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The words King in the North still rang through Jon’s mind as he made his way to his chamber. His hands shook on the railing as he made his way up the old kitchen stairs, far away from where any Lord could catch him in conversation.
None of this felt real. None of this could be real.
His heartbeat was pounding in his ears. King. How could he be King?
He swayed a bit on the stairs and gripped the railing tight.
“Your Grace, are you alright?”
He turned quickly, saw an old servant calling from the bottom of the stairs. Bess, who’d survived Theon’s rebellion, survived the Boltons. She’d worked in Winterfell’s kitchens since Jon was a child, had scolded him for eating too many of the sweets meant for his siblings.
“I’m fine,” he called down.
Once Bess would have huffed, would have insisted Jon eat a bowl of broth so he wouldn’t faint and worry his lord father. But now…
“Of course, your Grace. My apologies for bothering you.”
Jon forced himself to turn his eyes ahead, to continue up the stairs, to not let the fear gripping his stomach freeze him.
He moved himself forward, one step at a time, willing himself to keep walking. He couldn’t wait to reach his room, to take off the heavy furs with their embroidered wolves.
He’d been so touched when Sansa made them for him. As a child he’d never been allowed to wear wolves, for fear someone would think he was claiming a name he had no claim to. So to receive Stark heraldry made by a member of House Stark, made by his sister, to be asked to wear it proudly, had been one of the greatest honors of Jon’s life.
But now, the furs felt too heavy, and the wolves' eyes stared at him with slight disappointment. Eyes that said he wasn’t enough.
Finally he came to a familiar worn wooden door and swung it open, ready to collapse onto his bed.
But someone was already inside.
For a moment, Jon tensed. But then he registered the shock of red hair, the bulky frame clothed in furs.
Tormund.
Jon let his shoulders drop, let himself breathe easy.
“What’re you doing here?” His voice felt lighter than it had been in days.
“Well, a lot’s happened in the past few hours. Thought you might want to talk through some of it, little Crow.”
An almost bizarre relief swept over Jon when he heard the old nickname. When Tormund had first styled him “little Crow” he’d thought it was meant as a slight. But now, said with such friendship, such tenderness…
Jon found himself rushing forward, crashing into Tormund in a desperate embrace. Tormund pulled his strong arms around him, and Jon felt himself settle. Felt familiarity and safety sink into his bones for the first time in hours. For the first time since the Lords of the North had stood and called his name and made him King.
He shuddered a bit and pulled away.
Tormund kept one hand at his shoulder. Jon didn’t move it.
Jon knew he needed to talk about this, knew he needed to release this ugly fear that had made its home inside of him. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
So instead he said something simpler. “How’d you find me?”
Tormund chuckled. “I asked the people in the kitchens where you were staying. Figured you might want to see a friendly face.”
Jon smiled. “Thank you. But if I’d known you wanted to talk, I would have taken you to a larger room.”
They stood in the chamber Jon had slept in during his childhood. The room was tiny, barely big enough for his bed and his chest of clothes. Tormund’s massive frame looked a bit ridiculous in it, seemed to swallow all the space in the room.
Sansa had tried to get him to take the Lord’s chamber when they retook Winterfell, but it didn’t feel right. That wasn’t his place.
Now he supposed he’d be forced to relocate to another room. A King could hardly get royal messages sent to a dusty room near the kitchens.
It wasn’t his place…
Jon was startled from his thoughts by the sound of Tormund throwing himself onto Jon’s bed. The old mattress groaned under his weight.
“Room seems big enough to me, little Crow. Come lie down and rest with me.”
Jon almost hesitated, but he was too tired to argue it. He walked over to the bed, nestled in close to Tormund’s side, took simple comfort from his heat and the feel of his breath raising and lowering his chest.
He knew he should worry. He’d slept beside Tormund many times before in the days when he walked among the Free Folk. Had spent many nights cuddled up between Ygritte and Tormund and any number of other people. Jon had protested at first, concerned with propriety. But the nights Beyond the Wall were harsh, and you needed to take warmth anywhere you could find it.
But things here were different. In Jon’s childhood, if anyone had walked in and seen two men lying in bed together, that’d be enough to get them sent to the block.
Though, he supposed he was safe. He was King after all. What would they have him do, execute himself?
A hysterical laughter started to bubble up from his throat, ringing loudly through the room, making Tormund sit up in alarm.
“Jon-”
“I can’t, I can’t-” He couldn’t stop laughing, laughing, laughing.
To his horror the laughter started to turn into something else, and soon desperate tears were streaking down Jon’s face.
He’d never cried in front of another man. Even as a child, he’d held strong in front of his father, wanting to prove he was as noble and brave as trueborn children.
But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be.
“I can’t. I can’t-”
Tormund’s hand was rubbing circles on his back. “Can’t what, Jon?” he asked, voice quiet, understanding.
“I can’t do this,” Jon whispered. “It’s not my place. It should be Robb or Bran or Rickon or Father. I’m just the last one left, but it can’t be me. I’m just a bastard. I can’t-”
Tormund shushed him, and put his arms around him, and stroked at his hair. Tormund rocked him and comforted him, and in some distant part of himself Jon wondered why he felt no shame.
Maybe because this man knew him. Because this man had experienced battle and death alongside him. Would never judge him as weak.
Soon enough, Jon calmed down, felt a bit sheepish. He almost wanted to pull away from Tormund. But his warmth was such a comfort.
“Better now, little Crow?”
Jon nodded, laying back with Tormund and settling back into the mattress. “Aye. I uh...I hope you keep - that - between ourselves.”
Tormund scoffed. “Do you take me for a gossip?”
“No I just...thank you.”
“Of course. And you can do this, you know. You’ll be a grand king.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in Kings.”
“I don’t, but you were chosen, not born to it.”
Jon scoffed. “I was only chosen because of my family. I guess after everything, they’ll take even the shadow of a Stark.”
Tormund shifted, looked at Jon directly in the eye.
“You were chosen because you took back this place from monsters and vowed to protect your Northerners from the icy death that waits for them. They chose you because you proved yourself.”
Jon huffed, but Tormund held his gaze, eyes piercing.
“They chose you because you believe in you. And even if they don’t...we do. I believe in you.”
His eyes were full of trust, sincerity. Jon didn’t know if he could fully believe him, but still hope sparked in his heart.
He settled back against Tormund. They lay silent and still.
He didn’t know what the future would hold. But for now, he lay in the arms of someone he cared for, of someone who believed in him.
And that was more than enough.