Chapter Text
C.1
Nothing Else Matters
Jon's POV
The first year was the simplest.
It had taken Jon Snow a moon and a half to ride up to Castle Black, trotting through the Riverlands, passing Moat Calin, then galloping through the Gift until he’d see in the faint distance the great wall that frequented his nightmares.
He’d never visit half these locations again so, to be expected, it was quite a somber ride with his guards, who’d left a few days after they rested and watered their stallions.
He didn’t think too much after seeing Tormund, only helping the braver Free Folk move out past the wall little by little and aided the ones that stayed within the walls.
It was not until the second year that trauma swallowed him whole.
Jon supposed that the emptier the castle became, the hollower he felt, burdened with his past.
He thought he was fine until his nights begun to be heavy with thoughts of all those he could not save, ultimately turning sleepless. When that was too much to bear, he started wandering the grounds.
The little Free Folk that remained were beginning to think him a ghost and Jon thought that he might be; a ghost of himself drifting through the phases of the moon, neither thinking nor reasonable. It was fitting as his wolf stalked his every turn.
Ghost quietly whined protests when Jon eventually ended up in the spot he’d done good on avoiding; the location at which he was murdered.
Disassociation and melancholia were common according to healers, though they called it heart-sores and low spirits that were usually fed upon by demons.
Jon was not surprised.
He had many of those.
Feeling as if he was on the outside looking in, the sting of betrayal rushed back to him, coursing hotly through his veins. In a dark haze, he watched the blood rush out of his paling body, and then slowly fade into the silhouette of her.
He’d been there before, twice now, in the blackness. His surroundings had been dimmed and obscure as his vision narrowed in on her fair skin, white hair, and eyes he could never describe.
She was a vision in the snow. And in that vision, Jon saw Dany in him, laying on the ground of the throne room, a knife lodged in her heart, drowning in a pool of her own blood.
The Red Keep had been ash, he told himself, as his body began to unconsciously rock back and forth. It was not snow, he chanted. It was the ash of the thousands she had decimated. It was different. It was not wrong. He did what was right.
But who was to say what was right?
Especially when it felt wrong.
Jon wired his fingers together, noises coming from deep within his throat as his face grew warm.
He pulled himself out of the daze he’d become trapped in, only to see blood on his hands, gripping the edge of a blade.
He’d hurt himself.
The third year, Jon had been ranging beyond the wall for the Wildlings desired more space as their numbers grew.
“We love fucking,” Tormund tried to joke traveling the outskirts of the Frostfangs while Jon attempted to return a smile.
It was fucking cold, and it felt good because it made him numb.
Tiredness seeped into his chilling bones as his horse carried him further west for the harsher of the Free Folk. It had been a nice expedition until they ended up in Land of Always Winter, uncharted and devastatingly frigid.
Finally, Jon thought as his fingers began to burn in his gloves.
Tormund called for him, but he wasn’t sure if it was moments ago or hours ago because Jon was nearly certain he was blacking out.
The only thing he remembered was questioning after why anyone would wish to live in the Valley of the Thenns.
There was no longer any snow that Jon could see as his horse took careful gaits. Everything was ice, and… unnatural, he thought.
The northern chill had never consumed him the way it did others. He had always had enough Stark in him to be able to tolerate the tundra, but the area he was in was excruciating.
An ice cave that looked far too eerie to have been pure was on the horizon but Jon’s horse refused to move any further.
Transfixed, his vision dimmed again…
Ghost’s howl startled him back to reality where he saw his ginger mate looking at him, wildly.
If Tormund didn’t bark at him, “The fuck you went?” Jon would have thought he dreamt it all.
“You know I like to go off alone…”
He still thought he hallucinated it all sometimes.
Tormund decided that they’d take the long way back, just the two of them, after they had dropped off groups of the wildlings in their preferred locations.
His mate wished to go to Hardhome, or what remained of it. Jon suspected that was the area the man wished to claim for his own, no matter how haunted the space was.
Jon said nothing until they passed by the mountain with the arrow-headed peak.
He knew where they were. He would never forget it.
The water had frozen over, and any devastation the dragon fire caused existed no longer. It was like they had never came.
He stopped.
“She saved us, right? I didn’t make that all up in my head?” Jon glanced at Tormund, whose face fell before giving an encouraging smile.
“-With three great beasts and nearly beat them all…”
Jon nodded and pushed on before his friend could speak again.
The fourth year had been the worst.
It was the first time Sansa visited.
Tormund must have sent word to her. He was beginning to catch on.
“A crown, made for our house… Two dire wolves united for the two kingdoms… you see?” Sansa sat in front of him in his gloomy study with a small smile tugging at her rosy cheeks.
She had arrived with a few men that Jon made sure were fed despite his sister insisting that they brought their own rations and supplies to share.
He had just waved her off and put the provisions up for later.
“Two wolves, touching, together.”
Jon grimaced at the word filtering past his sister’s teeth.
Together.
“It represents the union of two kingdoms, and two Starks on the thrones, but honestly… it reminds me of Robb…”
Saying nothing, Jon nodded and forced out an empathetic smile, not wishing to voice that he did not care but hoping that she would catch on to his discomfort. He could already feel his vision fading and the darkness returning for any mentions of those he had lost nipped at what remained of his wavering strength.
Jon was not her. He hadn’t a kingdom that hung on his every word anymore, and he certainly never enjoyed it. He could see it in the gleam in Sansa’s eyes when she arrived. Being royal had always suited her, fitting her like the finest silk. No matter what name he was born with, a bastard is who he is.
There was no reward in the world that made him desire to play any political game, he thought.
“Do you want us to send men up here instead of holding them in our cells, for the watch? It’s a bit… lonely up here, no?”
That snapped him out of it.
Jon sighed, “To watch what? I watch the bloody stars every night.” And the moon that reminded him of her. “And aid the free folk- nothing’s up here, Sansa,” he huffed in the exhaustion he should not feel for he had all the time in the world to sleep.
“Unless His and Her Grace are commanding that I take in prisoners and train the men, you lot would be best to keep them for your armies,” Jon advised.
“You do not have to stay here. You know Bran said what he said to set you free,” Sansa reached over the table to lay a hand upon his growing hair, but Jon winced away.
He did not want to be touched, least of all by her.
And he did not deserve freedom.
He killed a woman in cold blood.
He killed a woman he loved in cold blood.
He killed the woman who saved his life in cold blood.
There was no fight or war between them. She trusted him and he murdered her.
“You don’t look free, so come home.”
“What home?” Jon looked into his sister’s cerulean irises, detached.
“Jon… Do you hate me?” Sansa’s voice was small and her eyes wet.
For the first time, Jon thought she might feel guilt. And that was a terrible feeling, so he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat as he reached over his table and covered her palms, “No. I love you. I love you all.”
He meant it even if his voice was stony and his heart shattered.
That was the problem. He loved them all more than he ever loved himself.
“It doesn’t feel like you do…”
“I am just tired,” he rebutted, locking his jaw as he pulled his hands away sharply.
The fifth year, Arya showed up a moon after Gendry and Davos visited him.
Gendry talked briefly about the Ironborn’s reluctance to submit, once again.
History had been repeating.
Dorne rebelled almost immediately after Sansa took her crown, apparently.
She thankfully never said.
“Had to update your sister on- It doesn’t matter…” Gendry waved off, watching Jon’s mood sour.
Anger had resurged and it felt good, so he motioned for the Lord of the Stormlands to continue while he focused firmly on the fire in the hearth that was in front of the three of them.
“Tyrion insisted I speak to the Ironborn since I am so ‘unalike’ my family, and pretty neutral at this point,” Gendry gave an annoyed chuckle. “Ain’t much of a politician…”
Ser Davos made sure to remind him that Baratheons weren’t much at politicking either, but Gendry dismissed the older man.
It almost made Jon laugh.
He missed them, but when Jon thought back to the bond that formed between him, his former hand, and the bastard bull, he thought back to the boat ride from the south years ago.
Emotion welled in his throat, so he shut down.
“Yara made points so I couldn’t talk her down. But it looks bad, you know? On your brother and Lord Tyrion,” Gendry finished.
“Must be awful.”
“Must be. I wouldn’t really know. I keep to myself and come when called…” The youngest of the three men picked up his goblet of ale, leaning back into his seat.
“Do you like it?” Jon asked upon the man’s lordship.
“Sometimes,” Gendry admitted, looking down. Jon could see the stress marring his forehead and he understood that all too well.
Looking in between both men, “It wasn’t my place to say anything to her back then, was it?”
There was a pause.
Davos shook his head.
“No, but I appreciate it, nonetheless. I have something to call my own and people to help. Maybe I can find a kid like me, and make sure they never go through what I went through-”
“You are a good man,” Jon said to Gendry.
“Sometimes,” his mate confessed as Ser Davos scoffed. “I am stubborn and have a mean attitude. Arya. I mean, your sister…”
Jon sat up at the man’s fumble, glancing at a knowing Davos.
“Lady Stark sailed into my port a few moons ago. She is coming here. Rode with her until we got to Harrenhall… She’s taking a scenic route. I figured I’d let you know so you can compose yourself.”
All suspicion left Jon as he wiped at his face in anxiety.
Arya would see through him immediately.
“Aye, you’re a good man. Thank you.”
“Jon! Jon! Wakeup!”
He was being shaken so hard he nearly fell off his bed. “What happened?!”
Arya sat back on the heels of her feet bewildered. “You were screaming.”
It was all she said for a while.
“You aren’t at all well, are you?” Her tone was grave.
“Define well…” Jon gently laid down his cloak that he grabbed in a haste. “Is that why you came here? Because you were worried?”
“I missed you,” she frowned, her eyebrows knotted in determination. “Come with me. Traveling. Sailing. Let’s get out of here. Let’s get out of Westeros.”
“This is my sentence,” Jon tucked his long curls behind his ears, avoiding her stony eyes.
“Fuck that sentence. It’s dreadful here!” Arya argued.
“It is, isn’t it?” Jon smiled, “I killed her for the better. It isn’t fuckin’ better.”
He shook his head, turning his back to her, which he realized in retrospect was an awful idea when her voice raised.
“And she was going to make it better? By what? Massacring a city.”
Jon flinched and spun back to his sister’s hard gaze.
“Better doesn’t exist, Jon. People will always be shit.”
His heart broke further.
Cynicism was awful on most people, but on Arya, it was truly ugly.
“Stop. She had made impossible things happen before.”
“She would have killed us.”
Arya used to be social and kind, making friends with everyone. Her entire disposition was full of acceptance and understanding until someone insulted her.
Jon attempted to recall what Daenerys could have said to his sister to warrant the hatred harbored before Kings Landing. Nothing. They barely shared more than one room.
“And it’s us against everyone, right?” Jon mused.
Arya nodded.
“If I would have had that mentality, the Night King would have had 4000 more wildlings to his army, we wouldn’t have had her, and we’d all be fucking dead. Not everyone is all evil,” he snapped.
“She was.”
The dismissal in her tone simpered him down to bitter melancholia.
“When I watched Rickon die in front of me, I ran after Ramsay Bolton without hesitation. I thought not once about all the men behind me that would die because I was impulsive until it was too late-”
“She burned down a city, Jon.”
“She watched her child get murdered in front of her, and her best friend get beheaded. If I had never come to her, Kings Landing would be hers, and she probably would have eventually made her way North and still helped us.”
It was his fault, he thought. In the end, it was his fault.
“But we don’t know-”
“Everything that happened, happened this way because of the choices we all made.” It was what Bran had remarked to him privately. “What if you would have ridden down to Kings Landing like you did anyway and murdered Cersei? What if we had all been civil like I said from the beginning instead of spreading secrets and harboring mistrust? What if we chose differently?”
“But we didn’t,” Arya bit. “And you saved us. You did what was right.”
Jon thought himself to be stupid.
Moments before he killed her, Tyrion had told him that she believed that her way is what was superior, so he killed her because he believed that it was not. Not because she rained fire upon the capital… He had been horrified but he still walked away from that.
The hypocrisy that radiated from both him and the Imp in those moments crippled Jon most nights.
“Who is to say what is right and wrong? Because I feel like I used her, and she trusted me- saved us all, and then I killed her. And that is wrong, I think.”
His vision was blurring again, but Jon was certain it was because of the water threatening to spill from his eyes as he struggled to rationalize both his actions and current feelings.
“You saved millions. She was a tyrant. You said yourself she said people didn’t get to choose,” his sister started moving closer and he recoiled.
“That’s the consolation isn’t it?” Jon backed away, incredulous. “Her entire army and advisement had been built upon people choosing her. She was never elected or chosen just because she was some daughter of a king. They chose her because they believed in her, Arya.”
He remembered Lady Missandei standing upon the stone walkways of Dragonstone, her eyes full of both curiosity and confusion at his hesitance.
What if the words she spoke had been heightened sentiments post battle?
“I still feel wrong. I stare at the spot where I was murdered and I see her, murdered.”
“And she would have murdered us too. We are your family. You were protecting us.”
“She was my family too,” Jon finally let the sob that had been festering in his throat bubble over.
Arya’s eyes became glassy.
Her head lowered.
“I didn’t protect her. Everyone told me that I would be a threat to her, and that she would want to get rid of me. Up until the very end, she said together. I promised her, together, and I broke that oath too,” Jon steeled himself, feeling himself begin to drown in sorrow.
“You didn’t love her like family.” Even his sister knew that at this point, all her arguments were futile for her voice croaked with protest as she tried to reach for him. And she couldn’t, because he was far away. Perhaps, physically, she could touch him, but mentally and emotionally, he was no longer around.
“I don’t know what I loved her as. I just know I didn’t love her enough.”
The sixth year, Tormund moved back to Castle Black for a while.
Jon was blacking out incessantly and everyone knew for ravens flooded his study.
Not even the wine and ale could keep him down at night, so he spent them burning every message he got.
A council full of, perhaps, two Great War heroes was never going to be respected in comparison to the previous ones full of some of the greatest battle and political tacticians and fighters of their world.
Nobles knew nothing of a three-eyed-raven, let alone the common folk. And Jon was mildly aware that Lord Varys, before his execution, had sent messages around the continent announcing his true identity making his name whispered, no matter what.
Jon Snow. Jon Stark. The White Wolf. The Queenslayer. The Last Targaryen. The heir to the Iron Throne.
He felt ill.
None of it mattered.
“Would you kill someone you love for-”
“It’s been years mate…” Tormund sat with him in the castle’s great hall in front of a roaring hearth.
Most of the wildlings had finished building their homes and towns north and along the wall.
He was mostly alone.
“You haven’t been around for a while…” Jon commented, knowing very well why Tormund was staying.
He did not deserve him.
“Had to help those idiots but I’m back for a bit,” he took a sip of the castle’s bitter ale instead of his fermented goats’ milk.
“Would you have?’ Jon pushed.
“Depends on how good at fucking she was,” he attempted to jest, before glancing at Jon’s lowering stare.
“I don’t know, crow,” the ginger nudged him. “That’s an impossible decision, but you did what you thought to be best. That has to count from somethin’.”
“Nothing’s changed. People are still fightin’.”
“People are always going to be fightin’,” Tormund sighed. “I got myself into a fight a fortnight ago. Look, I’m still bruised.
The man lifted up his fur to show the purple patch at his ribs.
Jon wanted to tell him that he was getting too old for all of that but did not actually feel like uttering the words.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you… Fuck those people? You said they cheered for your father’s beheadin’… Fuck them,” Tormund shrugged taking another sip from his drink. “She saved us from the people that smell like horse shit.” The Lannister’s.
Jon knew his mate hated the Lion Knight that he swore stole Ser Brienne from him.
“Or… you did good? You saved us from the woman that saved us and went mad? Both are fuckin’ shit.”
Jon knew the man’s goblet was empty because he placed it on the ground and leaned back, his face serious. “You know, I saw you smile for real after the Great War… Thought I was going to see you drunk for days, happy, and with six little sad yous running between your legs-”
“She couldn’t have kids-”
“She had you so wrapped around her soft delicate fingers, she had you, crow, thinking about babes. Maybe she was something special,” Tormund gave a light laugh.
“No, I just- Aye. Would you have hated me if I didn’t kill her?”
“Free folk like strength. Ain’t nothin’ stronger than a man on a dragon, and she was a man on a dragon. But mate, Jon,” the other man exhaled. “You have got to keep goin’. Sadness doesn’t last forever but you sound like you’re looking to be sad.”
“I don’t know who I am without it,” Jon professed.
That night Tormund pulled him back from the edge.
“Crow, are you fucking mad?!” his mate gripped him hard to his chest.
They were both shaking as the man spun to grab at his dark curls, his blue eyes searching for answers.
He might be.
“The snow looked soft. I wanted to sleep in it,” Jon admitted, his voice lofty.
“You can’t even see the fucking snow, Jon, Jon Snow. Come out of it,” Tormund shoved him into the lift.
They stared at each other until Jon cracked.
“I am sorry. I am so sorry,” he sobbed, and once the tears started, they did not stop.
Years had gone by, but everything still felt wrong.
All in his mind, he saw his battered and bruised sister run up to him in the very place he was walking by. All in his mind, he saw Arya with a blackened eye surrounded by white walkers. All in his mind, he saw Bran laying in his bed as a young boy, thought never to wake again. All in his mind, he saw Rickon get shot down. All in his mind he saw the dead rise before his eyes. All in his mind, visions of Robb and their father drifted. All in his mind, he saw the brothers he trusted stab him to death, and in his head, it made no sense that he would do it to someone else.
If the kingdoms fell, he would not blink.
Everyone had been screaming mercy and to keep the peace, but no peace was found.
And then the world moves on…
But Jon could not shake the sounds.
Was the world mad or was it him? Because all he could hear was the wailing wind and echoes of his love in his ears.
His past, the memories of his father, the ghost of his mother, and the whispers of hidden truths gathered around him, suffocating him, and he wished to go home. Jon knew he’d find her waiting.
“It is fine. You are alright,” his mate tugged him close.
*
The midday breeze had just taken shift as the gates to Castle Black opened.
After Jon heard his Lord Commander title get called, he stood and marched down the ramp past some of the Free Folk visiting to offer provisions. He had not a clue what was going on until a great spotted stallion entered the courtyard with his sister atop, sitting regally while surrounded by Northern guards.
A sad smile tugged at his lips.
“Your Grace,” Jon strode to her side, bowing his head before he helped her down.
The travel was not easy, but she made it look so in her dusty rose gown with Godswood embroidery along the trim of her frock.
It had been three years since he had seen her, and seven since he’d returned to the Wall.
“Stop it,” his sister chided him, her red curls swinging low on her back as she motioned for her men to take her mount elsewhere.
“What is it that you are doing here?” Jon glanced around before guiding her to the Lord Commander’s tower.
Sansa ignored him, slowly waltzing through the castle as if she owned the place while the little men that remained bowed and leered at every corner until they reached his study.
Jon pushed the door open for her, and then she gestured for him to take a seat as she shut it.
When Jon did not sit, she huffed in frustration.
Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones for her eyes went from warm as she carefully stepped to embrace him, to cold when she pulled away.
He was kept at arm’s length, physically and emotionally, as she smoothed down the top of his furs and tugged at his raven curls that fell past his shoulders with a rigid smile that did not reach her irises.
“What is it?” Jon glowered.
The last person to make their way up there had been Sam. It had been shortly after Gendry and Davos.
Dark clouds of disease fell upon the south.
Jon suspected it had to do with the ash from the burnt down city and Tyrion’s insistence that people quickly move their way back to clear up the debris despite the foundation of the city being rocky, and the air possibly being unsafe.
According to Sam, theories from both him and the Citadel were in formation about the new viruses infecting what remained of Daenerys’ foreign troops. They were assuming that their bodies were not used to the common sicknesses of Westeros.
It became an issue on responsibility since they had fought for the living, making them just as entitled to the land as any Westerosi and yet, they were not being properly cared for.
“Can I not just wish to see my older brother?” Sansa questioned as her eyebrows drew together.
“No,” Jon shook his head stepping back, expression hard. Sansa was like a double-edged blade; she may care on one end but ultimately, she would push away honor and sentiments to do what she wanted done no matter who it hurt.
None of the information that had ever been given to him had been useful, it only added to his nightmares, so he hardly wished to know what else had been going wrong.
“Well,” she bristled, stepping away from him to take a seat on the chair opposite of the one behind his desk.
“Just come out with it,” Jon said tiredly moving to lean against the table.
“There has been news from Essos…”
Jon froze.
“We had been wondering why Queen Daenerys’ troops still holding Meereen hadn’t attempted to exact revenge before, especially because the realm had been so weak… and we have recently found out,” Sansa stated, removing the small dire wolf crown from the top of her head before she combed her fingers through her red tresses.
Jon waited for her to continue; his entire posture frigid.
“Tyrion had mentioned that she left a commander at her pyramid. As you know, Bran had been attempting to track the Dragon and this Daario Naharis for years and it was not until recently that he found anything anomalous.”
Blinking, Jon motioned for her to keep going but all she did was tilt her head to the side, examining his figure for any discomfort or peculiarities.
“Sansa,” Jon cautioned.
With a sigh, his sister gritted her teeth, “We have reason to believe that Daenerys Targaryen is still alive.”
Jon lifted his chin and hardened his expression so that his sister could not see the white-hot emotion coursing through his body.
He had no idea what it was exactly that went through him, disbelief, relief, regret, anger…
Jon could not process anything but the fire flowing through his veins, journeying through him, and rendering him ill with nausea and light-headedness.
“And I am telling you this because if that is true, which we are almost certain it is, you need no longer stay here for your treasonous actions are void because she lives…”
Blinking, Jon nodded slowly.
“However, I also came here to ask you to please come back home with me so you will have protection-”
“How long has she been alive? How do you know this?” Jon interrupted.
“Bran… and we can’t be sure. Most likely since she had been carried away.”
“She was dead, Sansa,” Jon turned around, feeling his words get caught in his throat and his vision slipping away from him. “I felt her take her last breath.”
Inching around the table, Jon began to organize bits of parchment to distract his hands from shaking and did so until his sisters’ ivory ones fell upon his.
Though he flinched, she held them steady.
“We believe you, but you got brought back. We believe she might have as well… There are red priestesses from all over that claim her to be their liberator…”
Jon swallowed down the vomit that was inching up his throat as he snatched his palms away.
“I think you should come home,” Sansa exhaled.
“How long are you staying here?” Jon questioned, deflecting her statement. “I’ll have the lord’s chamber prepared for you-”
“Jon, are you listening to me?” Sansa stood, her voice raising an octave. “You might be in danger!”
“It’s been years. She knows that I am probably alive, and she still has not come to kill me. I really don’t care for politics either,” Jon gave her a strained smile.
Feeling his face burn and his entire body numb, he started towards the door before his throat closed and knees went weak.