Chapter Text
Night fell dark and swift in the North. Overhead the sky was a dome of stars, flickering specks, the moon a sliver of pale light.
Jon Snow gazed up from his brother’s back garden seated on the rocking bench set upon the wooden deck. Skies here were much calmer than his life in King’s Landing. Down in Westeros’s capital city, the air was always hazy and humid. No stars were visible. Instead an orange glow hovered in the sky, the city lights polluting the stars from sight. Even in the heart of his father’s northern city, Winterfell, the skies had become unnatural until you reached the moors and smaller towns beyond.
“You were right,” Jon said, as he rocked on the creaking bench. “I’ve missed this sight.”
Robb Stark locked the wheels on his wheelchair and glanced skyward. His auburn curls fluttered in the cool wind. “One of us had to be smart. You’re the nut who thought King’s Landing was a choice idea.”
Jon rolled his eyes and stretched out his cramped and aching legs. Today had been a long one, full of hours of physical therapy for Robb and then his own intense training. Robb was his half-brother in truth, only a few months older than himself, but they’d grown up as close as twins. They’d done everything together for as long as Jon could remember. First days of school, first lost teeth, first crushes and kisses, and puberty. At eighteen, they’d gone to war and come back as haunted shadows.
Physically, Jon had fared better. A few scars on his stomach and chest, two thin ones around his eyes.Tinnitus had plagued him for the better part of that first year, and a long struggle with concussions and the after effects. But Robb had lost half a leg and half his mind for a time. Two years had passed since their return home, and slowly the brothers had rediscovered enough aspects of normalcy to find peace.
“The city has its perks,” Jon reminded him. “Lots of friends and pubs, and my job’s never boring in King’s Landing.”
Robb sighed and rubbed the stub of his right leg, scratching at the scabs the old, ill-fitted prosthetic had left. He’d had another test fitting for his newest model today that seemed to work much better. Soon he might have one permanently. “It’s too crowded, too far from everyone. Too noisy. ” Robb pointed a finger right in Jon’s face. “And you haven’t been home since—”
“I’ve my own home now.” Jon kept his eyes on the skies instead of the determination he’d find on Robb’s face. “Winterfell was never… it’s best if I’m not around much.”
“A shoebox flat in Flea Bottom isn’t a home. And no,” Robb continued when Jon opened his mouth to argue, “the firehouse doesn’t count. Even if Davos makes the best stew in Westeros.”
He’s like an uncle to me. All the men there are like brothers. They accept all that I am without flinching. They’ve never hated me for me or wanted me to be anything else.
Jon said none of this. He couldn’t with Robb anymore, not since the war. They’d both been foolish boys when they’d turned eighteen. Robb had been a new graduate, top of his class, convinced he needed to dedicate some portion of his life to the military like their father and grandfather had. For Jon, the choice had almost been made for him. Returning to Winterfell from the Wall was impossible, no matter what his father claimed. He’d had few prospects, and not a single one besides the army had given him the chance to restore some sort of honor to himself.
He watched Robb in the flickering firelight of the garden’s new firepit, and kept it all to himself. They’d both come back different from the war. Two decorated soldiers with honor to their names and anguish in their hearts.
“They’re good men,” Jon said finally. “I like what I do. I serve and protect and save people’s lives as a firefighter.”
“I know that, you bloody hero, but we miss you all the same. Father most of all.”
Jon had not seen Lord Eddard Stark in almost two years. Vasectomy Christmas, as Arya and Robb had dubbed Jon’s last visit to Winterfell, had driven them apart. Revealing that particular decision over dinner, while his father and stepmother argued about Ned Stark getting the procedure himself, hadn’t been Jon’s wisest idea. Sometimes, he was full of bad ones.
“Ned, there’s no reason to be so drastic,” Catelyn said, grasping Ned’s hand on the dining room table. “The doctors say there’s no danger in me having another child or two. We have the best care available.”
“Cat, after Rickon, I think it’s best. That pregnancy nearly—”
“One more, Ned. Another son, don’t you want that?”
Her scornful eyes turned to Jon across the table, and Jon’s entire body went rigid. Another son that might have the Stark look this time. Of their three sons, not one had more than a hint of their father in them. His half-brothers had auburn hair and blue eyes, even the Tully build like their maternal uncles. But Jon was Ned’s very image, gray-eyed and dark of hair. Nobody ever doubted he was Ned’s son. More than once as small boys, the other northern lords had mistaken Jon for Robb during their visits.
“It’s a simple procedure,” Jon said, stabbing at the slice of ham on his plate. “I was in and out in a few hours.”
All around him the soft clinking of silverware stopped. His siblings stared at him; Robb wincing at the secret he’d already known, Sansa shocked as her new scarf fell from her hands, Arya bit her lip, Bran and Rickon pulling disgusted faces as only small boys could. But it was Ned’s expression that made Jon regret interjecting at all.
“Jon, you… what doctor would ever agree when you’re only twenty?”
“Most, actually.” Jon set his fork and knife down and met his father’s eyes.
Ned looked horrified, even devastated at the news. Triumph brightened Catelyn Stark’s eyes for a moment before she turned away. Then Ned pulled his hand free of hers and took Jon’s.
“Jon, what if you want children someday? Or you meet someone you wish to share the rest of your life with? You’re so young.”
“I’m a man now. I did it the moment I came of age,” Jon said. “If I do meet someone, it can be reversed, but this way I won’t father any bastards of my own.”
Everyone had shifted uncomfortably at his honesty. Christmas dinner had gotten more bleak as the night progressed. By nightfall, a full-blown argument had come of his reveal. Jon had left in a rage, leaving his worried siblings behind with Catelyn’s coldness and Ned’s distress.
They’d made up of course, over text and a few phone calls, but Jon hadn’t returned to his father’s providence since. Lord Eddard Stark was bound to the North, sworn to protect his providence and oversee its law and order. No doubt one of his Stark sons would succeed him, much as the crown royalty in King’s Landing did.
“I miss all of you, too, but it’s a long drive.”
Coming to see Robb at his new home in Moat Cailin had taken near nine hours with traffic. Winterfell was another four beyond that.
“That’s a lame excuse,” Robb countered. “A flight from King’s Landing to Winterfell is only two hours, the train’s only five hours. If you can’t afford it, then Father would buy your ticket.”
“I can pay my own way.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Sadness lingered in Robb’s eyes, and Jon couldn’t stand the sight. He climbed to his feet and whistled into the darkness beyond the deck.
Two wolves raced across the grass, from the duck pond to the edge of the woods and back, weaving around each other. One white as snow, his brother charcoal gray and slighter in stature but burlier. The white was his, Ghost. Grey Wind was Robb’s. Lean and fierce, but a part of him in ways Jon and his siblings only whispered about amongst themselves. It was said the old magics of the world had died out long ago, but still pieces of it lingered. Their wolves were a part of that, a presence that made a warm comfort under his skin when Ghost was near.
Unfortunately, in the city, Jon had no place for Ghost. No flat would allow his presence for fear of residents’ safety, and Jon couldn’t afford the few places that had considered it. Instead, his wolf stayed out in the wild with Robb, Grey Wind, and Robb’s new wife, Margaery. He was happier for it, but Jon missed him fiercely. Every night, he dreamt his wolf dreams, running with his brother, and sometimes the other four if one of his siblings came to visit Robb.
“Damn wolf sleeps on a pile of clothes you keep here.” Robb chuckled as the two wolves snapped at each other and tumbled to the ground, biting and play-fighting. “Doesn’t matter where we hide them, he finds every piece and makes a drool soaked I-miss-Jon nest.”
Chuckling, Jon stepped down into the grass. “Ghost, to me.”
The albino wolf rolled to his feet and hurried over. After all the wrestling and tackling with Grey Wind, Jon had expected a kinder greeting. Instead Ghost leapt at his chest and knocked his ass into the mud. Ghost licked all over his face and neck.
“Ugh, damnit, wolf.”
Still, Jon rolled around with his wolf, let Ghost worry at his forearm before they settled in the damp grass and mud together. Behind them, Robb’s one booted foot stomped ominously closer.
Clomp clomp CLOMP.
Robb hopped down the stairs, hand clenching the bannister. He took a seat on the bottom step and Grey Wind ran to him, giving him several sloppy wet kisses of his own.
“I see you boys both need baths.”
Margaery smiled down at them from an upstairs window.
“Only if you join me,” Robb called up to her.
Jon scooped up a fistful of mud and threw it at Robb’s face. Grey Wind caught most of it, snapping his teeth at the glob and making a terrible gagging sound at the taste. Robb gave Jon a good kick with his leg while Margaery laughed at them.
“Come on, it’s getting late, love. I’d rather not spend the night lonely.”
“I’ll be up after I convince Jon to come home for a visit.”
Margaery frowned. “If that’s the case, I best file for divorce right now, Robb Stark.”
She shut the window. Jon watched the bedroom light flicker off. Robb was eyeing him, though, instead of his wife.
“She’s right, you know. You haven’t been home in two years. No matter what you say or how much you work, I know you’re just trying to avoid Father and my mother.”
Jon stayed silent. Robb knew him far too well for him to buy any excuse or rebuttal he might offer. Ever since that Christmas, most especially after that look on his father’s face, Jon had avoided him. For every fundraiser invitation, every lordly party or event, even invites to the royal family’s yearly visits to the North. Not for Christmas nor Easter nor birthdays. Even when his father made a trip down to King’s Landing, Jon made sure he was busy with work. One benefit of being a firefighter was how unpredictable and long his shifts were.
“Robb, she doesn’t want me there.”
“And? The rest of us do. Father does. And Arya and Bran and Rickon. Even Sansa misses you.”
That did surprise him. His redheaded sister had always been something of a spoiled brat as they were growing up. Sansa was almost nineteen now, though, and off at university. She was hardly the snotty sixteen-year-old he’d last seen. And Arya… his favorite little sister was seventeen. She’d come to visit him during her holiday from school, but otherwise he’d not seen any of them besides Robb. How long had it been since he’d picked a football around with Bran and Rickon? Or mussed up Arya’s wild hair? When was the last time he’d seen any of their faces in person instead of on a screen?
When Jon met his brother’s eyes, he couldn’t refuse him.
“I’ll talk to Davos about a holiday.” He held up his hands to fend off Robb’s hug. “No promises, okay? He might refuse me the time off, and it won’t be for at least a month if he lets me.”
Robb snorted and ruffled Jon’s brushed back curls.
“Refuse? I bet he’s just waiting to get rid of you.”
Robb turned out to be more right than not. Jon returned to King’s Landing after their weekend together, and avoided asking Davos for as long as he could. But somehow, word had gotten out about his suddenly, very certain visit, and after a week of fending off texts and calls from four younger siblings, Jon relented.
Ser Davos Seaworth was a good man, and a remarkable firefighter. He had a knack for getting people out of spaces that most other firefighters could not. When Jon approached him about a holiday, Davos snorted over the pot of crab and onion stew bubbling on the stove.
“About time. Get going, then, lad.”
Jon stared at him. “What? Now? ”
Davos stirred the huge pot and nodded. He squinted at Jon through the steam, smiling that knowing smile of his. “You’ve worked here near three years, Jon, and taken one holiday that you cut short, if I remember right. Been working yourself into the ground ever since. You’ve got more leave available than the rest of us combined.”
Tormund stomped into the firehouse’s kitchen then, his ginger beard a wild tangle and his protective coveralls still on. Unlike the rest of the crew, Tormund wore half his gear constantly, no matter how much Davos told him not to.
“You leaving us, Snow? Is that the way of it?” Tormund made a swipe for Jon’s head, and missed, his attempted bear hug almost unending Davos’s stew.
“Tormund, leave him be.”
Tormund, of course, didn’t listen. He dove for Jon a second time, but Jon was too quick. He managed to put the large, rectangular table between himself and the brute of a man. After a few feints, Tormund relented, grinning widely at Jon.
“What’s her name, then, boy? You do her cunt right, nice and wet and tight?”
Behind him, Davos’s ladle clattered to the floor.
“Tormund, how many times have we discussed talking like that?”
Val entered from the bunk room, her golden curls a rumpled mess. She rubbed her eyes and then kicked Tormund in the shin.
“Enough for him to know better.” She sniffed the stew, then came over to Jon. “And Jon Snow knows how to please a woman as I recall. He could teach you a thing or two about what you should be doing with that mouth.”
As Tormund thundered with laughter, Jon flushed. Val grinned at him, then smacked his butt and winked. They’d hooked up years ago, when Jon had first come to King’s Landing. A few weeks of passion and fucking, a relief for each of them with how tumultuous their lives had been then. Val had just lost her sister and nephew. Jon had just returned from the war and spent half a year bringing Robb back to some tattered sense of sanity.
“You got a taste for it, boy?” Tormund tried to pry his mouth open. “Silvertongue, or is it pussytongue?”
After that, Jon didn’t need anymore convincing to start his vacation immediately. He returned to his cramped flat to pack, then texted the group chat his siblings had been pestering him on for a solid week. House Stark was what Robb had called it, despite Jon’s protest that he was not, in fact, a Stark. Sansa had been the first to respond to that—all five of his siblings had shouted back that he was to them. Arya had gone so far as to threaten strangling him with his entrails if he ever dared to say otherwise again.
Jon: Snow in tomorrow night’s forecast.
Arya: Are you shitting me?! I JUST left for Braavos, you bastard.
Jon: Come to KL when your training season’s done, little sister. I’ve got half a couch with your name on it.
Arya: Only half? I’m not that small.
Robb: Ha, I told you Davos would boot you.
Sansa: I’ll be down Thursday evening after my last class :) Can’t wait to see you!!
Bran: Rickon’s running down the hall shrieking in excitement.
Jon chuckled at that. He hadn’t seen Bran or Rickon in person since Vasectomy Christmas, but according to Robb both boys were almost as tall as him now.
Bran: He just fell down the stairs.
Jon: That’s charming.
Theon: As charming as Vasectomy Christmas :P Can we expect a repeat?
Sansa: Whoever invited Theon to this group chat is dead to me.
As his siblings argued and scolded Theon for every word he typed, Jon set his phone aside to clean up his flat. He didn’t have much to do—some dishes, wiping down the counters, stuffing his dirty laundry into the washer. Catelyn Stark might dote on her children when they brought home a month’s worth of stinky clothes, but Jon didn’t have the same luxury. Just as he put the last dish in the drying rack, his phone rang. He answered without checking the caller.
“Theon, seriously, I don’t care—”
“Jon, how are things?”
“Father.” He swallowed and leaned back against the counter. “Things are good. Really good.”
“That’s what Rickon said,” Ned Stark said, but his voice was full of amusement. “A scraped knee and a bloody nose, but he’s still squealing about you coming to visit.”
“He really did fall down the stairs then?”
“Of course, he did. As much as he’s growing right now, he can’t walk half a block without tripping over something. Cat’s going to lecture him half the night at this rate. When can we expect you? Bran said something about tomorrow.”
Jon nodded. “Yeah, um, late tomorrow. If that’s okay, I mean. I asked for a holiday for next month, but Davos kind of shoved me out the door and started it today. But I can… can do something else. I don’t want to impose or—”
“Jon, son, you are always welcome here. I can’t wait to see you. It’s been far too long.”
His father’s voice broke, and Jon felt a welling of tears behind his eyes. “Aye, it’s been a bit. But I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Great. I’ll put in for some time off while you’re here. We can take your brothers camping like us and Robb used to do. How’s that sound?
“Great. That’d be great.”
“I love you, Jon.”
“Yeah, I love you, too.”
Somehow, his evening of packing and plans for any early sleep ended up being a pub crawl with Tormund and Edd. Edd Dollett, or Dolorous Edd as their firehouse precinct called him, was a slight man, and droll to a fault. The pair took Jon to all of their favorite haunts around Flea Bottom despite his protests, then across the city to the more questionable bars and dives by the Mud Gate. As Tormund drank other patrons under the table, Edd told morose tales of his failed romances from the last week.
“Might just go celibate like you, Snow. No lady cares for me these days, especially not when I’m got your pretty face distracting them from talking with me. It’d be my luck she’d come home with me, then scream your name.”
Jon snorted, but didn’t deny his words. A dozen women had already come on to him tonight, and the raunchier the place got, the more lewd the advances. He scanned the crowd for Tormund, but saw no sign of his towering head of ginger hair.
“Fuck, we lost Tormund again. I hate drinking with him.”
Jon paid out their tab while Edd checked the bathrooms for a sign on Tormund. When they met back at the bar’s entrance, Edd was empty-handed and Jon was fuming.
“Damn fucker spent twenty dragons on drinks,” Jon snapped. His foul mood wasn’t helped by the clouds of smoke outside the door nor the misty rain still falling. A storm had passed through, the sidewalks damp and the street spotted with puddles. “Where the hell is he?”
“In an alley bragging about his member, no doubt.”
Jon scanned the narrow road, from the puke splatters on the cobblestones to the cars waiting at a red light down the street. Not a single ginger head was visible. He didn’t hear Tormund’s thunderous voice either. They were just deciding to split of and search when an explosion rocked the street. Glass shattered from half the windows of the four storey house on the corner. As it rained down onto the screaming crowd a burst of flames leapt from the opening.
“For fuck’s sake.” Edd was on his knees, rubbing his ears. “Does work have to follow us everywhere?”
“Call it in, Edd!”
Jon took off running.
People pushed and shoved and stumbled around him, heading away from the sweltering heat of the fire. At the end of the road, half a dozen men, covered in ashes and coughing, tumbled from the building’s front door. Jon hurried to them, taking a quick glance at each, but besides some minor smoke inhalation and a few cuts, they seemed fine.
“Who else is inside?” He stared up at the building, what seemed to be a converted old manse turned into rundown apartments. “The other tenants, how many?”
One man retched on the sidewalk, another continued to cough loudly. But a third seemed a bit more sensible. He rubbed at his dyed-blue beard and spat blood on the ground.
“Just us, man. That’s all.”
Jon nodded, but his eyes still scanned the windows. The entire top floor was a blaze of red and orange flames. Another window cracked and fell to the sidewalk. He started to move the men across the street, directing the blue bearded one to call for fire rescue, when an older man, armored all in white, sprinted toward the building.
“Daenerys! Daenerys?”
Jon caught him at the curb. “You cannot go inside. It’s too dangerous, ser.”
But the knight didn’t seem to hear him. Panic lined his weathered face, his eyes full of fear. He tried to shove past Jon as another roar of flame leapt from the windows. And Jon… he squinted at the man, recognition dawning. Few knights were left in Westeros these days, but this man could be nothing but that in his stiff uniform and armored white.
“Ser Barristan? Of the royal guard?”
“Move aside, at once.”
“It’s too dangerous!”
Jon didn’t understand. He couldn’t fathom why a member of the royal family’s guard would ever be in such a place. Mostly, the queen and her son and daughter kept to the top of King’s Landing’s three towering hills. They never ventured down into the city unless it was for a parade or special event. Even then, they were each followed by a guard.
Tears ran down Ser Barristan’s face as he stared at the burning building. “Daenerys, gods, no, please…” Then he spotted the man with the blue beard and rage took over. “You! Where is she? What have you done, Neharais, you damn, useless cretin?”
“I didn’t do anything, man, come on!”
Ser Barristan smacked him right across the face, but Jon turned for the building. Daenerys was inside. For whatever reason, the royal princess had paid a visit here, and now she was trapped inside that inferno.
“Call the fire rescue,” Jon ordered the old knight. “Now!”
He pulled his sweater over his head, splashed it in one of the rain puddles and wrapped it around his nose and mouth as he dove into the smoking doorway. Behind him, he heard Ser Barristan’s shouts, but the sounds faded as he stepped into the dark hell of ash and smoke filling the corridor.
Jon bent over, his eyes watering, his skin breaking out in sweat. Most of the rooms he passed where tiny and foggy with gray smoke. The damage was minimal down here. He found no sign of her, nor any inhabitant until he crawled up to the third floor. He took a moment to catch his breath as much as he could on the landing, but overhead the charred, burning beams were creaking and groaning. Flames licked at their joints and roof insulation fell to the floor burning.
The ceiling between the third and fourth floors had been blown to pieces. Fire raged all the way up to the angled roof. Furniture from the top floor had fall, black and ashen, through the hole. His worst suspicions were confirmed when he pushed into the first room. A fallen, flaming couch blocked half the door, but the tables in the center of the room were covered in needles and vials of liquid. Drugs, he knew. A homegrown meth lab or something worse. An explosion like that could only be the result of a few things.
Eyes stinging, Jon took a short breath into his wet sweater and called out like he had on the floor below.
“Daenerys? Can anyone hear me? Make noise if you can!”
He said it over and over, checking that room, and then moving to the adjoining one as the smoke grew blacker and the air seemed to boil around him.
Then he hear it, a faint choked cough, and the clatter of something glass hitting the floor.
She was at the back of the room, buried under a mattress that had been overturned, her silver-gold hair gray with ash.
“H-help, I c-can’t…”
Daenerys broke off coughing and gagging. Her legs and waist were trapped under the mattress, her face pressed into a pillow as black as the walls. Jon crawled to her, taking in what held her down.
“I’ve got you. Shallow breaths, okay? I’m a firefighter. My name’s Jon. Here.”
Jon unwrapped his sweater from his face and placed it around hers. Most of it had dried, but his sweat had dampened enough to filter out some of the smoke.
“Can you move? Are your legs hurt?”
Daenerys shook her head.
“Okay, stay still. I’m going to lift this off you and I need you to crawl forward for me when I do. Can you do that, Daenerys?”
She gave a tearful nod, and Jon lifted. The mattress wasn’t heavy, but the weight of wood and drywall and insulation atop it was. Daenerys pulled herself free and Jon collapsed beside her as smoke burned in his lungs. He squeezed her hand and urged her forward. Together, they crawled from the room and into the corridor. On the second landing, an ear-shattering crack rent the air, and part of the roof fell in.
Daenerys screamed, and panicked, but Jon kept a hold of her hand.
“Look at me, hey, look here, Daenerys. Focus on me, okay? I need you to be brave for me right now.” He choked then, from the burning smoke in his eyes and lungs. But he squeezed Daenerys’s hand once more and turned her face to his. “We’re going to be fine. Just one more flight of stairs. Twelve steps and then the hall. That’s all. Can you do that for me, Daenerys? For Ser Barristan outside?”
Their eyes met, violet dark in the smoky blaze filling the world. “Yes.”
The last few stairs seemed an eternity. Jon helped Daenerys to her foot, and she clung to his waist, his undershirt soaked to his skin. They burst out of the doorway to a whirlwind of flashing lights and firefighters hurrying onto the scene. Ser Barristan was being restrained by several of them, but when he saw Jon and Daenerys, he pushed past the crew.
“Daenerys, princess! Thank the gods!”
She collapsed against him, and was rushed to an ambulance. Jon watched her go, coughing and hacking. His vision when dark then bright. Sharp pains shot up his thighs from his knees, and the world spun around him as he lost consciousness.