Chapter Text
Winter had come. With it came unspeakable horrors and darkness that threatened to swallow the world, dead men had walked and beautiful monsters had almost killed all life. Jon Snow would always remember the harrowing battle at Winterfell, while chaos surrounded all of them. He remembered dragons spitting fire upon ice, remembered scales beneath his fingers as the pit in his stomach grew deeper and he lost a little more of himself.
By the end, he was but a shell of the man he’d once been, of who he hoped he one day would be. Not the lord of Winterfell, not a Stark, not a brother of the Night’s Watch, much less its Lord Commander (the scars were still fresh on his skin). He had saved the world, it was said, but Jon Snow no longer belonged to it.
While the losses were counted and the rebuilding started, Jon was still surprised he had survived. Both he and the Targaryen queen had been ready and willing to lay down their lives in battle, riding to the end of the world to ensure they wouldn’t be overtaken again as the usual players measured their next moves in their game of thrones.
When he was back, broken but alive (not by choice) Seven Kingdoms was no longer just a name. Sansa had taken the throne of Winterfell for herself, sitting on the chair that had once belonged to their–her father, to Robb. Arya and Rickon were at her side, ready to rebuild the north, the home they once had that was taken from them. Bran had retired himself once more, to wherever in the seven hells he went now, Jon could understand, like him Bran was no longer himself. Would never be again.
They asked him to stay, but he knew he didn’t belong in a different way than he hadn’t growing up. Eyes followed him everywhere, the shadow of him larger than it had ever been, Ghost and Viserion hardly let any man forget who he was.
He started by scouting the lands far beyond the Wall. Making sure the battle was truly over, overseeing the large expanses of white snow covering the edges of the world, wondering why his grave was not marked in the land like so many unknown others.
By the time he accepted whether he wanted or not he remained alive, the world seemed to have shifted on its axis some more. The Wall was being rebuilt, and though his watch had ended upon his brief embrace with death, now there was no one better suited to lead the reborn version of it. The irony didn’t escape him–as didn’t the pity in Samwell’s eyes, when Jon let Visorion’s white wings shadow the wreck that was Castle Black.
Sansa wrote constantly, and he replied with the sparse news he had, an exercise that seemed to stretch what little of him there remained. He felt tempted to go back, to sit beneath the heart tree, looking upon its bleeding eyes and hearing Bran’s whispers in the winds. Then he was reminded there was little Bran could say that he’d want to hear these days, and the feeling of displacement he’d feel back at where should be home would be too much to bear.
He stayed, keeping his vigil for whatever it would be worth.
The first visit happened in a dream. There was laughter in his ears, the sound of wooden swords knocking against each other while snow melted upon meeting his skin. He was in Winterfell, the courtyard spanning further than it should. There was a wrongness to it; he didn’t belong, like in the nightmares with the crypt he’d once had. Those were past him now that he had faced what waited for him down there. The face of his mother immortalized in stone, all the secrets and promises bound by blood.
This was different, the wrongness was him. He was older, beaten down, he was not the boy who ran these halls, who played with swords wishing to hold a real one. Dreaming of being the daring conqueror. How foolish he was; how he longed to go back to those times.
There was someone else, there, a shadow that like him seemed to haunt the scene of two kids playing at being heroes. He didn’t wish to see who it was, truthfully. There were no good answers.
Perhaps it was his father, the one he never met, the one who started a war and lost his life trying to prepare himself for the one to come and failed. Perhaps it was the one he knew, who hid so many things from him. Jon’s rage had known no bounds, his grief was still sitting with him, along with all the other scars from a war he couldn’t escape.
Part of him knew even then that it was neither of them. He’d know the auburn shade of his hair anywhere, the way snowflakes melted on it, covering him in white. Robb looked just like he did the last time they saw each other. Blue eyes meeting Jon’s from across the yard. Then he looked older, graver, hands clasped in front of his body like he was holding Ice, as his father had done.
“Robb…” He whispered, blood seeming to boil and freeze all at once, air fleeing his lungs like he was collapsing in on himself. It was terrible and a bone aching relief to see him once more. He took a step closer.
“Black was always your color.” Robb whispered back, the word echoing low on the space between them. Jon felt like walking through freezing water, swimming against the current as he tried to reach him. “I’ve missed you brother.” Robb said and the words felt like another knife piercing his body, cold seeping through the wound and filling his very soul.
“I’m not your brother.” His voice sounded pained, Robb’s lips were pale as a sad smile graced them.
“Haven’t you realized yet, Jon?” Robb asked, far more somber than he’d ever spoken to Jon in life, “Blood matters really little where the heart is concerned.”
Jon shook his head, he didn’t care anymore. Couldn’t find it in himself to mind things that were now so little, yet so painful. “I should be with you, Robb.”
Robb smiled then, and Jon was just close enough to reach out to try to touch him one last time. He should never have gone away.
“Who says you are not?” Robb asked, as if he knew more than Jon. As if he didn’t wake each morning feeling his loss like a missing limb. His fingers were almost at his cheek, grasping for him, for something he couldn’t have anymore.
He woke with a gasp, Ghost’s red eyes watching him intently from his spot next to the bed, too big to share it with Jon now. He was cold, colder than he’d ever been at the wall, and the feeling of being so close yet so far away from Robb made his chest ache with a pain he had thought not forgotten but settled beneath all the newer pain and grief he faced.
It was as if all his wounds had reopened, bleeding out again and threatening to make him even more of a wreck than he already was. Jon Snow wanted nothing more than to walk out into the night and let the dark and the cold swallow him whole, bury him so that he could perhaps be with his brother once more. He didn’t. And as the day rose Jon still couldn’t understand why.
In the following days, while overseeing a large portion of the wall being rebuilt, using more than just ice this time around – whatever they were, they were not Bran the builder – and the tearing down of a wrecked part of the castle, Jon wrote and burned at least a dozen letters addressed to Sansa. His words seemed to fail him, and he felt like a stupid maiden, confiding in her sister about dreams. It was unbecoming, something told him but he had seldom enough time to worry, some matter or other always called to him.
It was a week later, after hearing his whispers in another dream that Jon finally wrote to her. Ghost lay next to him, silent eyes carefully watching him, as if he too needed someone to know.
He had no dreams while he waited for an answer, enough to push the matter out of his mind entirely. He had new recruits, people who lost everything they had and followed his example, green boys whose eyes widened upon seeing a dragon for the first time. Jon felt for them more than he felt even for himself.
When Sansa's response came, Jon was unsure of what to expect. Did he want to know?
Brother, She wrote carefully. Jon knew that was no slip of tongue, Sansa was far too smart for that, and had made clear the space Jon ought to occupy in the family. He didn’t resent her for it, but he wished she’d understand…
I often dream of our family. Father and mother, and all we have lost. How I wish to be able to do things differently, to spare us all of what came. I too understand the grief such dreams awaken, and how one might long to forget it. It brings me joy to know you have entrusted me with those thoughts, I, of course, won’t mention it to the others. Rickon is rueful, now, these years have been cruel to him in ways I fear none of us would understand, he was but a babe when tragedy struck, after all.
I understand you spared details in your account, and I won’t pry. But I must caution you; we know what dreams have meant before. We mustn’t ignore this simply because reason demands us to. I understand the tragedy that can come from following such whimsical things, but running from it will not avoid it. I know you have shied from it in the past, but Bran’s guidance on these matters might be better suited than mine.
I hope you might visit soon, perhaps we could discuss the matter more comfortably then. Viserion’s wings are large and powerful, as I remember.
Lastly, I had hoped to speak of such matters on another occasion, with better news but it seems ill suited to caution you and not heed my own warnings. I have sent word for Robb’s bones, Arya has some bearing of where his last resting place was given her encounter with – the letter had stained there, but Jon knew the story well enough to gather the meaning of her words.
At any rate, no one seems to be in any rush to find it, and I’m not sure who to entrust this task to given the unrest in the Riverlands. To complicate matters, the Freys had part of it at the Twins, not many of them remain, but there was no luck in getting it back so far. Perhaps you would like to try your hand at it, if your new role at the Wall allows for it.
I wish to see you soon and well. With regards from your sister,
Sansa Stark
Queen in the North.
Jon Snow read and reread his sister – cousin’s words, Sansa’s writing was neat and the letter bore the grey wolf of Stark in its seal, Jon had clear memories of seeing the same seal on Ned Stark’s desk while he grew. He felt a thousand years away from the boy who’d grown in the warm halls of Winterfell, watchful eyes taking note of every detail… dreaming. He used to wonder what Robb dreamt of; did he not have it all?
He knew better now, and he wished he’d asked him then. Did he dream of being lord? of marrying some northern or southern lady, of bearing Stark children with hair as bright and red as his… Did he like the weight of the crown upon his head or did he come to resent it?
Jon missed him like he missed the bits of himself that had been taken away, a bone deep ache that hit deeper than the stabbing wounds on his back. Coldness seeped in, chilling him to the soul, he closed his burnt hand into a fist, tears coming to his eyes. Brother , he wanted to whisper, come back to me . There was so much he didn’t know, so much he wanted to know…
He turned his eyes back to the letter, the careful calligraphy calling to him with truths he had ignored. The weirwood tree near Castleback was still standing, struggling to remain alive after the others brought the cold and death with them. He knew if he were to kneel in front of its bleeding face Bran would hear and see him but he’d avoided the place, avoided what was left of Bran since he took his leave.
Perhaps they were too alike, or simply too different from the people they had once been. That put them apart from their siblings in ways he feared they would not understand; but so far it had not brought them any closer to each other. He remembered Bran’s eyes, all seeing and unfeeling as he showed Jon what he’d chased all his life. It was too late then to turn his back and flee. They’d both lost themselves.
There was much to be done in Castle Black, apart from rebuilding the wall and the castle, the recruits had to be trained, the villages surrounding the area that had all but been erased from existence slowly started coming back to life. There was also the issue of the free folk, some of them were at the wall, others had remained south but some had sought to go back north, refusing to bend the knee still. Far from keeping the old role the Watch had taken before his time, the men of the watch and them had kept in touch for the preservation of both.
There was also the matter of Viserion, Jon was one of the few people the dragon allowed near him and his eating was something he had to keep careful watch over, lest he attack any villages. He was mostly under control; mostly, and Jon doubted that’d ever not be the case, whatever the Targaryens did to tame their dragons had been dead and buried with them. Not even Daenerys had full control and she was far more intimate with the dealings with dragons than Jon could ever hope to be.
The beast had an iron will, seeing eye to eye with it was hard, and rare, but Jon had enough practice by now. Sliding towards it with the corpses of slain sheep. It was gruesome to watch, but Jon had seen more gruesome things from far closer before. He threw them towards Viserion, blood and snow wetting his hands as the dragon roared. Once it was done eating Jon slid closer, hand ahead of himself as he made a move towards the beast’s head.
Viserion met him halfway, sliding forward with a movement of legs and wings, surprisingly graceful for a creature his size. His chest rumbled with power and his warmth from this close reminded Jon of home–of what that had once meant, a lifetime ago at least. He cradled the beast in the way that scared men whenever they saw it, though most of what Jon did now scared men, one way or the other.
He felt more than heard Ghost moving behind him. He kept his distance from Viserion, even now, but he seemed at loss at what to do except to follow Jon. Even with all the wounds he sustained on the last years.
Jon sighed deeply, watching the smoke from his breath rise, between the dragon and the direwolf, he felt like a relic. As wrecked and haunted as Castle Black and the wall was. He knew he ought to heed Sansa’s advice and talk to Bran, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not today.
He was kneeling in the grounds of Winterfell in his dreams. The snow fell down heavily, but the blood pouring from the weirwood tree ran like a river as if untouched by the cold. Jon rose to his feet, almost expecting to hear whispers of Bran’s voice but he heard nothing, not until a hand touched his shoulder. A firm grip, warm.
Arms closed around him, Robb’s red-brown locks filling his view as he held him just as tightly. “You came back.” He whispered. Jon didn’t realize how relieved he was to see him again until he pulled away, hands reaching for his face and feeling him just like he had felt the scales covering the skull of the dragon earlier that day.
Robb’s skin was soft, and warm as it had been the day Jon left him in the courtyard, never to see him again. “Of course.” Robb said. He looked so young, but he sounded old, worn down. Almost as much as Jon felt.
“I am dreaming.” Jon said softly, but his hands remained where they were.
“Are you?” Robb asked, mouth curling up in a sad mockery of a smile. Jon swallowed, grey eyes meeting blue. He rested their foreheads together, breathing out slowly.
“Robb, I–”
He was shushed, strong hands grabbing at his sides. “You’ve suffered so much, Jon.” He whispered, “Just let us have this moment.”
Jon shook his head, fingers moving down, closing around Robb’s neck where they’d taken away his head. Replaced it with Grey Wind’s. Rage and grief filled his chest, threatening to break his ribs and swallow them down in the anger he felt. If he could, if he was braver or more reckless or more stupid he’d march to the twins and make it a second Harrenhall, burn it to the ground until there was nothing left but the ghosts of the Freys who dared to—
“Jon…” Jon’s eyes opened, fingers releasing Robb’s skin.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, Robb.” He chocked out, tears filling his eyes. He had never been one to wear his emotions so close to surface but now… Why hide it? Robb was dead, almost all his family was dead or gone, and this was all a dream.
“We’ve gone over this,” Robb said, eyes distant though his tone was gentle. “You fulfilled your destiny, that’s what matters.”
Jon’s laugh was bitter, breaking through the somber scene. Robb’s hands tightened on him. “You’ll go after my bones, won’t you?”
He met his eyes once more. Could this Robb read his thoughts? Was he just a conjuration of Jon’s desires? His grief and misery?
“What else can I do?” He asked both of them, Robb shook his head though not in disapproval. “Would you not like that? Being home again?”
“That matters less than you’d think.” Robb said with that somber smile, “Go, if you must. Winterfell was always meant to be my resting place, anyway.”
Jon nodded, refusing to let go of him. Robb seemed to bother very little with it, himself, and Jon swore he could smell him beneath the furs covering his body. Could one feel cold even in death, he wondered.
There was so much to say, but words failed him. His heart raced in his chest, and he felt scared of what might come out if he opened his mouth. “I miss you so much.” He whispered, voice coming out hoarse and pained as if he had to force each word out. Acknowledging it made it so much more real–so more unbearable.
“I’m here now.” Jon shook his head, hair falling on his face. His hair was so long now–there were seldom any time to worry about it, was he even someone Robb would recognize now, were he still alive?
“Take me with you, then.” He asked, clinging to Robb still, fingers on his shoulders. He sounded like a broken, desperate man. There was nothing he wanted more. To be back with Robb, to be out of the cold and dark world he’d helped save. “I’m ready.”
“I can’t.” Robb said. Kindness became him, even in death, but his words still broke what was left of Jon. He stepped away.
“Were you… was it what you wanted? Being lord? being king?” He asked, hair flowing in the breeze. He could feel the weeping eyes on his back, watching.
Robb’s shoulders slumped, he stayed still even as Jon stepped away but the pain was clear on his face. He shouldn’t be in pain, not anymore. Not ever again. “Was it for you?” He asked.
Jon closed his eyes. Stannis Baratheon’s offer was not something he’d thought of often, not after everything that came next.
“No.” He whispered, like a secret being shared. Like the ones whispered under furs in Robb’s bed. Stealing each other’s heat. “I’d trade it all to be at home. With you.” Robb confessed. “Damn titles, damn that crown–we were ruined by it… I never wanted to be king. I just wanted us safe, at home, Jon.” He seemed to be struggling for words, eyes behind him as he talked, until the very end when their eyes met, “I just wanted you.”
Jon swallowed, both hands closing into fists, he could feel his nails threatening to pierce skin. Once it’d be impossible to say these things, to hear them and not flush in shame and wrongness… He thought he understood the world then, he knew now how little he did, how little he still does. “The gods are cruel.”
“Aye.” Robb agreed, looking away once more, his figure fading. Jon wanted to scream. “Get me to Winterfell, Jon. It’s where we belong.”
Jon awoke with Viserion’s roar, a whisper in his ear, but what startled him the most was the smell that filled the room. Even Ghost seemed to sniff the air, red piercing eyes where Jon laid, with Robb’s scent all over him, as real and tangible as it’d been on all those mornings, waking on his bed or sliding next to him in the great hall. Like a fist closed around his throat, Jon couldn’t breathe.