Chapter Text
Dust particles floated listlessly along in the beam of the cold, dying, Autumn sun visible through the cracked and broken blinds at his window.
Idly, Jon wonders where they all land - there were so many of them – before he realizes that he really didn’t give a shit, and so he stops wondering.
He has more important things occupying his mind. Or rather, one important thing. The phone is ringing. The phone is ringing and he doesn’t know why.
It was Wednesday.
No one called him on Wednesday.
His father called on Sundays.
His shrink called on Mondays.
Robb called on Tuesdays.
Sansa called on Thursdays.
Arya called on Fridays.
Sam called on Saturdays.
No one called him on Wednesdays.
He wasn’t sure whether it was because they had all collectively – in the not-so-secret pow wows they all have about him behind his back - realized that he needed a day off from their well meaning, yet smothering support – or whether it was because they had run out of people in the rotation to call him. He supposes once Bran is a little older Bran will call on Wednesdays. But right now, no one calls him on Wednesdays.
And yet, someone is.
But that doesn’t mean he is going to answer it. He is in no mood to talk. He never is anymore. But he certainly in no mood to talk to someone outside of his regular (more like fucking mandatory) scheduled calls.
While letting the unknown number ring itself out to completion he reaches for his crumpled pack of cigarettes lying on his beaten down coffee table, plucking one out and sliding it between his lips.
He flicks his lighter once, twice, three, four, fucking five times to no avail before giving it a shake. The damn thing is out of gas.
He sighs. If there’s one thing he knows it’s that he’s been stagnant, stationary, still for far too long if he manages to make it through a whole lighter. If he were living his life the way he used to, the way he used to be able to, then he would be constantly losing them and buying new ones, or forgetting them at home and buying a new one while out and about.
But he hasn’t been out and about. He’s just been here. In this crappy shithole of a flat. Doing fuck all but smoking and drinking. Endlessly angry, and unable to bring himself to even worry about what it is he is going to do with the rest of his life.
Begrudgingly rising from his couch he pulls open a few drawers, rummaging through them, looking for another lighter. When that search proves fruitless he turns out the pockets of the many dirty and discarded pairs of pants lying about his floor hoping to find one there.
Still without luck he ambles over to the oven and turns the element on, waiting for it to heat and using that to light the cigarette still held between his teeth before flicking it off and moving over towards the window giving a rough pull on the cord attached to the askew blinds, drawing them up – which causes them to crinkle even further out of shape – and taking a long drag, smoke filling his lungs.
The sky is a whirling mixture of pinks, oranges, and reds. It’s going to be a sunny day tomorrow. But he doesn’t see the beauty in the sky, and he doesn’t care about the weather. His day will still be the same tomorrow as it was today, as it was yesterday. He will still be the same.
The sight, if possible, actually manages to make him feel even more fucking agitated so he reaches for his glass of whisky and takes a large gulp. He doesn’t even feel the burn of it any more. That’s another thing he should be worried about if he could ever be bothered to worry about anything.
He takes a moment and tries, really tries, to appreciate the splendour of the sky. After all, he used to love the North, everything about it. He’d been born there, grown up there, lived there his whole life. He used to think it contained the most beautiful landscapes in the known world. But he hated it now. Now when he looked at the North he saw himself: hard, jaggered, broken, unforgiving, and cold. The North had taken and taken from him and he had become the North. It and him were one and the same.
And he hated them both.
His phone begins to ring again, riling his anger and undoing any of the calm that the nicotine and alcohol had managed to seep into his system. Out of the frustrated need to make it stop he grabs the blasted thing and answers.
“What?” he barks roughly to whoever had decided it would be a good idea to try to contact him.
“Hello,” answers a studiously polite male voice, “Am I speaking with Jon Snow, the White Wolf of Westeros?” he adds the last part far too cheekily for a stranger.
Jon runs his hand violently through his hair and cannot contain a groan.
When he’d left special ops and been discharged, the Westerosi military, in their eagerness to make a poster boy out of him, had published various details. About him. About his time in service and his time undercover. Including his fucking codename. And the godsdamned media had latched on and went running with it.
“Who wants to know?” he replies gruffly.
The man simply lets out a merry little laugh and says, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Well, Sergeant Snow,”
“It’s just Snow now,” he interrupts, irritated, “I’m not in the military anymore.”
“Very well,” the stranger responds, nonplussed. “My name is Tyrion Lannister and I am the executive producer of Dancing with the Stars for WBN,”
He’s heard of the show, of course. It was a massive cash cow for the Westeros Broadcasting Network. But he had no idea what that had to do with him…
“And we were very much hoping that you would agree to be one of our contestants in the upcoming season.” Says Tyrion eagerly.
What the fuck? Maybe he really had been spending too much time by himself and now he was starting to hallucinate.
“Isn’t that show just for washed up actors trying to remain relevant, and social media personalities clawing for more fame and publicity?” he asks scathingly.
“Certainly not,” replies Tyrion, and he sounds rather offended. Not that Jon gave a fuck. This whole thing was a joke. “We pride ourselves on including influential people from all corners of the social, cultural and political zeitgeist.”
“Whatever.” he grumbles, unimpressed by this Tyrion’s grandstanding. “I don’t dance.”
The man on the other end of the phone had the temerity to chuckle at him and he bristles at the sound.
“I know that. That’s the point. None of our celebrity contestants dance. They…”
“I’m not a fucking celebrity either,” he interrupts him with a growl. Enraged.
Tyrion tsks as though scolding a child, “I’m afraid you are whether you want to be or not. Westeros is rather enamoured with the tale of the dashing young special ops agent tragically wounded in the line of duty only to survive and emerge as a hero. A symbol of endurance, survival, honour and patriotic pride,” his voice had taken on a sarcastic edge which Jon begrudgingly appreciates and is amused by – he thought that the spin the Westerosi Military had put on his story was ludicrous as well. He wasn’t a hero. He was a patsy. And they were using him to promote their own agendas. “Your story has hit every network, every newspaper, every magazine and blog, and the people want more. They want more of you. That, Jon Snow, makes you a celebrity.”
“Yeah, well. I don’t want to be a celebrity. I don’t want to be paraded around like some show pony just so your viewers can feel like they actually care about something real.” He snaps back.
“What makes you assume that they don’t care?” Tyrion asks sounding genuinely curious.
He is quickly losing his patience with this ridiculous conversation. “If they were the sort of people who cared then they wouldn’t be wasting their time watching inane pseudo-reality television.” He states firmly and flatly.
“That,” responds Tyrion, “is an awfully narrow minded point of view. People are perfectly capable of caring about the world and simultaneously enjoying a bit of good natured escapism.”
He snorts – that isn’t exactly in line with his experience of the world. Or of people for that matter.
“I doubt it. And I’m not interested. So…”
“Just let me give you a quick elevator pitch before you hang up on me. Please.”
Jon merely grunts his assent wondering why he isn’t just hanging up on this guy.
“Alright, well, money talks so I’ll start there. You would receive a $125,000 signing bonus, and can make up to $300,000 all up depending on how far you make it through the elimination process. As a contestant you would be paid $50,000 for each of the final two episodes, that’s an additional $100,000, were you to make it that far. And, well, I’ve got a good feeling that you would.”
He balks at the potential total sum. Hell, he’d balked at the figure of the signing bonus alone. All that money just to twirl around like an idiot for two months or so? It does give him cause to hesitate and consider.
He needs the money. It’s true. The military may have discharged him honourably. They may laud him as a hero. They may tout his name in press releases and interviews. But really all they had left him with was a bunch of scars, a jaded opinion of people and of the world, very few skills that were transferrable to life as a civilian, and a piss poor pension that was nowhere near enough to get by on.
For fuck’s sake - not that he would have stayed even if they’d begged - but he hadn’t even needed to be discharged – honourably or otherwise. After eight months of recovery and physical therapy he was in as physically fine shape as he had ever been (if you ignored all the drinking and the smoking).
No, he wasn’t discharged because his body wasn’t fit for service, he was discharged because his opinions didn’t fit with the ethos of the Westerosi Military. And to those crooked bastards an out of line mind was worse, far worse, than an out of line body. The honourable discharge, the medals, the ceremony, it had all been to placate him. All in hopes of shutting him up about what he’d seen and what he thinks. The things that still bother him to this day.
Taking his prolonged silence as potential disinterest Tyrion changes tactics. “Well, if it’s not money that you’re interested in you should know that many contestants come on the show to promote an interest or agenda that is important to them.”
“I don’t have a line of fucking cookbooks in the works if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Jon scoffs.
“That’s not what I’m insinuating at all,” Tyrion’s tone has changed. When he speaks next it is with a solemn seriousness that has Jon taking notice whether he wants to or not.
“I’ve heard rumblings, rumours, that your discharge had more to do with your stand on the abysmal rights allotted to the people north of the Wall than it did with you or your ability to continue serving the country.”
A long silence follows this declaration as he processes what has just been said, and thinks on what he could possibly say in response.
Finally, he coughs to clear his throat and utters a quiet “Aye, it did.”
“Well, would I also be correct in assuming that you continue to have rather strong opinions on this matter?”
“You might be,” he replies evasively. The military can’t touch him. Not really. Not now. Not after proclaiming to the nation that he was a hero. He’s a free man. A civilian. He can technically say and do whatever he wants. Yet still he remains hesitant.
“In that case the show would give you the opportunity to share with the country what it is you saw, what it is you think. Gain traction. You could tell the public, the people of Westeros exactly what it is the military is doing, and hiding all the way up there in the North. Our contestants do a lot of interviews.”
He does, he so does want the country to know just how unfairly the Free Folk are being treated… but… but… the idea of doing interviews, the idea of being the face of all that…
“So not only would I have to bloody dance, I’d have to talk to a bunch of tosser reporters as well?”
“Well, yes. Yes, that is a part of it. Promotion is a big deal on the show. But like I said, it would give you a chance to speak about the things that are really important to you.”
He wants to. He aches to tell the truth and actually be heard, but the idea of the platform for that being something as stupid as a television show about dancing does not appeal to him in the slightest.
Before he can get further into his own head he declines Tyrion’s offer and hangs up – but not before Tyrion insists on leaving his number with him just in case he changes his mind, which he hopes he will.
A few drinks and a few cigarettes later he stumbles his way to bed.
Another day has come and gone and the sun is setting again. Right on time, as always, Sansa calls him.
He answers reasonably quickly.
The truth is, he likes talking to Sansa.
Sansa is safe.
Sansa had really shown her true colours after he’d been injured and discharged. She was then, and still is, always there for him. And even now, eight months later, while she definitely had certain expectations of him like to start looking after your bloody self, Jon, and was stern about those, she was also soothing. She was almost, he was embarrassed to admit, motherly. And something in him that was still twelve years old craved that motherly love, attention, unconditional support and acceptance. But really, one of the reasons that it was probably easiest talking to Sansa was that they hadn’t been particularly close growing up and so they had little to lose between one another, and everything to gain.
Robb. Well, Robb had taken the cushy job working for his dad’s company right out of high school that – however indirectly, did benefit from the lack of rights the Free Folk had. They never talked about it – but the reality of it hung in every silence, and clung to every unspoken word. Robb now had a pretty wife, and a bouncing baby boy of his own. He could tell Robb felt guilty that he had those things while Jon didn’t. He could also tell that Robb was sometimes angry at him that he hadn’t done the same and just taken the same job at Stark Enterprises that he had. He loved Robb, but there was too much unsaid, unspoken between them for him to ever feel truly comfortable when talking to him.
Arya. Poor, darling, beloved Arya. She just wanted her favourite big brother back. When she called she was loud and rambunctious and did everything she could to always be a lot of fun, to always be talking and joking away in order to keep trying to pretend that everything was the same. But everything wasn’t the same. He had changed, and no matter how much he might want to, for both his, and Arya’s sake, he knew he was never going to change back into the person she missed. The person she wished, and pretended she was talking to. It hurt him the most to talk to Arya.
Ned, his father in all but name, well, Ned felt culpable that Jon had joined the army to begin with. He felt he should have done more to persuade him to stay. And, like the father he had always been to him, he felt irrationally responsible for the fact that he hadn’t been there to protect Jon when he’d needed him most. And Ned absolutely hated the way that he was subsisting now. Which hurt and grated. He felt like he had disappointed Ned in the worst of ways. Talking to him felt like being in the principal’s office.
And Sam… Well, Sam had classic, fucking text book, survivor’s guilt. They had been in the same unit and Jon had been injured while he, he hadn’t. And he was always, in his bumbling way, trying to somehow make this up to him – but all he really managed to do was make him angrier and more frustrated. Talking to Sam only reminded him of all the bad things he so desperately wanted to leave behind.
But Sansa, as he said, she felt safe. He could talk to her because she never really knew him before. He wasn’t a different person to her. He could just be himself, as he was now, and she loved and accepted him as such. And, most importantly he wasn’t tossing away the veil of any preconceived ideals she may have had of him.
But today that feeling of safety might have been a mistake because that sense of security had led to him to telling her all about Tyrion Lannister’s ridiculous proposition.
She had absolutely squealed with excitement.
“Oh my Gods, Jon, that’s amazing. You have to do it. You have to do the show.” She’d implored him.
“No I bloody well don’t.” He’d spat, petulant.
“Well, you don’t have to of course, but it would be good for you. Do you know, Aunt Lysa has been asked to be a contestant on it this year too?”
“Her?” he asked, incredulous. “What the fuck has she ever done that’s noteworthy?”
“It’s because of her lifestyle blog.” Sansa said, as though that explained anything.
“You mean the blog that is vehemently anti-vaccination and instead recommends the all encompassing health benefits of breastfeeding children all the way through primary school? Gods, if that’s the calibre of celebrity they want on there I definitely do not want to be counted amongst their numbers.”
“You’re being awfully judgemental, Jon” She reprimanded him in her usual soft but stern way.
Huh, that’s the second time he’d been told something like that in as many days. He didn’t care much for it at all.
“Go on, Jon. You should do it. You’d be great.” She encouraged brightly.
“Are you fucking with me, Sansa?” he all but yelled, “Why the hell would I want to go on a show like that? Why the hell would I want to dance? It’s all so bloody…”
“What?” she snapped, “Frivolous? Pointless? Shallow?”
“Yes,” he hissed, frustrated. “All of that. It’s ridiculous. A bunch of grown men and women prancing around in costumes, playing pretend, acting as though everything is bright and beautiful when really the world is shit and they are either delusional morons, or worse, they don’t give a fuck about the world or anyone else in it that isn’t draped in an absurd outfit and fox-trotting all over everyone else’s problems.”
“Wow, Jon, why don’t you tell me how you really feel about it?” she responded drily.
His ears burned with a deluge of shame.
Sansa had been ballroom dancing basically since she was stable enough to stand on her own two, pudgy little feet. And she was still actively involved with all of the Amateur competitions and events held in the North.
“I don’t,” he clears his throat, the apology making his tongue feel thick, “I don’t mean you, Sansa. You’re... you’re going to school. You’re going to be a lawyer. You’re actually going to do something more with your life.”
“Oh,” she was snippy now, and he knew what was coming, “So you just mean my mother then?”
He cringed. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to lie… but yes, he does mean Catelyn.
Catelyn Stark, his formidable aunt, had once been the darling of the Amateur ballroom dancing scene of the North. Which would probably be fine but, even long after she’d retired from it, she had never given a damn about anything else. She was absorbed in the fancy, fantasy world of the thing. She had always wanted everything to be perfect. Pretty. A pageant. A show. It was so false, so fake. Everything such a façade. He’d hated it when he’d been a teenager, and now that he was older he hated it even more. It was empty-headed, an absurd way for an adult to live their life when they could be doing something that actually contributed to society.
“I…”
“Forget it, Jon. I’m sorry for snapping at you.”
Gods, he felt guilty then.
She shouldn’t be the one apologising, he should be.
Yes, he didn’t get on with her mother, but that wasn’t Sansa’s fault. Besides, anyone with half a fucking brain cell knows that it is the absolute height of poor manners to insult someone’s mother to their face like that.
“Sansa, I…”
“It’s fine, Jon, I know. But I still really do think you should do the show.”
Despite everything he’d just thought he couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, great. I’m sure your mother would just love that. Another thing for her to sneer at me about. How terrible I’ll be at it.”
Sansa sighed long and hard.
“She doesn’t hate you, Jon. You two just never properly clicked. You were so sad, and angry when you came to live with us. As you had every right to be,” she carries on hastily before he can interrupt her, “But she had five children already, she was rather overwhelmed probably, neither of you made enough of an effort…”
“Look, Sansa,” he says sternly. He wants to be kind, he really does want to, but he just doesn’t think he has it in him properly anymore – not when he’s always so angry. “I know she’s your mum, but she was the adult, I was the child, she should have been the one to make more of an effort.”
“Well, if that’s your logic, you’re a bloody adult now, why don’t you make a bit more of an effort?” She snipes back.
“It’s too late now. The damage is done.”
“It’s never too late for family, Jon.” Sansa implores softly.
“She’s not my family.” He says with a finality that is absolute.
“Fine, if you don’t see it that way then I cannot make you. But I am your family. And I worry about you. You, always alone, holed up in that godawful dingy flat by yourself all day, doing nothing. Or worse, drinking yourself into oblivion. I really think you should do the show Jon, you know, plenty of studies say that dancing is really good for you.”
“I stay in shape, Sansa.”
“I don’t just mean physically. I mean mentally, emotionally. It relieves stress and tension.” She hesitates slightly before adding more quietly, “It’s been shown to reduce depression.”
“I’m not bloody depressed,” he grumbles, sick and tired of that line of thinking. He’s not depressed, he’s angry. There’s a difference.
“Aren’t you?”
He takes a long pause looking around his living room which, he has to admit, is an absolute tip. And he knows full well that the rest of his cramped flat looks just as bad.
“No,” he reiterates firmly. “I’m not, I’m just… I’m just…”
“You’re bitter, and you’re angry,” Sansa finishes for him. “And you have every reason to be after the way they treated you. But you can’t spend the rest of your life wallowing about it. That means they win, Jon. You can’t let them win. Go on the show. Use it to talk about the things that matter to you. Make some money to set you up for a future that doesn’t involve drinking yourself into an early grave. Please.”
“Sansa…”
“Please Jon. Please at least think about it. Do it for me. I love you and I worry about you. Do it for the Free Folk who trust you, who need you. But most importantly, do it for yourself. Do it to give yourself something to do. Do it for the money so you can build yourself a proper future. Do it to get yourself out of this rut you’ve been in for the past eight months.”
Gods, she sounds so hopeful, so certain that this, this stupid show could be the thing that turns his life around, could be the thing the lifts him up and plants him firmly back on his feet, could be the thing that gives him a reason. He can’t bring himself to disappoint her.
“I’ll think about it Sansy, I promise.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” she replies simply. But he can hear, almost, almost actually see, the smile in her voice at the return of the nickname he had always called her when they were kids.
They talk for a little longer, and when they’ve hung up he pours himself a modest two fingers of whiskey, sits himself down on the couch and thinks.
He does need the money. And holy shit is it good money.
He does want to give a voice to the Free Folk who none of the mainstream media will go near.
And maybe, maybe he does need something to do with himself.
He would never have picked dancing.
Dancing is silly, childish, trivial…
But apparently dancing had picked him.
He brings up Tyrion Lannister’s number and hits dial.
“Yes? This is Tyrion Lannister.” Comes a professional voice.
“Uh, hello, umm, this is Jon Snow, we spoke yesterday,” he mumbles, feeling oddly nervous.
“Ah, Jon, how wonderful to hear from you again. Can I perhaps be so bold as to presume that this call means that you’ll…”
“Aye, I’ll do the bloody show.”
“Fantastic,” Tyrion exclaims. “I’m very pleased. Very pleased indeed. This is spectacular news. I’ll email you your contract and everything that you need to know. Ah,” he sighs happily, “yes, this is good. Very good. I have the perfect partner for you. Hmmmm,” he hums, and it sound very much like he is plotting. “Yes, oh, yes, this is going to be spectacular indeed.”