Work Text:
He never knows who he will wake up to.
They are all there with him, more real than he feels. Some he brought with him, dead or alive, some had found him after a while. Some had already waited for him.
Sometimes it is his father. Ned, not the man he never knew. They walk in the vast emptiness of the land, side by side. Ned doesn’t say much. It suits Jon.
Sometimes it is Rickon, running ahead with the wolves, rolling around in the snow, laughing like he used to as a kid.
On some days it is Theon, youthful and arrogant, huddling close to the fire and moaning over the cold. He annoys Jon. He makes him laugh.
Sometimes Robb will be there in the morning, sleepy smile and warm blue eyes, just like he looked when they were boys and sneaking into each others rooms to tell whispered stories until dawn.
Arya is there, arms slung around her knees as she tells him what is west of Westeros, or dancing around him with her weapons. Show off, Jon calls her and laughs when she pretends to stick him with Needle.
Often it is Ygritte, mocking him, kissing his lips and laughing when he blushes. She feels more real than anything. This is her home, where her soul is alive.
The only one he misses is his Queen. But maybe she’ll come to him, in time. Maybe she’ll forgive him. Maybe, one day, he’ll forgive himself.
He’s never alone. They’re with him all the time, Benjen, Edd, the Old Bear, all of them. Maybe it is madness that makes him see them, makes him able to hear them, talk to them. Feel them.
He doesn’t care. If this is madness, he welcomes it.
On some day he wakes up to reality, to Tormund’s hot body next to him, drawing him close. Jon always comes willingly. This, too, is a part of peace. It grounds him in the here and now when he wants nothing but the ghosts he had loved.
Every now and then a raven reaches him. From Winterfell, from Horn Hill, from Storm’s End, from the King’s Hand. He likes to read about the living, to hear they’re well. He never answers. He never goes back. The world can go fuck itself.
He’s home, at last. With his wolf and his friends and those who had loved him the most.
***
“Who is he? The man with the wolf?”
“Aah!” Tormund looks down at the child gazing up at him. “He once was a king, you know?”
“A king?”
“Aye, a king. And he was a good king. He fought many battles for his people, he killed for his people, he even died for his people. He died and came back. He rode dragons and fucked Queens and stared Death in the face. Aye, he was a king.”
“But what is he now, if he isn’t a king anymore?”
Tormund turns to watch the man and the beast at his side, striding across the snow, a stark black figure against the white of the heaven, of the snow.
“A free man.”