Chapter Text
“By the gods,” Jon breathed against Tormund’s neck, the man’s coarse beard scraping against his forehead as he buried his face there. Jon pulled him closer, the vice around his throat easing only when they were pressed together, Tormund a warm contrast to the cold stone behind him.
“Shush,” Tormund said, “slow down, little crow.” His words didn’t calm Jon, instead they made his pulse race, his hands more eager, more frantic. What were they even doing? They weren’t hidden at all, anyone could round the corner and spot them in the hallway.
Sansa could stumble on them at any moment—they had made it as far as the family wing of Winterfell but no further. She or Arya or Bran could turn down this hall at any moment.
“Seven hells,” Jon said, “we should—”
Tormund’s mouth smothered his words, drawing him into a rough kiss that was more teeth than anything else. Tormund kissed him with a single-mindedness Jon had only seen him award to fighting in the past, it was part of what made the wilding a formidable opponent.
Madness, this was madness and stupidity.
They were pressed so close that Jon could feel every inch of Tormund pressed against him. Tormund was struggling to unfasten Jon’s shirt, his hands shoving through the first opening wide enough to the skin beneath. He arched into the touch, wanting Tormund’s hands on him.
Jon couldn’t remember ever needing to be touched this much. He wanted Tormund’s hands on him, all over him, all at once.
“I won’t last much longer,” he said in Tormund’s ear.
“Good, means I’m doing this right,” Tormund answered, his words just as quiet and tight with strain. The knot of tension in Jon’s stomach eased, relieved to know he wasn’t the only one so affected.
“I want to feel you, Gods, I want to touch your skin.” Jon’s hands found where Tormund’s fur coat met his pants and he took advantage of the gap to slip his hands under his coat and his tunic. To his credit, Tormund didn’t flinch when his cold hands found his warm back and pressed there, finding a grip and holding on like his life depended on it.
His head fell back against the wall, and Tormund leaned forward to lick and bite at his jaw, trailing down his neck. “Pretty little crow,” Tormund was saying into his skin. “So fucking pretty. Prettier than my daughters, prettier than the Dragon Queen, than all the queens in the south.”
Jon used his grip on Tormund’s back to pull him closer, rutting up against him with an abandon that would embarrass him later. But in this moment. he didn’t care, gods, he couldn’t muster even an ounce of shame.
“Tormund,” he said, trying to warn him before losing his words to a drawn-out groan.
Tormund grunted in answer, thrusting against him fast and hard. Jon felt him coming with him, the both of them panting like they’d just finished a battle. He tilted his head back down, finding Tormund’s mouth. This kiss was slower, open mouths pressed together and breathing as they eased down from their high.
But Jon couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop kissing him, couldn’t stop touching him.
“Gods,” he said when they parted to breathe, “that was...”
Tormund bit at his jaw, his teeth sharp against his skin and making him jump.
“Must you bring religion into fucking?” Tormund huffed.
Jon didn’t have any more breath to speak. He should be releasing Tormund, should be easing away physically and mentally. He didn’t have time for this, had his people to think of, but he couldn’t just then. He wanted one moment to be selfish, to reach out for something he wanted and have it. He pushed off the wall to crowd into Tormund, surprising the wildling into stepping back until he was pressed against the opposite wall.
He stood up on his tiptoes and scraped their faces together, and Tormund—he nudged and nuzzled him back. Pressed this close, Jon could feel the silly grins on both their faces. They’re both mostly dressed, their clothes awry but still on. Tormund had one hand on the small of his back, the other had found its way to his hair and was pulling the knot there loose. His fingers combed through his curls and Jon went just a bit more boneless, sagging into Tormund who held him up with a chuckle.
He had just had sex with a man, one of the few people Jon could honestly say he trusted with his life, with Ghost’s life, with his siblings’ lives. This would change things between them, it would have to.
But he didn’t pull away, he left his face pressed against Tormund’s. He couldn’t let go, and Tormund hadn’t made a move to let go and move away either.
After a moment more Tormund did move, but only to tilt their foreheads together. “That was fucking amazing,” he said.
Jon closed his eyes and laughed.
Tormund kissed him again, or he kissed him, it didn’t matter who started it. They shouldn’t stay here, they should move to his room, or Tormund’s, or anywhere less exposed.
“I—we should,” Jon said, “my chambers. There’s a bed. We can go for round two.”
Tormund shook his head, a small movement but one that cut through Jon. Of course, Tormund hadn’t been shy about admiring others, he had options besides Jon and had never shown any inclination towards keeping to one person. Jon was an overeager fool—he always thought gestures like this meant more than they did. He was a noble fool, just like Sansa was always saying—
“The Dragon Queen and your sister will expect to see you at the feast,” Tormund said, “but after...”
“Yes, after,” Jon said, shoving down his insecurities and forcing himself to disengage and step back. It was cold, standing in the hallway without Tormund’s warmth. He straightened his clothes as best he could and strode off before he could change his mind and decide to skip the feast and abscond with Tormund.
He found Sansa sitting on his bed, a new, thicker and more regal, fur cloak spread out beside her. He stopped in the doorway, eyeing her innocent smile warily.
“It has the Stark family sigil,” she said, reaching over to caress the leather straps, “stitched in white, for our White Wolf. With Royalty visiting, you can’t get away with dressing below your station the way you have been since you returned. You are Daenerys’ equal in status, Jon, you’re our king. Stop letting her upstage you outside of the battlefield.”
He sighed but resigned himself to being dressed by his sister.
“Also.” Sansa stood up and sashayed over with a smile edging into a smirk. “The pelts will help hide these.”
She danced her fingers down his jaw and neck.
Jon flushed, remembering who had last touched him there and not with their fingers.
Sansa giggled, a sound he hadn’t heard in far too long and he couldn’t help but smile. Any embarrassment on his part was worth a giggle on hers.
“So there we were, on the frontlines, when there was a blast of heat! And there you were, on the back of a dragon, like the mad fucker you are.”
Jon grinned into his ale, enchanted by Tormund’s frank admiration. He’d drawn an odd crowd of Wildings and Northmen over to listen to him tell stories of not just this battle, but of the Battle of the Bastards, of Hardhome, and even of the Battle for the Wall when they’d been on opposite sides of the fight. And in all of them, he made Jon sound like a fearless hero, like one of the princes Sansa used to read stories about.
“What kind of man does that?” Tormund asked the group. “A king! Our king, King in the North and King Beyond the Wall now that the others are gone!”
Tormund waved his drink in the air until it slopped over onto his hands.
“Now, as our king, I think you should prove your real worth and finish this drink.” Tormund offered him his horn, a glint in his eyes.
Jon tried to wave him off. “No, not all in one go. We’re celebrating, I’d rather not wake up sick tomorrow.”
“Go on, Jon.” Sansa cut in, leaning forward in her chair to place her free hand on his knee. “I believe in you, and besides, what king doesn’t answer a request from one of his most trusted warriors?”
She smiled up at him, and Jon felt some of his resolve crumble. As children she’d rarely looked to him for anything, choosing to ply Robb or father with affection when she needed or wanted something. Then, Jon had laughed at how easily they’d fallen to her whims, but he understood them better now that she turned those eyes on him.
Tormund threw his arm around Jon’s shoulders, nearly pulling him off the table. “You heard the lady, pretty crow.”
Jon looked between the two, Sansa’s big falsely-pleading eyes and Tormund’s wide guileless grin and knew he couldn’t deny them.
He was reaching for the cup when Daenerys spoke—the first time she’d spoken since attempting to legitimize Gendry. It hadn’t gone over well when the young man had thanked her and then turned to Jon to request a holding in the North instead, one Arya wouldn’t feel shackled to, one that wouldn’t need a Lady or a Lord who knew what they were doing.
Jon expected to hear of a betrothal between the two any day now.
“Perhaps you should abstain, Jon,” Daenerys said, catching the attention of the entire group milling around him, Tormund and Sansa. “I need you clear-minded for the war council tomorrow.”
Sansa’s hand, still resting on his knee, tightened to the point of pain. “Should we not let the men rest, celebrate the end of this war, before we talk of another?”
Jon covered Sansa’s hand with his, exchanging a look with first her and then Tormund before looking to Daenerys.
She was pale, shadows of grief lining her face, a shallow imitation of the woman he’d first met in Dragonstone. The woman he’d told his parentage to in hopes of having a new family member, one who would embrace this new side of himself.
He had hoped she would be happy to know she wasn’t a Targaryen alone in the world, any more than he was a lone wolf without a pack.
Instead, she’d seen a king who had already refused to bend the knee, a king who now had a better claim to the Iron Throne than her. It didn’t seem to matter that he didn’t want it, that he wouldn’t have even accepted being King in the North if it hadn’t been a necessary step to ready them for fighting the Night King.
“We’ll discuss holding a war council in the morning,” he said, nodding to the untouched wine in her hand, “we should all take the opportunity to celebrate being alive.” Before she could respond he took the horn from Tormund’s hand and tipped it back.
It was awful, drinking so much so fast, but judging from the cheering and encouragement he could hear, it had been suitably distracting.
He lowered it once it was empty, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I knew you could do it,” Sansa said, her smile bright but trembling. She knew as well as he did how thin the ice they were walking on was.
He risked a glance over to Daenerys and winced at the stony expression on her face, at the white-knuckled grip around her still full glass of wine. She set it down and stood from her chair. A few in the room looked her way but no one quieted and no one stood to attention as she surveyed the room and swept out.
It may have been different if there had been Unsullied or Dothraki present, but both of those armies had been decimated and the survivors had not joined the main celebration in the hall. Jon knew a few were out on the grounds, gathered around bonfires.
Sansa collapsed back into her seat and Tormund sat down on Jon’s abandoned seat. The men who had been crowding them sensed the change in mood and moved away, joining their brethren at the lower tables.
Jon shifted on the table to sit on it more fully, bringing one foot up to rest on the chair next to Tormund’s thigh. The amount he’d had to drink was beginning to catch up with him, he realized, as he swayed a bit before finding his balance anew.
“That going to be a problem, isn’t it?” Tormund asked, sounding surprisingly sober despite having drunk twice as much as Jon had.
Sansa sighed, tipping her wine back and finishing it. “I don’t think she’s the woman you met in Dragonstone anymore Jon. The woman I’ve gotten to know, I don’t think she’d risk her dragons to rescue you Beyond the Wall.”
Jon didn’t have an answer for that, not one that wouldn’t ring false. Daenerys had changed, after losing Viserion and now again after losing Jorah. With each loss, she became a bit more frayed and it worried him.
“Do you trust me?” He asked instead, leaning closer to Sansa and swaying a bit on the spot until warm hands caught his middle and steadied him. He sent Tormund a grateful look.
Sansa stood, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re my big brother and the king we chose. I trust you, Jon.”
He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Thank you, Sansa.”
She nodded, leaned over to kiss Tormund’s cheek too and then left the room through the door that led straight to the family wing of Winterfell, a few of the guards who had volunteered to abstain from celebrating and stay on duty followed her out. He hoped she found some peace and was able to relax a bit before the coming storm.
Tormund’s hands were still gripping his waist and tugged him over a bit on the table so he was fully in front of him, the movement sent his head spinning and he braced his hand against the table in an attempt to find stability.
“I’m not a doll for you to tug this way and that,” Jon told him, his scolding tone ruined by the smile he could feel his lips tilting up into. He never could hold his mask around Tormund, the fire-kissed wilding had a way of taking down his defenses and allowing him to express emotions more openly than he ever had.
“Aye I know, you’re small but strong.”
“And you chose to follow me.”
“We do not kneel, but we do follow those who prove worthy of it. Mance would be proud, you know. You may not have struck the killing blow, but without you, none of us would have survived long enough to see the end of the Night King.”
Jon had to look away, his eyes stinging and his throat tight. He had admired Mance Rayder, had learned as much about leading from him as from Lord Commander Mormont.
There was a tug on his hair and he glanced back, startled to find Tormund stroking a stray curl. “You left your hair loose, little crow.”
“I’m a free man now,” Jon said after a moment, “my duty is done.”
Tormund frowned, dropping his hair after one last tug. “You still have to be king,”
Jon leaned over, close enough to whisper in Tormund’s ear. “Once I finish negotiating with Daenerys, or Cersei if she somehow comes out on top, and everything is settled, I plan to abdicate the Throne in the North to Sansa.”
From this close he could hear Tormund’s sharp inhale, his beard brushing his face as the man tried to turn to see him better.
“And what of the Free Folk? The Northmen will bend the knee to Ned Stark’s daughter, but us free men? We followed you, Jon.”
“I know,” Jon pulled back and slid to the ground, planting his feet firmly even as the room spun around him again. “I didn’t say I’d abdicate the land beyond the wall or the Free Folk. What do you say, Tormund? Do you want to take back the True North?”
Tormund stood too, crowding in close to Jon. “I think we should seek out your chambers now, so I can show you properly how much I like that idea.”
He had thought Tormund was a good kisser earlier that day when they had desperately grabbed each other in that hallway after the mass funeral.
But Tormund full of wine and giddy and thrumming with joy that they were alive? That was another thing altogether. It had been a struggle to sneak from the banquet hall without being waylaid by either people who wanted to shake Jon’s hand or people who wanted another story from Tormund but they’d managed, leaving through the same door as Sansa. Jon had waved off the last of the guards who’d been on watch and told them to either join the celebration or join those guarding Sansa.
And now they were finally in his chambers, sprawled across his bed. They were still half-dressed, they’d lost their cloaks and coats and were left in their shirts and pants, the drink in them having left them too clumsy to get properly undressed. Tormund was cupping his face with one hand while the other had worked its way under him to grab his ass. And yes, he was being kissed in a slow dizzying manner. He was being kissed like they had all the time in the world, kissed like it was the main event, not the precursor.
Jon arched up into Tormund, rocking into him and bringing their hips together. Tormund’s hand slid from under him and pinned him down. “Not this time little crow, we’re doing it my way this time.”
“Your way is agonizingly slow?”
Tormund nipped at his lip. “Aye, we’re alone, behind barred doors, and we have all the time in the world. I mean to make the most of it,”
“Not quite alone,” Jon said, looking over to the side where Ghost was sprawled by the fire. He looked a bit worse for wear, part of one of his ears missing and healing wounds on his sides, but he was sleeping soundly. Jon had cleaned and treated his wounds himself and given him some milk of the poppy. Ghost wouldn’t have let anyone else near his wounds.
Tormund shrugged. “That ruddy wolf never leaves your side, I’ve already resigned myself to his presence. Does it bother you?”
Jon answered him with a kiss, burying his hands in Tormund’s hair and pulling him back down. For a moment, Tormund gave in, grabbing Jon as desperately in return before easing back into the teasing lazy kiss from before. Tormund’s lips were chapped from the wind, sweet with the taste of wine, and infinitely tender.
Tormund was mumbling his name, and at first, he thought he was going to say something else before realizing he was just saying his name between kisses. It made something hot twist in his stomach.
“Let me get my mouth on you,” Tormund said, his eyes cutting down and making it clear he didn’t mean Jon’s mouth. “I can make it good, I swear it.”
Jon didn’t need convincing. “Yes, Tormund, please.”
Tormund grinned at him, the warm light from the fire lighting his eyes and flickering across the lines of his face as he slid lower on the bed, his hands grasping at Jon’s pants that had been unfastened but not taken off.
“Let’s see if that pecker is as small as I remember.”
Jon choked back a laugh, reaching down to bury a hand in Tormund’s hair. It was coarser than his own, but it felt good in his hands.
It was the work of seconds for Tormund to tug down his pants, the bite of the cold air touching him only for a moment before it was replaced with the warmth of Tormund’s mouth. His head fell back, the slick warmth overwhelming and he could feel the rumble of Tormund’s chuckle around his cock.
And then, then Tormund began to lick and suck and it was like nothing Jon had ever experienced before. He felt hot all over, his body shaking as he fought not to buck into Tormund’s mouth. His free hand found the furs covering the bed and clenched there, holding tight.
“Tormund,” he cried out as his pleasure climbed, fire licking down his spine and shaking him to his core. “Fuck, I’m not going to last much longer.”
The fingers gripping his hips dug in deeper, his words making Tormund more enthusiastic until Jon’s vision blacked out with the force of it.
“Gods,” he said when he could breathe again, his limbs so lax he couldn’t seem to move them.
Tormund didn’t seem capable of speaking as he crawled back up to straddle Jon, leaning down to press their mouths together in a sloppy kiss and grinding down on him. Jon managed to get one of his hands to move, reaching between them and down Tormund’s pants to help.
His hand around Tormund’s cock undid the other man and he was coming too, breaking their kiss to breathe open-mouthed against his neck. Tormund collapsed on him, unable to hold his own weight up any longer.
Jon pulled his hand from between them and wrapped his arms around Tormund, tugging him closer.
He’d never seen Tormund this vulnerable, he realized, as the bigger man all but sprawled over him, his guard fully and completely down. Whatever walls had been between them, first as a Crow and a Wilding and then as a King and a loyal friend. were gone. Somehow, Tormund had snuck through his defenses and made a home in his heart.
“Fuck,” he murmured, turning to press a hard kiss to Tormund’s head.
He never wanted this to end, he realized, never wanted to get out of this bed, never wanted leave. . .
“Little crow, you’re trembling,” Tormund said into his neck, “was I that good?”
Jon swallowed and used his grip on Tormund to flip them, curling into his side and twisting their legs together. “The best,” he said. He didn’t care about the mess, or that they both still needed to get properly undressed, he only cared about getting and staying as close to Tormund as possible.
“It was a bit quicker than I planned,” Tormund was saying, one of his hands stroking patterns on Jon’s back, under his shirt.
Jon smiled into Tormund’s skin. “We’ve got all the time in the world?”
“Aye,” Tormund said with a chuckle, “that we do.”
Jon woke slowly the next morning, a warm weight pinning him to the bed. He lay still for a moment, hoping if he kept his eyes closed he could fall back into his peaceful sleep. He hadn’t slept that good, that deep, in years.
The hand on his hip moved as Tormund woke, rolling away with a pleased grumble and sigh.
Jon smiled and opened his eyes, rolling over to face him. Tormund was shamelessly stretching on the bed in all his naked glory. He’d been delighted to prove to Jon last night that he was kissed by fire down there too.
“Good morning.”
Tormund’s answer was leaning over to kiss him, and this time Jon wasn’t surprised by how gentle, and how arousing it was. He rolled on top of him, pleased to discover he wasn’t the only one excited.
He broke the kiss and moved to mouth at Tormund’s throat, making him gasp and groan. “Jon,” he gasped in the too-quiet room, making a noise that didn’t sound human. It would be so easy, to reach down between them and continue where they’d left off last night, to—
“Jon?” said Sansa’s voice from the hall outside his room and they froze. Her words were followed by a gentle rap of her knuckles against the wooden door.
“I had a bath drawn in the next room for you, but you need to hurry. Daenerys is growing. . . impatient.”
Fuck, Jon mouthed before clearing his throat and finding his voice. “Thank you, Sansa, I’ll be there soon.”
“Alright,” she said, “and Jon? Do hurry.”
He listened as her footsteps slowly moved away and looked down into Tormund’s laughing blue eyes.
He looked down pointedly. “We could both do with a wash.”
They dressed in yesterday’s clothing, grabbed clean stuff to change into and snuck into the room next door. Luckily the hall was deserted and no one saw them.
Jon stopped just inside the doorway, eyeing the two full, steaming, wooden tubs. “Sansa,” he said, rubbing his face. Of course, she had known, getting anything past his sisters was a fool’s game these days.
“Your sister is terrifying,” Tormund said as he edged around him to get closer to the baths.
He looked back at Jon and waggled his eyebrows. “Want to scandalize everyone in hearing range?”
Jon laughed and was tempted to agree but in the end shook his head, remembering how tense Daenerys had been the night before. What was that saying about waking the dragon?
They rinsed off in quiet camaraderie, making quick work of getting clean.
Once dried and dressed, Jon ran his hands through his damp curls, trying to decide whether to pull them back. It had been nice having them loose last night, he had felt more himself than he in a while. More like he had before he’d died.
“Vain pretty crow,” Tormund said, coming up behind him and knocking his hands away, “leave it wild.”
Jon laughed, leaning back into him. “You’d like that then?”
Arms wrapping around his middle and squeezing was his answer, Tormund clinging to him as tightly as he’d done the night before. He closed his eyes and let the world fall away, for just a moment.
“I have to go, you know I do.”
“Don’t mean I have to like it,” Tormund grumbled. “I could steal you, the King in the North would be a prize to tell stories about.”
“You could,” Jon said, “but then you’d have to deal with my terrifying sister marshaling all our troops to come rescue me.”
Tormund groaned, releasing Jon and stepping away.
Jon smirked, moving over to where Sansa had laid out another cloak, one she meant for him to wear to his meeting with Daenerys. Assuming the Queen hadn’t called the war council in his absence, which was a possibility he couldn’t dismiss.
He shrugged it on, situating the straps before looking to Tormund. “You could come with me? If Daenerys hasn’t already called a war council, it won’t be long before she forces the issue.”
“I don’t plan to bring the free folk any further south than this, Jon. Not when the Others aren’t nipping at our heels anymore.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“Then why have me attend the meeting? To tell the Dragon Queen that to her face? You’ll get me burned to a crisp.”
Jon stood in the middle of the room, a cooling bath on either side like he hadn’t just been knifed in the heart for a second time. It was unfair—how easily Tormund could do that, could wound him and not even notice as he continued to pull on a cloak of Jon’s he was borrowing. Maybe Tormund didn’t even realize, maybe their liaisons hadn’t changed as much for him as they had for Jon.
Tormund wasn’t given to lying, to lashing out with false words to hurt someone. He truly thought that of Jon. That he’d put him at risk like that.
“What’s with the long face?” Tormund finally figured out how to properly clasp the northern cloak and looked back at him. “Were you so attached to having me at the meeting?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jon said, turning to stride towards the door, “will. . . will you look in on Ghost before you join your men?”
He made the mistake of looking back, Tormund was staring at him with a frown. “Jon. . .”
“Yes?”
But Tormund didn’t say anything, the room quiet as they stood there and stared at each other. Jon glanced down, the stone floor suddenly the most interesting thing to look at.
“Is this some southern custom I’ve cocked up? Little crow, come on, tell me what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Jon said. The grout between the stones could use a cleaning, something to mention to Sansa once the rest of the castle was repaired.
“I must have since you won’t turn your pretty grey eyes my way.”
Jon didn’t smile, but he did look up to pointedly meet his gaze. “I need to go before Daenerys grows any more impatient, Sansa is waiting on me.”
“I truly upset you,” Tormund said, “how? By refusing to play along in your game of politics?”
“I can’t tell if you don’t realize or are pretending you don’t,” Jon turned on his heel and tugged the door open. “Either way, it doesn’t matter.”
A hand grabbed his elbow, stopping him from leaving the room. Jon shut his eyes.
“Let me go.”
“No, not until you tell me what set you off.”
Jon was silent, he could try to pull away but Tormund had a few inches on him and the muscle to match. Jon was quicker, could win most spars between them, but in a situation such as this, he was disadvantaged.
He sighed. “Is that truly what you think of me? That I’d risk your life to score political points against Daenerys?” He asked finally, knowing he wouldn’t get out of this room or this conversation without just saying what was bothering him.
Tormund’s grip on him loosened and he jerked free, whipping around to glare at him. “None of my men, of the North, of the Watch, or of the Free Folk, are marching south with her. I’m going to tell her that, if she burns anyone it’ll be me first. I’ve died for my people before, I’ll do it again if it comes to that.”
He took a deep breath, stepping out into the hall. “I asked you to be there as my friend, as my. . . well, like I said it doesn’t matter.”
“Fuck,” Tormund hissed, stumbling forward and trying to grab onto him. This time Jon saw it coming and dodged his grasp and moved further down the hall. He turned his back and clenched his jaw as he moved towards the door that would lead out to the main hall.
“Jon,” Tormund called after him. “Please, come back, let me apologize, this can’t be how we leave things. Not if you’re about to...” he trailed off and Jon looked back over his shoulder.
“About to what? Infuriate a woman who still has two dragons? Perhaps you were right to worry about your own skin.”
“Please, Jon.” Tormund looked after him with pleading blue eyes, his hands out in front of him like he could pull Jon back if he willed it hard enough. “I speak before I think, you know that—I didn’t mean it like that. Please, let’s not end on that note.”
Jon turned fully around to face him, his arms crossed over his front. “How did you mean it?”
“The last war council, I was there to speak for the Free Folk,” he said, stepping closer slowly. “I assumed that was what you wanted from me again. I don’t think you’d let her burn me.” He was close enough now that Jon had to look up to catch his gaze. “I know better than most how willing you are to die for others. It was a joke, a bad one.”
“Please, Jon,” he said again. It was the most Tormund had ever used his name, he realized, rather than some nickname.
He lets his arms relax and stepped closer to Tormund, searching his face for any sign he was misreading the situation. “I,” He started before stopping to clear his throat. “You know I would never carelessly risk your life, don’t you?”
Tormund’s hands found his waist and he didn’t pull away.
“Aye, you only do it with extreme care.”
Jon opened his mouth to rebut that, to lighten the tension with more humor, only for a Tormund to lean down and steal his words with a kiss. He kissed him back, his hands grabbing Tormund’s shoulders, dizzy from the forceful kiss.
They separated and Tormund leaned down to nip at Jon’s neck, grinning against the sensitive skin there.
“Tormund,” he groaned, and Tormund kissed him there, moving further south, his hands finding Jon’s cloak and moving it aside to give him more access—
“Jon!” Arya called out as the door the main hall banged open. They jumped apart and he could feel his face flush.
She stared at them, hands on her hips, lips twisted into a scowl.
“Daenerys called a war council to session and Sansa is sitting as your representative,” she said, her tone low and frustrated, “which would be fine if any of us knew what you were planning.”
Jon rubbed his face and fixed his disheveled clothes. “I’ve kept it quiet for a reason Arya, if it comes from Sansa Daenerys will reject it without consideration and likely lash out. It has to come from me.”
“Then go to the meeting and say it.”
He nodded, looking back at Tormund. “It’s up to you. I won’t hold it against you if you’d rather go check on the Free Folk.”
Tormund grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “And miss you facing down the Dragon Queen? Nah.”
“He knows what you’re going to say,” Arya said, her tone edging into a playful whine, “no fair.”
Jon chuckled, ruffling her hair as he passed her, Tormund close on his heels. “Come on, baby sister, Sansa will want you there.”
“I’ll fly my dragons south, my unsullied and Dothraki will return via our ships. Your northern army can take the main road, we don’t have enough ships to all go the same way.”
Jon entered the room, frowning at what he’d overheard, Arya walked on his right and Tormund was on his left. He waved Sansa and Davos back into their seats, nodding to Bran who was sitting by the fire.
“Apologies for my tardiness,” he said, coming to stand at the war table, directly across from his aunt. “Did I hear you correctly, your grace? Were you ordering my men to the south?”
Arya circled the room to stand next to Sansa, her hand resting on Needle’s hilt.
“You were not here,” Daenerys said, waving her hand at the table, “someone had to start to strategize. Cersei is only growing stronger the longer we hesitate.”
“Mayhaps that’s true, still I’d thank you not to presume to order my troops anywhere.” Jon kept his tone mild, his pose still, but relaxed. He didn’t set his shoulders, clench his jaw, or rest his hand on his own sword’s hilt—no matter how much his instincts urged him to.
“They won’t fit on the ships,” Grey Worm said, leaning over the table to push the wooden pieces representing the Northmen and the Wildings to the road Daenerys had pointed out.
Tormund stepped closer to Jon’s back, not quite touching but enough that he could feel his warmth.
“I swore an oath to remain neutral in the war for the Iron Throne, and I have no interest in breaking that agreement and getting involved in your war,” Jon said, thankful he managed to keep his voice quiet and steady.
Sansa made a small noise, one easily heard in the ringing silence after his words, and Arya’s hand tightened on her sword. He didn’t dare look to Bran or Tormund or Davos for their reactions.
“Excuse me?” Daenerys asked, her tone growing rigidly formal and cold. “I must have heard you wrong,”
“You did not, I gave my word at the Dragon Pit that I would not interfere with who sat on the Iron Throne as long as the North remained independent. That has not changed.”
“You’re holding up your end of the deal when she did not hold up hers?”
Jon shrugged. “She proved herself deceitful and I’ll offer your army food, supplies and a place to rest until you’re ready to march south. But the North is independent and it’s not my concern who sits on a southern throne.”
In a rare, outward display of anger, Daenerys slammed her hands down on the table. “I fought for you, I lost a dragon and my oldest friend for you, and your war. And now you’re refusing to fight mine?”
“Aye, and I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. And if I were just pledging myself I’d go south with you, and take Cersei’s head for breaking her solemn oath.” Jon mirrored her position but without the violence, placing his hands deliberately and gently on the table. “But I’m a King, and I don’t just pledge myself in matters such as this. My family is here, my people are here, and we are needed here. We have been locked in war after war since my father died, it is time we begin to rebuild.”
“Your father,” Daenerys said, and Jon's hands clenched into fists at the note of derision in her voice. He could almost see her composure failing, see her splitting at the seams. “Which father, Jon? The one who spawned you or the one who raised you?”
Sansa stood, her shoulders drawing back, taking offense at Daenerys’ raised voice. “Explain what you mean or calm down, your grace. And please pay my brother the same respect he’s graciously afforded to you. He has a title, he is our King, and should be referred to as such.”
He shut his eyes, he appreciated his sister's defense of him more than he could say, but he knew she had exacerbated the problem, had provoked Daenerys into whatever happened next.
And it was his own damn fault for not telling his sisters who he was. He’d meant to, planned to, but he’d gotten distracted and now they’d never believe he hadn’t kept it secret for some nefarious reason. They’d already suspected his alliance with Daenerys, it would be an easy jump to assume he’d done it out of a misplaced sense of family obligation.
“You haven’t told them?” Daenerys sounded smug and a bit gleeful.
He left his eyes closed, unable to face his sisters when he knew what was coming next.
“That their beloved father never cheated on their mother? That you aren’t their sibling, half or otherwise.”
A hand fell on his shoulder, grounding him. Tormund.
“You didn’t tell your precious family that you’re their cousin, the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms.”
There was a thunking sound that could only be Sansa dropping back into her chair.
“I beg your pardon,” Sansa said, and Jon couldn’t help but open his eyes to check on her, her voice was that faint. She was slumped back in her chair, her face pale and something like hurt twisting across her face before she hid it behind a mask.
“It’s true,” Bran said, turning his eyes away from the fire for the first time since Jon had entered the room. “Aunt Lyanna ran away with Rhaegar, she wasn’t kidnapped or raped. His marriage to Elia Martell was annulled in secret and he married her before Jon was born.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Arya said, resting a hand on Sansa’s shoulder but looking at Jon. His breath caught at the look on her face, it saw her most stubborn one, the one she wore when she’d picked her hill to die on. He’d never seen her budge once that happened. “He’s our brother, it doesn’t matter how he’s related. He’s a Stark.” She looked to Daenerys, her eyes flinty. “He’s ours, you can’t have him.”
Tyrion cleated his throat.” My Queen, perhaps we could return to discussing Cersei and not the King’s parentage?”
“We are discussing Cersei,” Daenerys rebuked him without looking his way, “you say your family is here, what about me? What about my brother, your father, who was killed for daring to love your mother and have you? The Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Starks. Spokes on the wheel that stole your parents from you. Help me break that wheel, nephew, join me and destroy Cersei once and for all.”
She was very charismatic when she wanted to be, Jon knew, he’d seen her with her Unsullied and Dothraki, both groups who worshiped the ground she walked on. This particular speech was ruined by the glint in her eyes, the twist to her lips that was too challenging and too bitter to be inspiring or convincing.
Tormund’s hand on his shoulder tightened his warmth at his back a solid reminder of Jon’s end goal in all this.
“I will not lead the Northmen into another war in the south that doesn’t concern them. I will not pull men from the Night's Watch who are sworn not to involve themselves in the realms of men and march them south. And I will not ask the Free Folk to follow me any further south than they already have. All I’ve done since I left my home is fight, and I’m done. My people are done.”
The room was quiet, Daenerys looked away from him, her hands trembling as she straightened her back and clenched them at her sides. Her advisors looked uneasy, glancing amongst themselves as if to see who would calm their Queen.
Jon had a feeling that if Jorah were here, this conversation would never have escalated so. He’d been a tempering influence on the Dragon Queen.
Sansa cleared her throat. “Winterfell is yours, your grace. For as long you and your men need to recuperate—we will house and feed you. But I stand by my bother’s decision, when you do leave, you will leave without us,” she said. “We will give refuge to any man who is unable to continue to fight for you, should they want it, but that is all the support we can offer you.”
“A kind offer,” Tyrion interjected before Daenerys could respond. “One we’ll gladly accept. If you will not be joining our war, perhaps we should hold our war council privately, we would like to stay—”
“We will do so at Dragonstone.” Daenerys cut over him. “We will leave today, as soon as our men are ready.”
She looked to Grey Worm who nodded, saluted, and left the room.
“As for you, nephew, don’t think I’ll forget this. Once I take the throne, there’s nothing to stop me from turning my gaze North. I am here to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not the Six.”
For the first time, Jon let his hand fall to Longclaw’s hilt, wrapping his hand around it. “I think you’ll find the North a harsh place to those uninvited, I hope you see your way to leaving us be. It would be a shame to lose our alliance.”
She raised her chin, purple eyes flashing. “We shall see.”
At her side Tyrion rubbed his face, looking like he dearly wanted a drink. Jon was sympathetic.
“Well if we’re leaving today, there’s much to do,” Tyrion said with a look towards Varys who nodded, an unreadable expression on his face. Jon imagined he could see the wheels turning inside his head as he, and everyone in the room, tried to take in the power plays that had just gone down.
“If the council is over,” Jon said. “I’d like to have the room to speak with my family.”
Daenerys opened her mouth before shutting it again, unaccustomed, he was sure, to being dismissed from a room.
“As you say, King in the North,” she said the title with a mocking lilt, “can I presume you’ll honor us by seeing our ships off at White Harbor.”
His advisors shifted almost as one at her statement because despite the phrasing it was not a request.
“Excuse me, your grace.” Davos was the first to find his voice. “Are you suggesting our King ride to White Harbor with your army and your two dragons?” He didn’t have to verbalize that Jon wouldn’t have near her level of force, even if he took men with him. He’d be at her mercy the entire ride.
“No,” Arya and Sansa said nearly as one, and after exchanging a look Sansa was the one to continue. “He is needed here, if it pleases him, he can see you off at Winterfell’s gates.”
Daenerys frowned. “You wish to remain allies, do you not? Despite your insisted neutrality in the war in the south. How can we be in an alliance if you do not trust that the King in the North will come to no harm while in my company?”
She turned to Jon. “Will you speak for yourself? Or do they speak for you?”
He didn’t rise to the bait, he didn’t even fully understand why she was trying to raise tensions further, for there could be no other reason for her insistence on him accompanying her to White Harbor.
“It would please me to see you, your advisors and your men off at the gates of Winterfell whenever you are ready. The North, and all of Westeros owes you a debt for your assistance against the Night King and the Others,” he said, his tone polite but his stance firm.
She arched an eyebrow. “You admit you owe a debt, but you will not help me win the Throne.”
“No, I will not involve myself or my people in the affairs of the south. If you want to negotiate an alliance, trade deals, or something of the like once you win the Throne, you’ll find the North happy to come to the table.” He stepped to the side so he could approach her without a war table between them, he met her eyes, searching for any sign of the compassionate and kind woman he’d first met. “But we won’t bend the knee and we won’t put you on the throne.”
He offered her his hand. “We are family, Aunt, I don’t want to be at odds with you.”
For a moment, he thought he’d managed to bank the fire burning in her. Just as he’d done back in a Dragonstone when she’d first been tempted to taking Kingslanding by fire and blood—he’d talked her down then. But that was as Jon Snow, a king she had been confident would eventually bend to her.
Now, as a king with a stronger claim on her throne, who’d refused to bend at every opportunity, he couldn’t sway her.
She didn’t take his hand, folding hers pointedly in front of her. “We’ll leave before dark.”
His hand fell back to his side and some part of him knew that the moment, the last chance he had to sway her, had passed and he’d failed.
“Of course, I’ll arrange for supplies to be readied for your men.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking to her advisors and gesturing for them to follow as she stormed from the room.
The door closed behind her sharply, and Jon sagged, his breath leaving him in one go.
“Er,” Davos started uncertainly. “Should we go?” He gestured to himself and Tormund. It took Jon a moment to remember he’d asked to have the room for him and his siblings.
He shook his head. “You may as well stay.”
“Are there more?” Sansa asked, standing and coming to Jon’s side. He watched her approach, she’d defended him in front of Daenerys and her people, but he knew enough politics to know her feelings could be different in private.
Her hands found his arm, gripping there. “Are there any more secrets you have been keeping?”
He sighed. “In my defense, I only found out about my parentage just before the Battle for Winterfell. I was planning to tell you, once Daenerys wasn’t in the castle.”
“I don’t see why anyone cares,” Tormund spoke up. He was idly adjusting the markers on the map, moving those that represented Jon’s forces back to Winterfell. “He’s still Jon, who cares who sired him?”
“We don’t care,” Arya said, “but others will. The northern lords will now that we don’t have the Night King bearing down on us.”
“They’re bloody wind vanes,” Sansa agreed her grip on his arm loosening into something softer. “But you have our support, that should keep them in line.”
“Thank you for that.” Jon smiled, picking up one of her hands and disengaging to bow over it, kissing her knuckles. “But that’s not a concern.”
He looked up at her, focusing on her for the moment. “I plan to formally abdicate the Throne in the North to you, Sansa, once things have settled down and you feel ready.”
Her hand spasmed in his, her fingers tightening their grip. “I’m sorry, what?”
He straightened up but let her keep hold of his hand. “You already handle most of the practicalities of the position and you have a better head for politics than I ever will. I was a good King for wartime when the only priority was surviving. They won’t need that much longer and you will make a fantastic peacetime Queen, Sansa. They could do no better.”
“Jon,” she breathed, her hand pulling on his until he was close enough for her to throw her arms around him. He closed his eyes, hugging her back and lifting her from the ground. “You’ll make us all proud, little sister, you will.”
She nodded into his neck. “You did, Jon. Father and Robb would be proud of you too.”
A small projectile hit his back and he knew without opening his eyes that Arya was hugging him from behind.
Eventually, they had to untangle but his sisters didn’t move far, something he was embarrassingly grateful for. He’d hoped they’d still see him as a brother after they found out his parentage, but actually having it happen was another thing altogether.
Davos looked misty-eyed and Bran was smiling at them, serene and unsurprised by Jon’s announcement.
He glanced over at Tormund, who was standing the farthest away, still by the table where Jon had left him. He saw Jon looking and grinned, winking at him.
It drew a laugh out of Jon, the tension from the meeting and his relief at his sisters’ acceptance leaving him feeling strung out and a bit hysterical. And incredibly grateful.
“Okay,” Jon said, “that could have gone worse. That almost went well.” He squeezed Tormund’s elbow, to comfort who, he didn’t know.
“Nothing was ‘well’ if you were watching the Dragon Queen.”
“No, that’s true, but she’ll be in the south soon and we can relax a bit.”
“You don’t sound confident in that.”
“No,” Jon said, propping his elbows upon the railing overlooking the courtyard. Below them, Sansa and Missandei were organizing a wagon of supplies. “I’m not confident at all. But, look, I can’t do anything about that at the moment.”
Tormund leaned next to him, bumping shoulders with him. “So what can we do?”
“Besides pray she has a change in heart or is content with six kingdoms?” He shrugged. “Rebuild as much as we can, get as ready as we can. Who knows, maybe she and Cersei will take each other out.”
Tormund scoffed. “Some other southern upstart would just take their place, I’ve seen enough of your politics to know that. We’ll never get to go back North at this rate.”
“I won’t fight their battles forever,” Jon said, “the south won’t have an easy time fighting their way to us, even if Daenerys comes with dragons. Look, there’s no sense in worrying about it now.”
Tormund looked unconvinced. “Your sister seems happy to inherit the throne,” he said, “will she still be so if you abdicate while things are tense in the south?”
He sighed, putting more weight on his elbows, shoulders sagging. “I don’t have any answers, Tormund I wish I did. I want to take the Free Folk North of the Wall with you, you know I do, but I can’t leave my sisters and brother undefended.”
“Your siblings will always be at risk of some threat, you will end up fighting their wars forever.”
Tormund stepped back, moving away from the railing and away from Jon.
He could only study his hands, feeling torn in two directions. His heart wanted to go back North of the Wall with Tormund, the only place where he’d ever felt in his bones that he belonged. But he loved his siblings too, and with their parents gone, Robb gone, he felt they were his responsibility. If he left and something happened to them. . .
“Is that it then?” He asked just as Tormund reached the stairs leading down to the courtyard. “Is this where your faith in me ends?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tormund hesitate, his foot suspended between one step and the next.
“I have my own family to think about,” Tormund said finally, “my daughters belong in the True North, as do I. You do too, you don’t belong here fighting in wars you don’t believe in.”
Sometimes Jon forgot Tormund was a father, he knew so little of his daughters other than that they were being raised by their mother.
“I understand,” he said, standing up and clasping his hands behind his back, where they could shake and no one could see. “Is this where I lose you then?”
Tormund set his foot down with a thud, twisting to stomp back towards him. “Others take you, you fool crow.”
He got up into Jon's face, gripping his shoulders and giving him a shake. “This is a fight, Jon. This morning after bathing? That was a misunderstanding. These things are going to happen, they’re not the end of us or of the world. Not everything is life or death.”
Jon felt lightheaded, shaky on his own feet.
“Learn how to have a fight. Stick with me, my pretty, foolish crow and we’ll have plenty of them.”
Jon reached up and gripped Tormund’s hands, holding them there as he stepped them backward and off to the side where there was an alcove. Once they were hidden from view and he leaned up and kissed him, he was reassured in a way words couldn’t have managed when Tormund kissed him back.
He pulled back, tilting their foreheads together. “I don’t how to to do this,” he confessed. “Every fight I had with Ygritte was life or death, my people or hers.”
He nudged his forehead against Tormund’s. “You’ll have to be patient with me.”
“Aye,” Tormund said, “I’m beginning to see that.”
They stood there for a moment, and then Tormund’s hands slipped from his shoulders down to his waist. “Say, little crow, do you know what the best part of fighting is?”
Jon moves closer, one hand moving to grip the back of Tormund’s neck while the other moved behind him to land on his lower back. “This one, I think I know. . .”
Someone cleared their throat and Jon groaned, stepping back to see who had found them.
Davos stood there, cheeks pink and flustered. “Ah, apologies, your grace but you're needed below. Queen Daenerys requested you walk her to the dragons and see her off there.”
He supposed he should have known he wouldn’t be able to just see her off at the gates, it wasn’t like she was going off on horseback.
Tormund’s hands hadn’t left his waist and they tightened there until the point of pain. Him, Daenerys, and her two dragons. If the situation were reversed he’d be holding Tormund that hard too.
“I’ll be right there,” he said after a moment, resignation pulling his shoulders back and a sense of foreboding licking down his spine.
He tried to move away but Tormund held him in place. He raised an eyebrow.
“Is that a good idea?” Tormund asked, looking to Davos for his opinion. “No one would be able to stop her burning you alive.”
“She’d only make a martyr of me, she knows my sisters wouldn’t take that lying down.”
“And you trust she’ll care? She has dragons.”
Jon gripped Tormund’s hands, gently removing them from his waist and squeezing them. “I do, she’s not so far gone that she’ll risk fighting a war on each front. Trust me Tormund.”
“Take some men with you,” Davos interjected. “Maybe an audience will ensure she won’t try anything.”
Jon considered the suggestion. “Speak to Lady Sansa and organize a formal riding party with volunteers. We’ll give her a proper escort to her dragons.”
Davos looked relieved. “I will do so at once,” he said as he moved off, his mind already on the task.
Jon leaned forward and into a Tormund, laying his forehead on his shoulder, lifting it and letting it fall again with a thud. And again. “When will it end?”
Tormund chuckled grabbing his head before he could drop it on his shoulder again. “You’ll see her off, and speak with Sansa about abdicating, and then we can both wash our hands of all this nonsense.”
Sansa had outdone herself with the formal escort. She and Arya were both mounted on horses as were several of their Northern bannerman who hadn’t departed for their homes yet. It had turned into an honor guard Daenerys couldn’t refuse without looking ungrateful.
Jon mounted his own horse, watching as Daenerys did the same, her face set in a cold mask he couldn’t read.
The two of them led the way out of the gates, the group behind them eerily silent.
He kept his eyes on their destination, the dragons hard to miss even from a distance.
“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come,” Jon said, quiet enough it carried only to Daenerys, “truly, I do.”
She stiffened. “You could still change your mind, fly south with me and order your men to follow. You’re as much a dragon as I am, nephew, let’s take our throne. Together.”
“I’m not a dragon, I’m not a Stark, I’m a Snow and I know where I belong. It isn’t in the south.”
“I see, I hope you don’t come to regret this choice.”
They had reached the dragons and drew up a healthy distance from them. Sansa and Arya came to a stop off to his left, both eyeing the dragons warily.
Jon kept his eyes on the truly dangerous one. Daenerys had dismounted and was looking back at him expectantly.
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Rhaegal? You were his rider, for a time.” She was watching him, her eyebrows raised in challenge.
He looked away from her to the smaller of the two dragons. He had felt a surface connection to the dragon, something similar to the bond he had with Ghost, one that given time may have grown to be as deep and unending.
He supposed he’d never know, now.
He swung his leg over and dropped from the saddle.
“Jon,” Sansa whispered in fear, but he forced himself not to look back at her.
He felt Daenerys’ eyes on him as he approached Rhaegal, this was some kind of test, but he couldn’t see how.
When he was close Rhaegal lowered his head to his height, as he’d done every time Jon had gotten close. He made a rumbling noise deep in his throat, similar to a cat’s purr when he reached out to rub the bridge of his snout, the dragon's scales warm beneath his hand.
“See?” Daenerys stepped up behind him, her hand reaching out to stroke Rhaegal’s cheek. “The dragons know what you are. Will you continue to deny it?”
Jon closed his eyes, lingering one more moment, before stepping back and away. Rhaegal reared up with a cry and the sound tugged at Jon’s heart. He wondered just how much the dragon understood, whether he knew what had just happened. Whether he sensed Jon’s rejection, no matter how out of his hands it was.
He smiled sadly at the beautiful beast before turning away and passing Daenerys without a word. Her gaze on his back was just as heavy as before, and he knew he’d failed in her eyes.
But not in his sisters’ eyes. He offered them each a smile, their faces painted with relief, as he joined them and remounted his horse. One of the lords handed him the reins for Daenerys’ riderless horse.
“We’ll be seeing each other again, King in the North,” Daenerys said as she climbed onto Drogon’s back.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, lifting his hand in a wave as she and her dragons took off.
They lingered there for a moment, watching her dragons fly over to join the Unsullied and Dothraki who had already begun processing out of Winterfell.
“That could have gone worse,” he said, wry, “she could have burned us all alive.”
Sansa leaned over and swatted his shoulder. “Not funny, Jon.”
“It was a little funny,” Arya chimed in, grinning at them both, dimples flashing.
He shook his head, turning his horse towards Winterfell, the mood of the group much lighter as they rode back.