Chapter Text
In the Far North the winds could cut a man so deep with chills he’d be dead within hours. Spring was supposed to have followed their victory march, and he was supposed to see what the True North was when peace prevailed. Neither happened, winter stayed stubborn, gripping the sky and earth so tightly there would never be a moment of sun or a patch without snow. It was like it was rebelling against the world for killing its gods. Ice was a near constant presence in his furs, snow would forever stick to his wild hair. This must be the punishment he deserved, people whispered, for no one was meant to live in a constant state of survival in this frozen wasteland.
Jon was not most men, he didn’t just survive in the far North, he thrived. As if the wolfsblood in his veins sang every moment he felt the cold brush of wind on his neck. Never had he been given the same freedoms as he had in this land. Likely, he would never have left if it weren’t for his own honor and duty getting in the way. Sometimes, he’d wonder if it was truly a prince that was his father, and not winter itself. For days at a time Jon would scout ahead and hunt completely alone. Nothing to whisper in his ear but the wind, no one to see but his prey, and complete freedom. For so long he was bound to rules and expectations, to be his father’s secret shame, to be a brother in black, to be Lord Commander, to even be king. Here though, no one ruled him nor the land. So he found peace in this solitude, keeping himself alive and embracing the feeling of mattering so little to the land. Jon Snow was nothing here.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t just disappear forever, brooding in his exile. Tormund, the beast of a man, was not going to let his crow simply join the land. Jon was grateful that Tormund had taken over as the de facto leader of the Free Folk, gods know he was tired of making choices for others, but it meant that Jon had to listen to the man. So every time he’d been lost too long in the snow and wind, hiding between the trees and hills, Tormund would come get him and haul him back to the clan. Sometimes Tormund would send his oldest daughter, Munda, to retrieve him. Their red hair would act as some kind of beacon to him that it was time to be Jon Snow again, not some nameless wraith haunting the woods. It was this time though when Tormund came to collect him that he’d have this routine disrupted. Once, he’d thought that the South would leave him forgotten to time, mayhaps a mention in one or two books as a footnote. Jon proved Ygritte right once more, he knew nothing.
“The crows need their king crow again” Tormund huffs, “They didn’t believe me when I said ya were somewhere in a snowbank and I didn’t know where.”
A part of him feels bad, Jon had gotten good at being unable to be found. He knew that Munda considered finding him a form of training, hunting skills improved with experience and they’d been essentially hunting him down for years now. The other part of him curses for not hiding away better. It was unfair to Tormund, but he didn’t want to be found for this purpose. He was meant to live beyond the Wall, what parts still stood, until his last day. The end of House Targaryen would be him, a queenslayer and kinslayer, dying in the cold winter wastes of the Far North. Fire and Blood, it was the words of the house when it thrived and wouldn’t mean a thing when he died.
Slowly, Tormund and him packed the meager campsite, the cold bitter and seeping into his bones. Why now? His grasp on time out here was different, but even he knew it’d been well over ten years. A short spring had passed, a shorter summer after it, fall barely a moment long, and winter was once more home. It had been too long for them to want him back in the South, he was one of the Free Folk, now and forever.
“Who wants me?” Jon’s voice came through rough, “Will they take my head finally?”
Tormund was not a fan of Jon dour moods at the best of times, let alone when he had the Southern lords breathing down his neck to retrieve Jon. “Your smart fat crow wants to record the history of your life. They came to me, and I came to you. Simple as that, now stop brooding over things best left in the past.”
Jon figured that Tormund was leaving out some details, it was earlier than he usually returned to the clan. The man beside him was not easily swayed to change his own life and routine on the words of ‘kneelers’. As they began the journey to the village where the Firebrands settled, Tormund purposely spoke only of his children, and the Free Folk’s gossip. His mind ran through scenarios, maybe they were threatening the clan for his own life, maybe Drogon returned and they needed him to control the beast, or, gods forgive him, Arya or Sansa had a need for him. There was no way Samwell, his closest friend for years, only needed him for the history books. No way his guilt wouldn’t finally take his head.
As they reached the outskirts of the village, Tormund turned to him, “They will not kill you, and if you think so lowly of me, that I would let them, then I will personally beat you to a bloody mess myself.”
“Aye, I don’t doubt you,” Jon knew Tormund wasn’t going to let them take him to the block, “Yet these men don’t care for our own ideas of justice. If they are threatening our people to get me, I know you are smart enough to let me die.”
Tormund snorts, “Gods, crow, this is not your funeral pyre. They were clear on their purpose, and besides, I am coming with you to them.”
Jon let the protests die on his tongue. Tormund Giantsbane was many things, but easily dissuaded from something he’d set his mind to was not one of them. They hauled the sled of pelts and furs he’d collected into the village proper. Voices and warmth surrounded him immediately, seeing the people that had taken him in, made him theirs. The elders took the first choice of goods, some speaking to him in their wise voices. Jon had been labeled ‘The White Wolf’ by many, and it was only the Free Folk that didn’t bother him when he was called it. Slowly the people had taken inventory of his gifts, and of himself, and that’s when the children came.
Once in Jon’s life he swore that he would never father a child, knowing the pain of being a bastard and not wanting to inflict it on another soul. The Free Folk had no concept of bastards, love was showered upon each child with care and without hesitation. Sometimes he wished that he’d been given that in his own childhood. Every time he let that thought simmer, his guilt welled. It didn’t stop him from loving the children of the Free Folk and the fierceness of it surprised him at first. It was this deep, devoted love for those precious children that had meant he’d left Ghost behind here. The direwolf was the size of a horse, reaching past his own head. Although the fear inducing red eyes and sharp teeth lacked any fear inducing feelings when he was covered in small children.
It was as if Ghost was inspecting him as a maester, sniffing over his entire form, making sure he was okay. There was no reason, they both knew that the other would feel the pain of sustaining an injury through the strange bond they had. The child that sat astride the great wolf was clearly excited to not only see him, but be the first of the kids to speak to him.
“The crows are here for you! Don’t worry, we’ve scared them enough so that they won’t bother you until you say they can!” spoke the boy, a young thing barely through his first winter.
If Jon didn’t know that shock of blonde hair belonged to Val’s youngest son he'd have given a lesson in being kind to others. Since he knew that Jarmir would simply ignore his words, and likely inform his mother, Jon let it go. Gods, Val must be close to having her newest child soon, or maybe had already birthed them, Jon thought. After the Long Night, and without family, she’d folded into the Firebrands. Of course, after a few years, and a few failed attempts at stealing Jon, she’d stolen Toregg, Tormund’s oldest son. Although if you asked Jon, it was more like Toregg grew tired of her dancing around him and finally took it upon himself to move into her hut. Two of their sons ran around the village and terrorized everyone they saw, so of course Ghost positively adored them.
“Jarmir, I see Ghost has kept you safe,” Jon swears that Ghost rolls his eyes at this, “Has your youngest sibling arrived yet?”
At this the boy shakes his head with a vigor, “Of course not, Ma says he’s waiting for you. Two times she gave birth with you there, and it won’t be any different than the third.”
Inside his own head Jon knew it was true, somehow he’d been present at Val’s two births, and secretly had hoped to escape the third. Shuddering, he thought of her first birth, it had been enough to see his friend suffer but the process itself gave him such distress Tormund joked about it for moons after. “Ah, well I shall have to finish this business with the crows quick then. I’m certain you would like to be an older brother soon.”
More children came to greet him, and he and Ghost started their trek to the largest hut in the village. Along the way Toregg came to both collect his son and the rest of the children. Jon felt the air shift and knew that within the tent would be the Night's Watchmen. Tormund had gone ahead of him, and was standing by the door. He wore a grimace on his face, one that Jon reflected on his own. Internally, he was hoping that Samwell wasn’t behind the door. Not because Jon didn’t want to see him, rather he didn’t know if he was ready. Looking himself over proved to be the wrong choice. Dirt, blood, and general grime covered his black furs and most certainly his face. Luckily he’d braided his hair back the night before, so hopefully he was slightly better off for it. Wiping a hand over his face, most likely rubbing the dirt into his skin more, Jon breathed deeply. With a nod, Tormund opened the door and led him into the hut. Ghost remained outside, too large to comfortably join them inside.
Immediately Jon noticed the heat of the hut, the hearth producing warmth he hadn’t felt in the several moons spent out in the wild. His furs felt suffocating as he looked around the small space. There were at least five black brothers in the room, but he couldn’t let his eyes linger on them too long. The Free Folk outnumbered them, four standing in the corners of the room gripping their weapons. In the middle, by the table, sat Val and Karsi, the latter most likely there as an intimidation tactic. Karsi was at Hardhome, and had received a ghastly scar that took her right eye and a piece of her cheek. For a while they weren’t certain if she’d survive but she proved her strength again by taking up arms in the Long Night. The wight teeth marks produced a scar that if Jon was still a green boy he’d have gotten sick at the sight. Val was heavily pregnant but concealing it to her best ability behind thick furs. Jon supposed she had a couple moons before it was time. Giving the Free Folk in the room a nod, Jon settled between the two women. Purposely, he greeted them while keeping his eyes firmly averted from the men he once was a part of. Finally it was time for him to behave like the man he was, and less of a skittish wolf. Taking another deep breath, Jon raised his head to look at the men across from him.
“Gods, Jon, you’d think living as some kind of wild animal would’ve left you a little uglier,” Grenn speaks, and Jon scans him over as he speaks. He looks good, well fed, and painfully older. Jon supposes he looks older too, but it’s jarring to see on Grenn’s grinning face.
Val huffs a quiet laugh and Jon can feel Tormund’s grin behind him. “Well, not having to bunk with 30 men improves one’s beauty,” Jon responded. The man beside Grenn pulls a face in reaction, likely recalling the smell.
This doesn’t stop Grenn’s teasing, “Well not all of us can be release from our vows to be free of the barracks,” at this Jon grimaces, “Though hasn’t stopped me from being the handsomest man at the Wall.”
Tormund snorts loud enough to ease the tension in the room, and soon the party of brothers have relaxed their shoulders. The Free Folk loosen their posture but don’t refrain from holding their weapons. Jon takes it as a sign that they were truthful, no harm will come to him or his people.
“Let’s get to the reason you’re here, we can only be so peaceful to crows so long,” Val grunts, obviously in discomfort. Jon knows that carrying a child is hard work, and Val had recruited him to help in herbal mixes her first two times to ease the pain and help the babe. He hoped in his absence Toregg had taken over.
Grenn shifts in his seat, “Well, it’s pretty straightforward. Sam wants you to come to Castle Black and talk to him. Something about King Bran wishing to increase our records of the Long Night.”
Jon pauses, Castle Black? His memories of the place are so tainted that when he last visited, more like passing through to the Far North, he’d been sick for days. Everywhere in the place reminded him of his failures, in a corner was Ygritte, another was Olly. Sometimes it was in his nightmares, the Lord Commander’s solar, the training grounds, but especially Maester Aemon’s study. Something about being his family and never getting the chance to tell him had made Jon upset. What if Aemon had been able to tell him about his father? Or his family, outside of a history book?
“How long?” it's the only thing Jon can think of asking at the moment, knowing he was considering walking into a death trap.
“A moon’s turn, two at the most,” Grenn replies easily, “You don’t have to be there longer in my opinion.”
It is implied that Grenn would make sure Jon wasn’t going to be stuck there forever, that he was going to be able to leave if it was too much. A part of him yearned so badly to see Sam, to see the Wall, to see Castle Black. The place where he became a man, died a brother, and returned a king. It almost made him emotional.
Tormund leans forward, “How ya gonna make sure he’s safe? Where are we staying there? I refuse to let us go without a guarantee for our safety.”
“You’ll be in one of the rebuilt towers, they’re where we’ve moved the new maester to. No one is going to be allowed in but you two and the maesters. Otherwise, all the brothers have been briefed on what should happen if they attempt to harm you two,” Grenn takes the question with ease, “Plus, if you cannot protect yourself Giantsbane, I can certainly assign some guards for your ease of mind.”
Karsi’s impeccable stoneface moves, showing her amusement at the dig to Tormund. Jon has to admit Grenn has gotten wittier in the time he’s seen him. “You crows wouldn’t last a minute against me, probably all green boys now,” Tormund defends his honor.
It was jarring to realize that in the ten years since he’d even seen the Wall, the Night’s Watch had probably gained more new members than he’d ever seen in his time in the brotherhood. He wondered if it was again a place of honor, rather than a cold prison.
As the men worked out the details of the trip, what would be expected of both himself and Tormund, Jon allowed himself to look at the other brothers. He didn’t recall any of them, and it bothered him. Had he been gone so long he couldn’t recall who he commanded? Perhaps they were men stationed elsewhere, or newer members. At least two looked as young as Rickon would’ve been, and gods didn’t that hurt to think. He turned his mind back to the conversation at hand. It would be awkward, but it would be a relief to see Sam. Maybe he would be able to hear of Arya and Sansa. For the past couple of years he’d been able to handle his grief at having no contact with them, his last two true family members. During those first few years he was prone to silently weeping at the thought of never seeing or hearing of them again. Bran was a husk of his old self, and Jon had been able to get over his grief with more ease, albeit more guilt. It was this reason that likely fueled his desire to go. Even if he was simply providing an account of the events of the Long Night and what led up to it.
At the end of the conversation, he and Grenn clasped arms, both joyed to see the other alive and well. Grenn promised to discuss the status of the rebuilding of the wall and Night’s Watch with him on the way to Castle Black. With a final goodbye for the night, the brothers left the hut, Ghost coming inside to take over the space left. Val and Jon spoke of her coming babe, and Karsi took her leave joining with the others who acted as guards. Jon would eventually join some others at Tormund’s fire that night, tucking back into the group as if he hadn’t left, and wasn’t set to leave on the morrow. Watching into the flames of the fire, he couldn’t help but think of Daenerys and her dragons. Soon he’d have to tell her story with him, and a part of him didn’t know if he could do it. Tormund was next to him though, the heat radiating off of him went through his furs and comforted him. Dany was a queen who he once loved, not a monster in the night. Jon soon relaxed fully, leaning into Tormund’s side. Even if he’d be remembered by the South for what he’d done in the Long Night, he’d always have a place here. That night he slept in Tormund’s hut, Ghost serving as his companion. He didn’t dream of any battles or wights or dragons, he dreamt of his people’s festivals, their joy, and their love.
The entire trek to Castle Black was the loudest one he’d been on since he was exiled. Tormund would attempt to frighten the younger brothers, Grenn would be talking about the recent disputes of the realm, and at least one horse couldn’t stop whining at Ghost’s presence. Jon felt lighter, in a sense he’d been forgiven of his sins by one of his brothers, and wasn’t going to be punished for being at the Wall. Soon he’d be able to see his dear friend and brother. It’d be a good trip if he wasn’t ending at a destination where he would recount his greatest regrets and allow them to be put on paper. Closer to the Castle, he started to feel his nerves grow, and stuck to Tormund’s as if he was a boy again. Ghost kept close and the horses gave him a wide berth. In the distance the large stone and wooden structure serving as the Wall was visible. Certain parts of the original ice spand miles, but for sections destroyed by the Night’s King were being replaced by stone. Grenn had told him that once that first winter ended the construction began in earnest. By now Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-sea had been almost completely redone, each with a thousand men stationed there. Apparently the Gift had been opened up to former Free Folk who’d stayed behind and any Southern fighters who’d decided to remain in the North. As a result, multiple villages had popped up and so had recruits. Although the Shadow Tower remained less populated due to a lack of roads and ships able to reach it in comparison. Jon was excited to see what had improved, with the events of the Long Night being known the Night’s Watch had once again become a place of honor. Grenn insisted it was where knights went in their old age and smallfolk to become heroes, but Jon heard the note of pride in his tone.
As Jon watched the gate rise, he held himself still. It’d do me no good to look nervous here , he thought. Yet that didn’t stop his thoughts racing. Ghost bumped his shoulder in a form of support. He steeled his nerves walking into the courtyard, there were many faces staring back and he didn’t like the feeling of all their eyes on him. Tormund seemed to puff up in pride at some of the men’s expressions of recognition, he was always a bit conceited of his fame. Ghost was the dead giveaway to who he was to the brothers in the yard, so Jon squared his shoulders, refusing to show any shame.
Grenn approached a man that stood in the middle of those lined up in the courtyard. It was then that Jon recognized Edd, he had gained some more grey hairs and some weight since he’d seen him. Being Lord Commander suited the man, for all that he had done to place Jon into the role in the past. As their group approached Jon was greeted by the men. Mostly with curt respect, which he understood.
“You know I never was meant to be Lord Commander but here we find ourselves,” Edd said in place of an actual greeting, grasping him by the arms, “I am glad to see you again, even if you only bring me headaches and more work.”
Relief flooded through Jon, he would rather be a headache for Edd than a traitor, “It is your own fault that you are in that position, Lord Commander.”
With a grin Edd began introductions, which was needed because only a few men were familiar. Grenn bowed with a flourish when announced as First Ranger, having kept the information from him on the way here. It wasn’t until the end of the line did Jon get introduced to the new maester, Sam had become too important to be the Watch’s maester so another one had been assigned. Introduced as Maester Arren, the man had the look of a Valeman to him, and seemed nervous to meet him. Sam wasn’t there, likely in the Maester’s quarters if anything, and Edd confirmed his suspicions.
“Let’s get you and your wilding settled,” Edd said with humor, gesturing to follow him.
On the way to their quarters for their stay, Jon couldn’t help but notice all the changes around him. Stone had been cleaned and repaired, there was less rotting wood, and it seemed the men were better outfitted than any brother had been during his time. Inside himself he pushed down bitterness at how the Night’s Watch was only just now being treated well, after they had needed it. Their quarters were in the maester’s tower as promised, and Jon itched to see Sam but waited, there was a bath drawn with water still warm and a real bed.
Samwell Tarly looked better than he’d ever had in Jon’s memory. Internally, Jon considered that he’d stressed out Sam enough to be the reason for his poor looks. His face carried some roundness still, a pink flush on his cheeks made him look friendlier than any learned man Jon knew. His maester’s chain swung as he strood to Jon, and his arms embraced him with a strength Jon wasn’t sure he knew Sam possessed. He felt himself relax into the hug, realizing how tall he had grown. They were men now, and Jon hadn’t been sure they wou;d’ve ever stopped being boys together. It wasn’t until Sam pulled back that Jon realized he had hot tears streaking down his face, wetting his beard. Sam’s gray robes had wet marks on them yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to feel shame for it. Sam was here, alive and well, and a true maester. If he’d never done any good any other time then he’d done his good here.
“I knew you would be a better wilding than king,” Sam spoke, eyes watery.
Jon didn’t hold back his grin, “It’s not like I didn’t warn everyone, I was a gods awful king and only slightly better in the Free Folk.”
Sam’s face was bright, and he led Jon to the table in the corner of the new library. It was Maester Aemon’s old desk, and a sting of pain ran through him at the thought. On the desk there was a massive assortment of parchment, ink, quills, and other objects Jon was certain were meant to bind a book. They sat in old wooden chairs, likely left over from their own time here. In their own way they examined each other, cataloging the new scars for Sam and eyeing the full beard for Jon. It wasn’t until they’d assessed the other until they began talking. A part of Jon had worried over how he should phrase certain things, and how to be a good source for Sam. It was an unfounded fear, all Sam had to do was ask if Jon remembered how bad he’d been in the training ground that first day and Jon’s mouth began moving. Words and laughter spilled from his lips, joy being found in the remembrance of days long gone with summer. Green boys with no memory of winter had lived lives he now yearned for.
Everyday for a moon’s turn Jon’s life followed a new routine. Wake up to Tormund’s loud snores, get dressed, eat, train the recruits with Grenn or Edd depending on which one wanted to come, eat, go to Sam and talk until they were half-asleep, then return to Tormund and sleep. He’d told Sam things he was certain Sam had no clue about, Ygritte’s cave, Satin’s soft caresses, Dany’s cold lips on his. The deep gut wrenching fear that he wouldn’t be able to stop the Night King, how betrayed he’d felt when Dany burned King’s Landing. Nothing was left untold, but Sam was gracious in his writing, if it wasn’t important to understanding the Long Night, his quill never touched parchment. No one needed to know of the great loves and losses of Jon’s life. Well, excluding the Dragon Queen, everyone knew the basics of their relationship and privacy didn’t matter if one of them was dead and the other exiled for it. Most importantly they discussed the others, everything they knew, that Jon saw and did regarding them. He wished he knew more about how they were created, about why they did what they did. Sam assured him he was still providing valuable information. It wasn’t until they were nearing the end of the first moon did Jon hit a block in talking with Sam. The question was worded so well and caringly but it didn’t matter, he was still in the training yard whacking a dummy with Longclaw as if he was nothing but the Bastard of Winterfell again.
“You cannot kill a man already dead,” Tormund’s voice startled him out of his own mind.
Jon kept swinging his sword, it didn’t matter if the man was dead and gone. The older he had gotten the more he understood Robert Baratheon, he too killed Rhaegar Targaryen in his dreams every night. If possible, Jon would’ve been the Demon of the Trident instead of the fat king, and been freed of this pain.
“Perhaps it is an old habit,” Jon grimaced as his arms ached, “Perhaps I fear he too shall rise from the dead and I must be the one to kill him again.”
Unfortunately Tormund knew Jon well, they shared a bed, a fire, and a family. It was impossible to deceive the man. Slowly the redhead crept behind him, still taller by a head even after Jon’s growth, and took the sword from his hands. Jon whirled around, caged by Tormund’s arms on his shoulders. Longclaw was dropped to the ground with less dignity than it deserved. The older man’s face looked best like this , Jon thought, illuminated by the same fire he was blessed by. His chest heaved in his breathing, and his face was wet with sweat or tears, maybe both. Tormund’s eyes didn’t move from his face, seeking his own eyes.
“You do not become less of a wolf because a dragon was your sire,” Tormund rumbled.
“It didn’t stop me from losing my pack, it didn’t stop me from being discarded as trash to the eyes of the South, it didn’t stop me from losing two fathers and never meeting my mother,” As he spoke, Jon’s voice got more emotional. By the end he’d let the tears go again.
Tormund wound his arms around him, they were alone in the yard, “Little crow, you told me you’d handled it. That you were at peace with it, yet here you are.”
“It wasn’t a mistake to come here,” Jon’s voice broke, “Sam softened the blow by saying Sansa was coming in a sennight.”
“Are you able to handle it? Your pain is not a jest or weakness, it is understandable if you need me to steal you over the Wall again.” For all the seriousness of his words, Tormund spoke with a lightheartedness Jon envied. It was nothing for the man to pack them up and return home if he willed it.
“She has a son,” Jon’s voice was softer now, “She named him Eddard.”
Tormund seemed to understand, wound his arms tighter around Jon. There was no escaping, and so Jon let the tears flow. For all that he had a Direwolf, he wasn’t with the Starks, he wasn’t a Stark. He wasn’t even a Targaryen anymore, he was the blemish on the honor of a man that took the responsibility for him. The mistake of another who tore the realm apart for a girl of four and ten. Sobs racked his body, long had he been orphaned, since birth, but now it was startlingly real. Beyond the wall he’d always thought that if he was welcomed back to Winterfell it would be a warm one. He’d held a small hope of seeing it again on this trip, perhaps Bran, or what was left of him, would be there and want to see him. Maybe Sansa would welcome him back, or Arya the adventurer was going to sneak him in. Now he fully understood, he was not meant to be a Stark, never would he go back to his childhood home. Jon was a shame on the family, both of the families that were his by blood, and it didn’t feel real until now. All he had were those who chose to stay by him, and in Tormund’s arms he came to peace with it.
Tormund led him to their rooms, Ghost laid by the fire. The wolf was old enough to not wish to move from the heat. In their quarters, Jon laid out his feelings to Tormund. It was not fair to never be able to speak to his Targaryen family, that he wanted to have known his mother, what Ned Stark did robbed him of his ability to understand who he was. There were more tears, yelling, and quiet, but the large man took all of it with grace and patience only developed with age. Ghost had trotted over to him and offered comfort to Jon, nudging his hand with his snout and watching with those knowing red eyes. Jon and Tormund slept poorly, and feigned ill in the morning. Choosing to stay in bed, embraced together, and Jon hid for the day from his past. It was what he’d done for ten years, but maybe he’d never leave it behind.
Sam didn’t ask for him while Jon avoided him for a few days. After all, almost everything that Jon could tell him about the Long Night had been written down already. Technically, Jon was in his rights to leave, and never speak to him again. It was unsettling to both men that after this the next time they’d see each other was the afterlife. Jon to exile, Sam to the Citadel or King’s Landing. All the while, Sansa’s visit loomed over Jon’s head. Would it be awkward, or could it be a parallel to their first reunion at Castle Black? He took three days to himself, standing on the top of the Wall and staring out like he used to, like his Uncle Benjen used to. Thinking about how to handle this all, what man he’d leave as. At the end of the third day, he went to Sam again.
Aemon knew about Jon. That’s what Sam had told him and Jon didn’t believe him for a moment. How , he thought, how could he have known who he was when Jon himself didn’t know? Yet Aemon did know. Sam told him of a hidden hole in the wall of the old library, one that you wouldn’t have seen with your eyes but rather felt with your hands. Exactly how a blind man would know where to hide his secrets. Written in High Valyrian, Aemon had given Jon information on their family, and books on them previously thought to be lost. For all of that, it was the letters that Jon was most shocked by. Rhaegar had written to his Great Uncle on the Wall often it seems, and had written of Lyanna, of the child she bore, of his hopes and dreams, and prophecies. Jon wanted to tear into them immediately but understood the small trunk given to him was to not be opened this side of the Wall. Whatever fracture had occurred with Sam’s question into his Targaryen heritage had mended itself.
For the next few days, they compiled his statements and information, filling in any gaps in Sam’s work so far. It would become a tome so large that Jon would have run from the mere sight of it as a child. Internally he was pleased that not only was there going to be more information in case the Others came back, but that he’d contributed to it. More real and tangible than simply knowing it was over, in his hands he could hold proof that they did it. That everyone was safe once more.
By the time Sansa arrived, Jon and Tormund had exhausted their use at Castle Black. So only for a night, as Jon feared he couldn’t handle more, they stayed with her. When he saw her for the first time in years it hit him that she was a woman grown. Her hair had darkened to a shade darker than her mothers, and was well maintained. Once, she’d worn gowns that were ridged and almost armor, now it was still warm and of Stark colors but far more free flowing. Her crown was a simple circlet, it was the Wall after all, everyone knew who she was. Yet gone was the hardened leader Jon left, and in her place was a kind mother and queen. In her arms was a boy that Jon’s heart ached at the sight of. Small, around the age of Rickon when he’d left for the Wall. His curly hair was an auburn color that made images of Robb come to mind unbidden. Chubby cheeks flushed with the cold were the only skin he could see but it was as pale as all Starks before him. Eddard Stark was no longer the name of his once father and uncle, but that of a small boy, the future of House Stark.
This was his family, those of his blood and childhood. Still, it surprised him when after the introductions for her companions she came up to him and handed over little Eddard. It was closer to having the babe dumped in his arms rather than a gentle exchange. Any fears of not being accepted were gone with the soft cooing of the boy. Gods, he had grey eyes like his grandfather, and a long Stark face. Sansa’s softness was in his lips and nose, the rest dominated by whoever his father was.
So enraptured was he that her speaking made him almost drop the boy, “I knew you should’ve been a father.”
“What?” He responded, confused about that being the first thing she said to him. After all this time, was his love for children that shocking.
“You always treated us like your own children,” Sansa leaned in, caressing her son’s cheek, “Father once said we were your ducklings, and you the hen.”
Tormund huffed a laugh at that. The courtyard hadn’t been able to hear their conversation but seemed to ease at the Free Folk man’s amusement. “Red, I see you have another kissed by fire,” His voice was loud enough to be heard by the yard, “Glad to know that you’ll prevent the South from losing the blessing of our presence.”
Jon had almost forgotten the strange comradery of the two. Maybe if he also had red hair he’d understand it. The lady that Sansa was should’ve stopped the friendship of the two, yet their hair made them blessed in ways only they knew. Jon went back to admiring his nephew, so small and so young. It was too cold out here and he knew Ghost was in his rooms, by the fire, waiting for the introduction. Slowly he led Sansa into the castle, unwillingly to be parted from her or Eddard. A tad irrationally he was worried to lose sight of them, not wanting to not see them for another ten years. Likely, this would be the first and last time he’d see Eddard, and would likely never see Sansa’s other children or Arya. It stung but was eased by the mere sight of his sister, his cousin, laughing at Tormund’s crass humor.
After dinner, they retire to a solar, the maester’s most likely, and there Ghost meets Eddard. The two immediately curl into a pile in front of the fire, and fall asleep, well Eddard fell asleep, Ghost had his eyes closed but there was no way the giant wolf was asleep. Sansa looked at the interaction fondly, likely thinking of Lady, her dear departed direwolf. Jon wondered if the next litter Ghost fathered if he’d be able to get one sent to Sansa for Eddard. Already he began plotting how to accomplish such a thing in his mind.
“Have you seen Arya since she left?” Jon asked, she hadn’t mentioned their sister yet it was beginning to worry him.
“Twice, once when she and her blacksmith came to wed in the Godswood, and again to give birth to their daughter,” Sansa’s voice was touched with a note of sadness.
“Gendry?” Jon asked, “She married Gendry and had a daughter?”
His disbelief was clear to Sansa, “I know how unbelievable it sounds but yes, out there on a ship somewhere is our wild sister with a husband and babe.”
“When was this? How old is her child?” Jon would have to get two direwolf pups.
Sansa smiled, “Little Lyanna Stark is four name days old, and looks like a Baratheon through and through.”
Jon’s breath caught in his throat, and luckily his companions allowed him some silence to grasp his thoughts. Arya’s daughter was named Lyanna. Plus, he knew that she’d never give up the Stark name, and so now his mother lived again. It must have been the gods’ humor to have the girl be a Baratheon’s get, the grandson of Robert himself.
“May I ask a question?” Tormund’s voice broke the quiet, “Who’s get is he?”
Immediately, Sansa barked out a laugh. Jon couldn’t hold back his own either, he’d been wondering for awhile. No word of her marrying had reached him at Castle Black, and absolutely no one mentioned the boy’s father. He mentally ran through a list of possible fathers, those who’d be trusted by Sansa and could’ve contributed to Eddard’s appearance. During this, both redheads turned to him, Sansa obviously not wanting to tell him but let him figure it out, and Tormund wanting to know who got the Red Wolf of Winterfell to carry their child. Realization slowly dawned upon his face. One man could be the father, he’d been thought dead, again, and only resurfaced moons after the Long Night.
“No,” Jon croaks, “No way he’s Eddard's father.”
Sansa beams at him, “Officially I took a page from the Mormont women, Eddard’s father is a wolf.”
“Oh gods you two,” Tormund moaned, “Stop talking around it, I cannot look into your minds to know what you are implying.”
Jon looked back to the sweet boy sleeping, and gods, there in his jaw and forehead was his father. He remembered once looking into grey eyes and being mildly surprised they’d made their way to a Southern house. Yet with that family’s history it wasn’t impossible.
“Of all the people to choose to father your heir, I must admit it’s quite shocking you chose Sandor Clegane,” Jon finally spoke.
The reaction of both Tormund and Sansa at his words made him worry about waking up little Eddard but apparently he’d grown used to noise in his short life and stayed sleeping. Tormund was accusing Sansa of diluting her beauty on purpose, no way she’d have chosen such an ugly man if her goal wasn’t to make her children uglier too. In return Sansa was insisting that it wasn’t that important, all the Lords and Ladies took it in stride and Sandor was a good father. Jon, on the other hand was considering revoking his previous direwolf pup plan, of all men to have, Sandor was not the choices he’d make. Yet, everyone was still smiling, and it could’ve been a Glover or worse, a Lannister. This led to Sansa having to explain exactly why she’d thought this was the best course of action. When she got to Bran’s own opinion on her choice she seemed to remember something.
“Tomorrow before you go, Bran has a letter for you,” she said, “He wanted me to tell you to read it before all other letters, and to believe him the way you believe in me.”
Jon was momentarily confused but decided to deal with it in the morning. Sam had just arrived with the best wine in the whole of Castle Black, stolen from Edd’s own store apparently. They ate a cold dinner, and drank sour wine, but they lived and laughed as if they were back in Winterfell. In those days they had so much to do, but had won too much to not be happy. Jon would miss this, would forever yearn for it, but knew he’d never have it again. Already he missed his freedom, his people. For this one night, he’d have it all.
The morning air was cold enough Jon almost sent Eddard and Sansa inside, but they were Starks too and could handle it. As Queen in the North, Sansa had given them, and by extension the Free Folk, three horses. One for each of them, and one to carry the supplies she’d given them, Tied in the supplies was that small wooden chest that Sam had given him. The sight of it made him have this excited energy, but he held back. In his breast pocket a thick letter from Bran rested, waiting to be read.
Goodbyes were tough, there was not going to be another time for them, not like this, and everyone wanted one chance to say something. Edd and Grenn kept it brief, clear in their emotions but also making sure to imply they’d be sending more rangers out to see him. Sam and him embraced, and Jon produced the wood carving of a direwolf for Little Sam. It was then that he knew he’d be riding to the village with tears in his eyes. Sansa, oh his dearest Sansa, was the cause of his truest tears. She’d been under his protection for so long, but he wasn’t needed anymore. He’d not hold and kiss his nieces and nephews like he had with Eddard, and it was obvious that both of them would yearn for it. Their embrace lasted what felt like hours, but still too short. Eddard had cheerfully babbled and kissed him and Tormund. Even Sansa gave Tormund a hug for the journey back.
“Keep him safe,” She spoke to Tormund through tears, “You are ordered to by the Queen in the North.”
Tormund grinned, emotional too at the scene, “I don’t need a kneeler like you to tell me that, he’ll live a good and long life and will die wrinkled.”
It seemed that was all everyone needed. Some proof that he’d be fine, and with one last goodbye, Jon and Tormund went home.
The trip back felt shorter, no tales from Grenn, no nervous excitement, just the wind and snow and Ghost’s silent presence. Tormund seemed to know that Jon wasn’t going to speak about everything, not now. Their partnership was easy like that, unspoken understanding that the other knew what they needed. So it was mostly quiet, Jon kept his eyes forward, remembering something Dany once said, If I look back, I am lost . Jon wasn’t certain if he’d ever be found but maybe one day.
After their welcome back, in which Jon learned that Val would be having her babe in time for him to be present. He’d been given space and was alone in his and Tormund’s hut. The letter from Bran laid in front of him, and the wooden chest on the floor next to the letter. Remembering what Sansa said, he broke the wax seal on the envelope. Immediately setting himself to reading it, he devoured the words of a brother that was half man half god. Then he reread it, and reread it again in disbelief. What could his brother possibly mean?
Dear Jon,
Let it be said that if I could have left you in peace, I most certainly would have. The Gods have plans for us all, and when they don’t follow through in the right ways, things must be fixed. Within the chest given to you there will be letters from Rhaegar Targaryen about a prophecy called ‘The Song of Ice and Fire’. You were meant to fulfill this but failed in some way I cannot tell you. The Others will return unless we fix this mistake. Also inside the chest are books on High Valyarian, Dragons, and a copy of Fire and Blood. I would suggest reading all of them, for you are the champion of gods unknown to us. When you finally die, and stay dead, you will be sent to a time before our own. You must ensure that magic and dragons do not die, so that in that future we are not forced to wake them from stone once more. Only you can do this, and I know you will not fail us. Take your time, you will have plenty, and be the best at this you can.
Signed by Bran ‘The Broken’ Stark
King of Three Kingdoms of Westeros
The Three Eyed Raven
After a couple moons, mulling over the letter and its contents, Jon made a decision. He’d read and study the letters and texts within the chest, but it wouldn’t be his belief that Bran was correct about this whole “fixing a mistake of the gods”. It was his choice and he did it because he wanted to know the contents of the chest. Tormund had chosen to not say anything either way, just glad Jon would be staying close by.
For many, many years Jon lived. The Far North was a harsh land, and its people were strong in response to the land. Jon became a man of legend as the Free Folk grew and moved out to different areas. More and more children were born only knowing of the White Wolf through stories and secondhand accounts. Some were members of a Village that a woman kissed by fire led. These children had no clue that the old man with the black hair streaked by white was the fabled White Wolf. They’d all received little gifts from him, and he told the best stories. The redheaded man beside him had grown old and would depart before that nice man. Not long after Tormund left this world, Jon followed. It would be said that all direwolves from the furthest northern point to those that resided in Winterfell howled as Jon Snow took his last breath. For many though, it was the end of a life that had been well lived. A Night’s Watch brother, a Stark, a King, a Targaryen, a man who’d loved his realm so much he’d bled, died, and lived for it.