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Silence echoed through the crypts louder than Sam's whispers had, the weight of his words crashing into the walls with a muffled impact, unlike the one they made as they shattered Jon's heart. His first, instinctive reaction was to deny the truth. There was no truth, only lies, and it hurt more than he could have imagined that the betrayal was coming from Sam, his friend, his best friend.
Sam was no liar, though. He had a soft and gentle soul that didn't know treachery nor violence and Jon immediately felt guilty for even thinking that Sam might lie to his face, when he perfectly knew how much the blur surrounding his birth and identity had hurt him in the past. No, Sam wouldn't do this to him.
Taking a deep breath, disbelief still anchored in his dark eyes, Jon turned around. Frozen in the stone like all the Starks before her, Lyanna seemed to belong to a past long forgotten and yet, Jon felt an echo of her beat inside himself. They had the same dark hair... He'd been lucky, he guessed, that he had not inherited the famous Targaryens' silver hair from his father.
His father who... No. He couldn't go down that trail of thought, not now. It was too much, so Jon turned his back on the statue of Ned Stark and strode forward, leaving the past resolutely behind him.
"Jon?" Samwell called, his nervous voice laced with worry, "Jon!"
He didn't look back, for fear of suffocating under the weight of these unveiled secrets floating around the crypts, focusing on his feet and his heart that was about to burst, until he came back to the surface and the world of the living. The cold winds of winter blew snowflakes in his face. Jon was grateful for their familiarity, in his world that had so suddenly been turned upside down, and he took a deep, freezing breath, one that sent cold pain down his throat. This was the North. His land and his responsibility. Just like the Wall had been, once, and so were the whole Seven Kingdoms now, apparently.
He didn't want to think about it. Wrapping his furs tighter around him, Jon crossed the courtyard, catching from the corner of his eye the silhouette of his little brother. Bran... Bran knew, he remembered, Sam had told him as much. His brain unhelpfully supplied that they weren't brothers, not for real anyway, and Jon took angry steps through the snow that covered the hard, frozen ground.
Bran knew, Sam knew... Who else did? Arya? Was that why she'd told him to remember that they were family? Sansa? Was it the reason behind her coldness to Daenerys, to him as well? No. He'd brought the South along with him when he'd returned to Winterfell and the North saw the Queen as an intruder, no matter how heroic and helpful her intentions to fight the Night King seemed. He couldn't afford to forget that...
Jon already felt like he wasn't even a Northerner anymore.
He wished Sam hadn't told him anything. Not now. The war was upon them and he couldn't afford distractions, inner turmoil and endless, silent debates with himself to decide what he should do now that he knew. He didn't want to think about his interest for Daenerys' dragons and the pure, unabashed joy he'd felt upon riding the smaller of the two remaining beasts - but really, the dragon's easy acceptance of him should have been his warning. Dragons only obeyed and accepted Targaryens... Just like a Direwolf would answer to no one but a Stark.
Which was he? Half of each? Both? Jon had never pretended to be a Stark, Catelyn had made sure he would never feel allowed to, but he'd also never fathomed that he could be a Targaryen. He'd grown up as a Snow, as no one, even though his fa... Ned had loved him like he'd loved his daughters and his other boys. His only real boys.
Jon shook his head, trying to keep his anger at the lies and deception buried at the back of his mind, and he climbed the stairs to his bedroom with hunched shoulders, as if the weight of the world had just been dropped onto him - and it had.
He was home, surrounded by people he'd thought were his, his family, and still he felt lonelier than ever before.
Jon didn't speak about it for the next two days, even though he caught Sam's uncertain glances and Bran's unnerving stares. To be fair, he didn't speak more than he absolutely had to, closing up and locking himself into a deep, stubborn silence that his Queen didn't understand, no more than his sist... than Arya and Sansa. The one person he would have wanted to confide into was away, if even alive, and Jon didn't want to think about him while he could not be certain that he was safe.
Jaime Lannister's arrival brought a welcome distraction that he was glad to leave into Daenerys' hands, although her obvious and enduring hatred towards the man made him fear that he would not get a fair trial but would only end up as the victim of a cruel and long-awaited revenge... If the Kingslayer could even be considered a victim, after everything he had done, not only to the Starks.
"We can't harm him," he still chose to remind Daenerys, quietly so. "Cersei is coming with her army, she'll want him in one piece."
Daenerys nodded, though her annoyance was visible - not that she tried to hide it. No one could deny her that quality: she was brutally honest and didn't dissimulate her intentions, whether those were bad or good. Up to a few days ago, Jon would have said that her intentions were mostly beneficial for all of them as she aimed to destroy the army of the Dead. Now that he knew about the fate of Sam's family, however, he was starting to wonder... Were all the Targaryens meant to become tyrants? What did that make him?
Jon closed his eyes. The answer was in Sam's words, who'd reminded him that there were other ways... Which he'd proven himself already, back when he'd saved the Free Folk instead of leaving them to die beyond the Wall. Sam was a wise man and Jon couldn't forget his last question. It was haunting him, running in his mind tirelessly through days and nights as he looked for the answer, not the one he would like but the one that would turn out to be their reality: would Daenerys give up her crown to do what was right?
Staring at her and her pursed lips as she seethed, sitting with her back straight and stiff but somehow still managing to look comfortable there, like she belonged on that seat, Jon felt his heart give a desperate squeeze, akin to a warning, and he knew what her answer would be.
Jon only came out of his stupor when a familiar mop of red hair and a beard of the same shade made their way inside the walls of Winterfell. He had to fight his need to run and wrap Tormund in a tight, relieved hug, not only because he'd never done that before and his wildling would know something was wrong as soon as he received Jon in his arms, but also because Tormund stood before the Queen when he saw him for the first time in months.
The man had never bothered to learn proper etiquette and couldn't care less about titles and whatnot, and Jon swore he saw Sansa's lips curl in a subtle smirk as Tormund kept forgetting to address Daenerys by Your Grace - which Missandei pointed out several times.
"... stopped by the Last Hearth," Tormund was saying, "and nearly got myself gutted by an eight-year-old boy with bright blue eyes."
"Ned Umber?" Jon asked, not bothering to hide his horror.
Everyone else understood it as distress at the reminder that the White Walkers killed without mercy, even children, but only Tormund grasped the fear in Jon's voice, the pure terror as he realised that he could have lost him without a chance to save him nor say goodbye.
"Aye..." Tormund answered him softly, carrying a fleeting moment of intimacy between them even as they were surrounded by dozens of people - and then he added, after a pointed look towards Missandei, "Your Grace."
The woman looked affronted while Tormund smiled pleasantly, as if he didn't understand what he'd done wrong this time - perhaps Jon was the only one who could see it but there was definitively a hint of mischief and pride shining in these eyes. Sansa let out a quiet but amused snort and quickly turned it into a small cough that mostly went unnoticed, but Tormund was still smiling. He even looked innocent but he wouldn't fool Jon: he could pretend to be an uncultured wildling all he wanted but he perfectly knew what he was doing when he used (or forgot to) the royal address. He was loyal to a fault and Jon loved him for that.
Jon caught the side-glance Tormund spared him and he had to bite his lip to refrain from laughing - didn't it say a lot about their relation that the wildling managed to make him laugh, especially in circumstances as dire as these ones? He barely noticed as Daenerys ended the session but once he did, he rose to his feet slowly, waiting for the room to empty so that he could walk up to Tormund who had remained standing and still. He only moved when Jon brushed against him, prompting him to follow, and they left the room side by side.
"How long do we have?" Jon asked as they walked through the courtyard, the snow cracking under they feet.
The other man didn't need clarifications to understand his meaning, both of their grim faces were enough for them to know that they were on the same page.
"Before the sun comes up tomorrow," he answered.
Jon nodded and led the way quietly. Tormund didn't ask where they were going, not even why when it became clear that they were headed for the tent that had been installed for the redhead, amongst the other tents pitched for the Free Folk. Jon's own chambers might be far more comfortable, still he didn't want to go there... Hadn't even managed to sleep there for the past few days, as the secret Sam had revealed to him made him toss and turn beneath the furs of the bed for hours. Did he even deserve to sleep in these chambers, he who did not quite belong to the Starks?
Tormund loosened the ties that kept the tent flaps open and as soon as they were shielded from the outside, he wrapped a possessive arm around Jon's waist and pulled him in until they were standing flush against each other. Before Tormund could lean down and kiss him though, Jon turned his head, his voice raspy as he whispered:
"I need to talk to you."
He had to tell him. Tormund deserved to know the truth and if this day was his last to live, he didn't want to die keeping secrets from his lover. Jon raised his hand to smooth down the crease between Tormund's eyebrows but his fingers quickly got trapped into the other man's strong but caring grip.
"What's wrong?" the taller man growled in worry, "What is it?"
So Jon told him. He whispered the truth between their bodies, repeated the words Sam had said in the crypts, added a few explanations about the Houses of Westeros and other elements of history that Tormund didn't know, as this kind of preoccupations was the very least of the Free Folk's problems.
"Heir to the fucking throne, eh?" the redhead concluded, looking both like he didn't care at all and like he had a hard time slotting this brand new information into the grand scheme of things. "Who would have thought the pretty crow was actually a pretty king?"
"Very funny," Jon shot back with a roll of his eyes, although he appreciated Tormund's attempt at comforting him, his words aided by his thumb that gently crushed the wayward tear that had pearled from his left eye.
"I'm a funny man," Tormund confirmed with a cheeky smile.
That's why you love me was left unsaid, although Jon heard it all the same. Wildling or not, Tormund was shy when it came to grand, heartfelt declarations. Another point they had in common, which meant they'd become masters in deciphering the hidden affection in each other's words.
"So," Tormund said, looking like he was bracing himself for the worst. "What now? We tell her silvery grace we don't need her no more?"
Jon shook his head and finally broke free from the redhead's grip, his shoulders hunching under an invisible weight as he looked down, his eyes unfocused.
"We can't," he whispered. "She's our only hope to defeat the army of the dead."
"And after that?"
Jon looked up, flustered. Tormund sounded confident, as if he was certain that they would make it out of that mess alive, and Jon was almost ashamed to realise that he hadn't planned for the future, not really. Winning this war had been his only priority, not for himself but for the people, hence his decision to stay quiet about his true identity instead of starting a war in the middle of another. He hadn't stopped for one second to think of what he would, should or could do once it was over. As if he'd already believed he would be dead by then... Perhaps he would end up dead anyway but right now, Tormund's assurance was a soothing balm over his own doubts.
"I bent the knee," Jon reminded him on a low tone, before he turned away from Tormund. "I made a promise."
"Aye, but the Free Folk didn't. I didn't. There's only one person I'll follow to victory or death and that's not the bloody dragon queen."
Jon stayed silent, although he was secretly touched by the other man's implied meaning. Tormund's was the sort of loyalty that could cost him his life if the wrong people heard about it - but Jon wouldn't let it happen.
"You're no man to shy away from your responsibilities," Tormund added, as if to drive the point home. "That's not who you are."
"That's the problem!" Jon exclaimed all of a sudden as he faced his lover again, his hands curling into tight fists. "I don't know who I am anymore! I was a Snow and I was... well, not fine with it but I could deal with that! I told myself I'd never be a Stark no matter what I did, no matter that they called me King in the North and now..."
Jon grew quieter then, remembering that although they were alone in this tent, anyone who walked by and paid attention would be able to hear him. This wasn't a conversation that he wanted to be brought to anyone else's ears.
"Now," he whispered, closing his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by a feeling of impending doom, "I'm a Stark on my mother's side and a Targaryen on my father's. I don't know how to deal with that."
Tormund pushed Jon's chin up with one finger, forcing him to strain his neck to look him in the eye. The shorter man blinked while Tormund didn't, his face set in a serious mask that he seldom wore when they were together, for he didn't want to be grim when they could laugh as they made love and enjoyed each other's presence. Jon had always been the brooding one.
He was surprised when Tormund cupped his face and rested their foreheads together, making him feel like a small thing in need of protection - but his shield was right there, surrounding him, wrapping him into its reassuring aura.
"Look, I'm not good with words and you know that," Tormund groaned, his words crashing onto Jon's lips, "You want to know who you really are?"
Not waiting for an answer, he pulled back a little and one of his hands fell down and stopped lower, fingers splayed over Jon's heart.
"It's all right there," he said, before he added out of the blue, "The wolf king, you loved him?"
"Robb?" Jon asked, confusion briefly colouring his face. "Of course I did! He was my b..."
"What about the little one?" Tormund interrupted him, his eyes so impossibly soft that Jon immediately knew who he was talking about.
"Rickon," he said, his voice tight with regrets and guilt.
"You loved him," Tormund said again, although it wasn't a question anymore. "They were your brothers, even when you weren't a Stark. So what, you're a Tar-whatever now? That doesn't change the love you had for them. Does it?"
"Of course not!" Jon cried out, suddenly angry that anyone could ever suggest otherwise, angry at himself too, because Tormund was only speaking the words he needed to hear and... he wished he didn't have to tell them in the first place.
Jon loved his siblings - and it didn't matter whether they were his actual siblings or his cousins. He would have sacrificed himself for Robb or Rickon in a heartbeat if he'd had the choice and he would have been glad to do it, if it meant his brothers lived on.
"There's your answer," Tormund whispered with a nod. "Your name doesn't matter. You don't have to learn to be a Stark or a Targaryen, because you're someone already. You've always been."
The dry lump in his throat was hard to swallow but Jon vowed that he wouldn't cry, not even as he covered Tormund's hand still resting on his heart. He chuckled, the slight amusement he aimed for coming out a little strangled and wet, prompting the redhead's confusion.
"I thought you weren't good with words," Jon murmured, "but you are. Thank you."
"Shut up," Tormund growled to hide his embarrassment, his fingers curling onto Jon's cloak of fur in order to bring him closer and finally kiss him, effectively ensuring that no other word would come out of his mouth.
They were standing on the ramparts side by side, on the lookout for the Night King as the darkness of the night came and brought more snowflakes to Winterfell, thicker and colder than the previous day. It would not take long anymore, Jon was sure of it, and Tormund seemed to share his thoughts.
"If things go wrong," he started, the snow in his beard nearly managing to hide all the red of his hair, "promise me..."
"Don't," Jon said. "I don't want to hear it."
"Oh but you will," Tormund shot back, "I want you to promise you'll burn my body if I don't make it."
"But you will," Jon repeated his lover's previous words, "You have to."
He had already burned the body of someone he'd loved before. He didn't want to do it again.
"I promise," he eventually whispered, feeling Tormund's gaze weigh on him and knowing it wouldn't go away for as long as he was being stubborn and unreasonable.
"Good. I promise I'll do the same for you."
"You're too kind," Jon muttered, hoping that neither of them would need to say farewell to the other.
"One of my many flaws," Tormund admitted with a grin.
Jon snorted and huddled closer to the taller man for warmth - and strength, drawing courage from their brushing arms and shoulders, their hands just an inch apart, lonely silhouettes that seemed to melt into one another as they waited. Jon glanced at his lover, taking in his focused eyes set on the horizon, and he had the silly thought that tonight, they all were the watchers on the walls.
"What are you smiling at?" Tormund wondered when he noticed him staring.
"You," Jon answered truthfully. "I'm glad you're here with me."
"I told you I'd only follow one person into this mess..." the redhead reminded him with no small amount of pride in the smile he flashed him. "You, Jon Snow."
There were many things in those two names he said: a bastard turned king and the heir to the iron throne but mostly a crow, a pretty one at that, and a man who wanted to save people rather than to burn them to ashes; he was a friend and a lover, a commander, a brother in arms... He was and he existed and he belonged, and maybe... Maybe Jon was fine with all of it, and he entwined their fingers with care as he finally returned Tormund's smile.