He feels a wet nose bump against his bare hand and he opens his eyes to look down at Ghost. He might be silent as ever, but there’s a soulful look in Ghost’s gaze and Jon reaches down to bury his fingers in the fur on Ghost’s head. Ghost closes his eyes and leans into the touch, and even though the awful suffocating feeling of sadness is fresh, it’s held slightly at bay by the two around him.
“Come,” Tormund suddenly says. It breaks the peace but he doesn’t pull away from Jon just yet. “I promised your sister that I would bring you back to Winterfell.”
Jon blinks blankly before he pulls away just the slightest. “Sansa?” he asks, and Tormund grins at him.
“If I was kissed by fire, then she was forged in it,” he muses, and Jon laughs. Actually laughs. It nearly hurts his throat with how sudden and honest it feels, but the grin on Tormund’s face widens at the sound and it feels right.
“She’s the strongest person I know,” Jon agrees. Tormund drops his hand from Jon’s head to grasp his wrist. His hand is warm where Jon feels cold, and he thinks that the Sansa from their youth would say it’s poetic.
“She made me swear to bring you back once you got here,” Tormund continues to say. “Your family won’t be losing you to the black again.”
No, Jon thinks as he sees the determination on Tormund’s face, he doesn’t suppose they will. He doesn’t think Cotter would allow him to at this point either. But the way that Tormund holds him tight and the honesty when he speaks has Jon thinking that maybe finding somewhere in Westeros to settle isn’t what he should be doing.
It’s finding someone who takes him as he is. Not Lord Commander. Not King in the North. Not King of the Seven Kingdoms. Not Jon Stark or Aegon Targaryen.
It’s finding someone who thinks of him as just… Jon.
“Okay,” he says, and Ghost bumps his head against Jon’s hand and Tormund grins at him more brightly than Jon has ever seen as he squeezes Jon’s wrist and its okay.
Jon thinks he’s finally home.
...