Chapter Text
The cold had crept in and taken up residence in Jon's bones. His teeth felt sharper in his mouth, and he knew if he opened his eyes, he would see bloody streaks of red dragged across the pure, unadulterated snow. Death, with its horrid stench and icy grip, lingered at the precipice of his vision, hovering just beside him, reaching, ready to grasp Jon, devour him hungrily. His time had already come. He was destined to die in this snow. The cold certainty of it lived in his bones.
With a hoarse gasp that drew air and life back into Jon's hollow lungs, his eyes flew open. He blinked several times, forcing himself to adjust to the morning that just barely peeked in around the heavy curtains, carefully drawn closed. His chest rose and fell rapidly as Jon's mind scrambled to catch up with his body, rejoining the land of the wake and living. He took another deep breath to steady himself, and his right hand came up to rub at his eyes. Propping himself up on his elbows, Jon saw that the fire had died in the hearth, sometime in the night, accounting for the chill. But even with no fire, the South wasn't cold. Not in the way of the North. The chill that still clung to Jon, like the last vestiges of sleep, was a memory of a different sort.
Groaning slightly, Jon forced himself to sit up. He glanced carefully at the bed, but shook his head. When he had first been brought to these chambers, he had refused the bed, opting to sleep on the floor instead. He did not deserve the luxury of a featherbed, not while people still suffered. The floor was good enough for Jon. The floor did not remind him of soft fabric weighing down on him, and even softer touches grazing his skin. The ground was hard, cold, unforgiving. Jon found comfort in returning there each night.
But morning had come, and with the sun, Jon too must rise. Careful to keep his movements quiet, lest he alert anyone stationed outside his door to his state of alertness, Jon began moving about the chambers, reaching for his shirt and breeches and making his way to the stone bowl containing fresh water. It was clean, but not heated. Jon preferred it that way. He was not a man of luxury, it was known. Reaching for the rough bar of soap, Jon washed himself briskly, closing his eyes and splashing the cold water in his face. His heart clenched, the way it always did when he first encountered that icy sensation, before he relaxed, more alert as he managed to shake off the lingering grogginess of his sleep.
Last night had been kinder than most. Jon still struggled to sleep for more than a handful of hours a night. He often spent his nights working, trying to make the futility of time work in his favor. There was much to be done. So much that it seemed like it was impossible to fit it all into even an entire lifetime. And Jon certainly did not have that.
Sleep did not come easily to Jon on most nights, but last night he had been too exhausted to do anything but lie down upon finally arriving in his chambers. He had struggled for a few minutes, before finally succumbing to the heavy waves pulling him into the depths of slumber. He had not dreamt last night. Or he did not remember dreaming, at least. When he did remember his dreams, he dreamed of terrible fire and piercing screams. His dreams were nightmares, and they haunted him through every moment, both waking and sleeping. His ghosts never left his side.
A sharp rap of knuckles against the door echoed throughout Jon's chamber, and he sighed, running his hand through his dark curls. The world was no longer at war, but he still tied his hair back, still a soldier more than anything. He was tired of fighting. He had once shouted those words, but they weighed heavier on his shoulders than they had at the time. He was tired of fighting for every moment, for every breath, for even a scrap of quiet. But it was the postbellum that had taught him that for any sort of peace, there would be those who never ceased fighting.
"Your Grace, there are some matters we must attend to this morning."
Jon closed his eyes, and scrubbed a hand over his face. He heard the door open behind him, though he had given no entrance, and he heard the familiar footsteps of his steward behind him.
"I will help you dress, Your Grace."
"I can do it myself," Jon snapped. Davos simply looked at him with an unreadable expression.
"Of course, Your Grace."
Jon sighed, but he did not apologize. He should, but Davos would dismiss it. Jon hated that. He loathed it, but he could not change it. Steadying himself, he reached for his clothes, and began pulling on the white shirt, and then his simple leather jerkin over it. Jon's sense of dress had not changed, even in the years he had been here. The world had been nearly reduced to ashes, to death. They were in a constant process of rebuilding, and he would not indulge himself in luxuries while mothers wept as they tried to put food in the mouths of their babes. Jon had heard more than one whisper about his clothing, and he had taken to biting his cheek raw to stop from lashing out. The fact that his sartorial choices were the discussion of the kingdom more than the endless repairs that needed to be done was aggravating.
Everything aggravated Jon now. His anger was his constant companion, always humming underneath the surface of his skin. Burning , his mind whispered, though such thoughts were always banished immediately. If only the anger itself was so easy to cast out. It was impossible to escape, like the cold that had taken root in his bones. Jon wondered if this was his destiny - for fire and ice to war forever in his veins, destroying him slowly every day.
He wished for peace. He was tired of fighting.
"There will be a meeting of the Small Council today, Your Grace," Davos said in his steady voice, beginning his daily litany of all that Jon would have to see to today.
Not all , Jon thought bitterly. The work of a king was never done. Not even when he was certain he was done being king.
The South was hot. It was all Jon could think about, standing on the dais of the dragon pit, staring at the collection of lords and ladies that had gathered. Fury and disgust was leveled Jon's way, but he took no notice. He stood, tall and stern, the way he imagined his father - no , his uncle - must have stood, as he awaited the blade to sever his head from his body, all those years ago. For the barest of moments, Jon met Sansa's eyes, as if he would find the answers there. She was the one who had witnessed the horrible act, after all. But her face had been carved of ice, her profile forged from Valyrian steel. He looked away.
He was to die today, of that he was certain. He had murdered Daenerys Targaryen. He had slain a queen, and his own aunt. It did not matter that he did so for the realm. It did not matter that he had done it to save his family, and the tired people who were exhausted of fighting. Jon's crimes exceeded a single, bloodied dagger and a sole dead queen. She had murdered thousands, and Jon had not stopped her.
Jon had been in chains when it happened. Varys had succeeded in releasing his little birds, and the news of Jon's parentage had flown quickly through the kingdoms. Even Daenerys' own army had rustled nervously with the news. Her face had been a mask of fury, and she had commanded Jon be left behind, as she took King's Landing - her birthright. There was nothing he could have done.
And yet he could have acted before. Put in chains again, following the death of his aunt, Jon had plenty of time for self-reflection, for his period of mourning and loathing. He could have acted, he could have listened. There were dozens of opportunities where Jon could have spoken softer words, made Daenerys listen to him. The North had needed her dragons to defeat the Night King and his army of the dead, Jon still believed that. She had fought for the living, and a part of him had loved her for it. But she had become the harbinger of death.
Jon stood, awaiting judgement from the lords and ladies of Westeros, with regret bearing down upon him like the Wall itself. His watch had ended long ago, and though he did not weep for the life he had taken with his own hands, he bore the burden of the thousands he had not saved. He deserved to die for his crime of inaction, if not the others he had surely committed.
Instead, they made him their king.
"You also have received a raven from Dorne, Your Grace," Davos said, snapping Jon out of the unpleasant memory. He had not returned to the Dragonpit since that accursed day, but his mind often drifted there when his discipline slipped.
Jon frowned and reached for Longclaw, fastening the sword to his belt. He had been offered all manner of swords and weapons since becoming King, including the one forged from Ice, that Jaime Lannister had carried with him to his death. That, Jon had sent North as a gift for his cousin's coronation, and had simply bestowed the others offered to him as tribute and gift. Longclaw had served him well all these years. A greatsword was impossible to match, and Jon intended to continue carrying the legacy of the now extinct House Mormont.
He allowed himself a moment of silence, paying his respects to his long dead mentor, the young girl who had been the first to declare him a king - even the exiled slaver from across the sea, who had given his life to preserve all of the living. It was only a moment before he raised his gaze once more, and focused on his steward once again.
"Is it an urgent matter?" Davos wore an uncomfortable look on his face, and Jon rolled his eyes. He could guess at the contents of the letter, and Davos' expression seemed to confirm it. "Very well. I will attend to it later today. There are more pressing matters first." Unfortunately, the Small Council meeting was one of them.
Jon hated those meetings. It was the very worst of politicking, what Jon struggled with the most. He was a strategist and a soldier, but the battle plans and weapons used in the world of courtly intrigue and social politics was as foreign to Jon as the lands across the Narrow Sea. The company did little to assuage his discomfort.
It was the worst kept secret in all of Westeros that the King and his Hand loathed one another. Perhaps there might have been fondness between them - Jon had once counted the dwarf among his friends - but there was little love now. There were some days when Jon could hardly stand to look at Tyrion, and he knew resentment grew within the Hand as a result. His appointment was a punishment to them both, though Jon was still uncertain if that had been the intention or not. Tyrion served the king he had betrayed his queen for, then rejected in the dragonpit, only to be reminded of his mistakes, and forgotten by history. Jon knew that some saw it as just. He was not among those.
"Do you have any idea what the point of discussion is?" Jon asked, moving toward the door of his chamber. Davos followed, appearing hesitant, and Jon's eyebrow rose. "Well? Surely it can't be as bad as the last meeting." Jon had only barely restrained himself from upending the table, and he and Tyrion had stood at opposite ends, red-faced with heaving chests, fists clenched tightly at their sides. Jon couldn't imagine today's meeting going quite that poorly. Though the expression on his steward's face inspired little confidence within him.
"I believe they wish to discuss a tourney, Your Grace. A tourney and a masque."
Jon breathed in deeply, reining in the anger that threatened to spill over. His hands were balled into fists, and he knew that if he were to glance down at his hands, he would see that his knuckles were white. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, and he spun to look at Ser Davos, who was fixing him with an apologetic stare.
"I see." It galled Jon to think of the council, sitting around a table, planning an expensive and frivolous event, let alone two . It had only just passed the date marking three years since the aborted conquest of Daenerys Targaryen. The realm still bled, and a tourney was being considered? There was a slight tremble to Jon's fingers, but if Davos noticed, he kept his silence. Bowing his head, he departed, murmuring soft words about another matter he had to attend to before the meeting, leaving Jon to the violence of his own thoughts.
Wrenching the door open, Jon stalked off, not waiting to see which direction Davos headed.
Probably to warn the members of my council of my mood , Jon thought darkly to himself. He knew they found him brooding and temperamental. He didn't care. He hadn't been bred to lead a kingdom, let alone six. His birth had no bearing on whether or not he was a good ruler. He could have been. He had been , once. Jon knew it was the truth to say he had been good at being the king of the North. But there were notable differences.
Stalking down the corridor toward the council chambers, Jon wondered if he would ever truly feel like the true king. He hadn't even felt like the rightful king of the North. Guilt over Robb and his own childhood envy had weighed heavily around his neck. The guilt that, though there was a trueborn Stark far better suited to rule, Jon had taken his cousin's birthright by virtue of sex crept into his heart. Jon had lived a lifetime of guilt. He wondered if any man could feel like a king, with so much of it pressing down.
"Ah, Your Grace! I was hoping you could spare a moment of your time."
Wrenched from the privacy of his own thoughts, Jon gritted his teeth. This was becoming a regular occurrence, every time he stepped outside of the royal apartments. It had only been three years since the Great Burning, but enough of the keep had been restored for the nobles to begin crawling their way back into the city, and attempting to crawl their way into the good graces of their stoic king. Jon hated it. There was nowhere else to house the nobility, he had been told on numerous occasions, without putting the smallfolk and citizens of King's Landing out of their own homes. They had suffered enough, and Jon would not see them forced to give up their shelter and safety, purely for the cruel and selfish gentry who would only turn up their noses in snobbery at such accommodations besides.
Neither though, could Jon refuse the nobility entry and hospitality in King's Landing. They were the lords and ladies of his kingdom, unwillingly acquired or not, and he had to put them up, if not placate him. He knew his council desperately wished he would choose the latter more often, but Jon so rarely did. He had no tolerance for these highborn lords and ladies, who thought only of taking from the Crown's limited coffers, and putting it into their own pockets. It would be a different matter, if Jon ever heard requests that served the common folk, but such instances were rare. Jon recalled only hearing one request that was not utterly self-serving in nature. It was a testament to the patience he had learned in his role of the king, both times he had been crowned, that he had not given into the anger underneath his skin, and simply run the fools through, for daring to voice such petty, selfish demands. Jon could not refuse the lords and ladies hospitality, and he certainly could not murder one under his roof. He was a Snow, a Targaryen - a Stark , his mind still whispered, only at night, only when Jon would allow himself the one indulgence - not a Frey.
But that did not mean that Jon was required to listen to such petitions, when brought to him outside of the court.
"I'm afraid I do not have it to grant, Ser Hardying," Jon said stiffly. He knew very little about the knight from the Vale, and he cared even less. The little he had heard left him unimpressed, to say the least. Harold Hardyng, once the heir presumptive to the Vale, when it seemed that Robert Arryn would die of illness, was the tall, golden knight of the songs that left a trail of broken hearts and swollen bellies in his wake. Jon's tolerance for such men was incredibly low.
Hardyng, however, seemed undeterred.
"It is a brief matter Your Grace. Perhaps I can accompany you on your walk to the council chamber, and make my petition?"
Already turning his brisk pace brutal, Jon gave Ser Hardyng a cold smile, full of teeth.
"I'm afraid I must decline your request, good Ser," Jon said tonelessly, not even attempting to infuse an apologetic note into his delivery. He saw the knight's eyes narrow, and his own narrowed in turn. "I prefer the silence of my own thoughts, in preparation for dealing with matters of the realm. I will be listening to the petitions of the common folk today in court. If there is a chance for you to speak, I will grant it to you then." Jon would ensure that there was no such opportunity, but Harold Hardyng had no choice but to accept the terms Jon laid out.
He was certain he would receive a lecture about this from Tyrion later. He would complain that he had somehow offended an entire sixth of the kingdom, for this perceived - and fully intentional - slight about an annointed knight. Jon didn't care. Harold Hardyng did not hold the Vale, and was therefore inconsequential. Even if he had, Jon wouldn't have allowed him the moment to speak. Jon had never been good at thinking of people as pieces, and he was terrible at the games such players insisted on thrusting upon him. Courtly life suffered for it, but Jon cared not. He was busy rebuilding the kingdoms, and ensuring that the thousands who had died over the course of many wars, had not all done so in vain.
Reaching the door to the council chamber in record time, due to his desire to outpace the Young Falcon, Jon took a deep, calming breath, and opened the door. Immediately, several chairs were pushed back, and Jon allowed his cool eyes to appraise those gathered in the room.
The tension was already thick, and for once, Jon doubted it had anything to do with him. His Master of Ships and Master of Law were glaring at each other across the table, while Sam's eyes darted between Jon and the pair of them. It was unsurprising, given the animosity between the Ironborn and Rivermen, but Jon was irritated nonetheless.
"Sit down," he snapped, shooting Lady Greyjoy and Lord Mallister a glare. His Master of Law, at least, appeared somewhat contrite, but Yara Greyjoy's lip curled, and she turned away from him. There was little love between her and Jon. Jon had accepted Theon - though he never truly forgave the man - based on what he had done for Sansa, and later Bran. That same acceptance did not transfer to Lady Greyjoy. The feeling was quite mutual, given her thirst for his blood following Daenerys' death. However, the Ironborn had needed to be brought to heel, and Jon refused to thrust the kingdoms into warfare once again. Davos had served as his Master of Ships for the first two years of his rule, allowing Yara the chance to settle her affairs in Pyke, before taking over. She was thoroughly unpleasant, but Jon would grudgingly admit that she was excellent at her position, when she wasn't at the throat of Lord Jason Mallister.
Jon had not known the man well, prior to his appointment, but both Tyrion and Davos had assured Jon that he was well suited to be the Master of Law. Jon had impressed upon the Lord of Seagard, when he was named to the Small Council, just how important his role was, due to Jon's lack of familiarity with King's Landing and its customs. While it was true that Jon had received a lord's education alongside Robb - to the perpetual chagrin of Lady Stark - a lord's education was quite different than that of a king. And it had been an education tailored for men of the North, who were destined to remain North for all of their days. Jon had some leeway, given that the process of rebuilding a kingdom did not simply mean the infrastructure, but it was necessary, as the judicial advisor to the king, for the Master of Laws to know both the letter and the spirit of the law.
Glancing around the room, and noting everyone's presence, Jon sighed. "Since we're all present, let us begin. Ser Davos mentioned a matter of discussion. Something about a tourney and a masque?" Jon phrased it as a question, laden with judgement. To his left, Theodore Tyrell shifted uncomfortably, and Jon wondered if his Master of Coin had been the origin of such a suggestion. Carefully examining each member of his council, Jon made his way to the ornate chair set at the head of the table - the king's seat. Refusing to meet the calculating gaze of the Lannister to his right, Jon stared at the other members instead.
"If it pleases Your Grace," Lord Amory Serrett interjected, and Jon almost snorted. He hated that phrase. It only ever seemed to be used before things that would decidedly not please him. As if his pleasure should even matter. He was king. He served only the realm. "If it pleases Your Grace, there is precedent for such an event."
Jon raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued, against his better judgement. "Go on."
Emboldened, the Master of Whispers continued to speak.
"Masques were introduced during the rein of your ancestors, the Targaryens." Jon clenched his hand into a fist underneath the table, but said nothing. He hated the way people so often sought to remind him of his Targaryen blood, as if he could ever forget it. "They were fanciful events of music and pageantry, held during peacetime. It became tradition for a tourney, followed by a masque, to be hosted after a period of fighting, during a time of peace and recovery. The last was held shortly after your birth." After Robert's Rebellion. After the war that had only served to lay the foundations for many more to come. Jon gritted his teeth, but he saw Tyrion give a tiny shake of his head from the corner of his eye, advising Jon against speaking his mind.
Swallowing down a growl, and wishing his Hand was easily ignored, Jon managed a stony expression, and gruff voice. "Let us consider this matter at length, at a later time," he proposed, a compromise that rankled, "And for now turn our attentions to the more pressing matters of the realm."
Thankfully no ambitious, sniveling knights or lords dared approach Jon as he all but stormed his way to the godswood of King's Landing, fury pumping through his blood to the rhythm of his pounding heart. The council meeting had dragged on for close to three hours, and Jon knew if he looked at the palms of his hands, he would find bloodied half-moon marks carved into the callouses, from clenching his fists so tightly.
It did not matter that Jon Snow had been named Aegon Targaryen at his birth. It did not matter that he was the rightful ruler of all of Westeros. He had not been born to rule. He hadn't the mind nor the spirit for him. He spent his days wanting to scream until his throat ran red and raw with blood. Perhaps he would have felt this way, even if he had been sent to the Wall, but that was not his fate. No, Jon had been placed in chains of a different sort, a circlet of silver placed over his dark curls, a crown he had never asked for.
All but collapsing in front of the weirwood, Jon closed his eyes, and reached within for another steadying breath. Before he could calm his racing heart, images of another ruler, another unfit to rule, rose in his mind, unbidden.
“When I was a girl, my brother told me it was made with a thousand swords from Aegon’s fallen enemies. What do a thousand swords look like in the mind of a little girl who can’t count to twenty? I imagined a mountain of swords too high to climb. So many fallen enemies you could only see the soles of Aegon’s feet.” Her eyes had turned bright, joyous. They darkened with something akin to sorrow, only as Jon approached. “The chains were necessary,” she said softly. “I was worried what you might do. How your sister might have poisoned you.”
He had been freed from the chains, long after the screams had stopped. The city still burned. It burned, even now.
“I saw them executing Lannister prisoners in the street. They said they were acting on your orders.” Jon’s voice was hoarse. He felt as though his very body was torn to pieces, sutured only by exhaustion and duty.
“It was necessary.”
“Necessary?” His voice was shaded with true disbelief now, horror building within him as he stared at the Mother of Dragons. Her eyes were wild with righteousness, ablaze with hope.
“We can’t hide behind small mercies.”
Jon closed his eyes. What mercy was this? What mercy did she think she had granted? Jon knew mercy. He had been raised at the foot of Eddard Stark. This kingdom, the damned throne that Daenerys so coveted, the hideous mountain of swords, dreamed of by a young girl who could not count to twenty, was the prize worth the blood and ashes of millions.
“The world we need is a world of mercy. It has to be.” His voice had steeled, but Daenerys did not hear it. She did not notice the way he held himself, as if preparing for battle once more.
“And it will be.”
He nodded, Daenerys’ eyes trained only on him. “Aye, it will be.”
The dagger, though smaller than Longclaw, weighed heavier at his side than his sword of Valyrian steel. It had to be this dagger. Jon was not one for such symbolism, but Arya had handed him the blade, and he had known . This blade had been used to kill the Night King, to end the Long Night, It had been used in a failed attempt on Bran's life, and had launched the War of the Five Kings. This was the dagger of the game, the game that had left the land ravaged and suffering. It would be used once more, and then never again.
“I, Aegon of the House Targaryen, rightful king of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, sentence you to die.” Jon had been raised by Eddard Stark. He knew mercy. He had been taught the lesson of a merciful death.
Dany's eyes widened, but before she could say the command on her lips, before she could bid her son burn Jon where he stood, he plunged the dagger into her heart.
Jon's eyes snapped open with a hoarse cry that sounded like a howl in the wind.
Ser Davos Seaworth sighed as he looked out the window of his solar, to the training yards where his king was currently making a fool of a pompous member of the City Watch. While the Onion Knight had no doubt that the lad had likely done or said something that certainly warranted being taken to task, he could not help but feel pity for the soul that found himself on the other side of the king's always present anger. It was nearly impossible to divest the fury from the king of the Six Kingdoms. So much so, that Davos, in his wry thoughts, sometimes wondered if Jon Snow was not the secret prince of another king. Ours is the fury suited him far better than fire and blood. Though there was often fire in his king's voice and temperament, Davos had seen Targaryen fire. He had watched a city burn. None of that was what he saw in the once bastard of Winterfell.
No. Instead, Davos saw a lost, angry man, struggling under the burdensome weight of a crown he did not want. Davos saw what it was doing to him, each day. Davos knew that the burden of kinslaying, even if just, and necessary for the protection of the realm, was heavy upon Jon's soul. He had not taken to kingship, and soon all would suffer because of it.
It had surprised Davos, in a way that had not surprised others. Everyone knew that Jon was reluctant to be king. Davos knew that Jon had only used his given, royal name a handful of times - one of those being the execution of Daenerys Targaryen. But Davos was still caught off guard by how much his king struggled to rule. Jon was an excellent soldier, and a good leader. Davos had watched his reign in the North, short as it may have been, and he had done well. But he had assistance, and he was in the land he had deeply loved. Finding a sense of belonging had been a lifelong dream of his, Jon had confessed to Davos once, on a cold Northern night, huddled around the fire as the Lady of Winterfell quietly sewed with the skill and effectiveness of any battle hardened warrior.
Now it was clear that Jon did not feel he belonged here. He certainly didn't feel that he belonged as king. He did a fine job of it, with the smallfolk. King's Landing, while still damaged, still recovering, was steadily beginning to thrive again. What was more, it was becoming a place where people wanted to come, something that had been lost long before a silver-haired queen had arrived from across the Narrow Sea. Free from the clutches of lions and dragons, Jon had been instrumental in rebuilding King's Landing. He had often been seen in the streets himself, moving bricks, and laying new foundations. It had greatly endeared him to the people, and word began to spread of the new, benevolent king who could inspire hope. Jon did well with the smallfolk.
It was the nobility that would end his reign, of that Davos was certain.
Jon had no patience for the entitled lords and ladies, and truth be told, neither did Davos. But he was not the king, and he was better at lying about it than Jon. Gods be good, the king - for all his subterfuge with the dragon queen - was quite possibly the worst liar in the Six Kingdoms and the North. His disgust when talking to the pompous noblemen and women was barely disguised - if he ever bothered to try and disguise it at all. Davos was no Amory Serrett, but he heard the whispers all the same. The noble folk did not like Jon. They didn't like him at all, and it was dangerous. Jon's rule was shaky enough as it was. A coup would be catastrophic, not least because it would shatter the tentative peace, and launch the already destabilized kingdoms into war again. Davos found it impossible to shake off his dark suspicion that if Westeros were to fall into war again, it would not survive.
It was therefore paramount that Jon find his footing as a king, and learn the ways of the court, whether he liked it or not.
It was that sense of determination and urgency that Davos channeled as his quill scrawled across the page. His words were plain and unadorned, but he was certain his meaning and intentions were clear. His king would not forgive him for this, Davos knew. He was deliberately going behind Jon's back, and approaching perhaps the one thing that could inspire true Targaryen rage within him. But Davos could live without his king's forgiveness. He knew he would never forgive himself if he let Jon - and therefore Westeros - be destroyed by an inability to handle the court.
"Fly quickly," Davos whispered, fastening the letter to the raven, sending his prayer to the gods as he did so. "Fly quickly, and fly North."