Chapter Text
“Sometimes there is no happy choice,
only one less grievous than the others.”
JON
He wakes with a violent jerk and a silent scream on his lips. Eyes snapped open and shaking he tries to understand what happened. His body is covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat, goose bumps spread all over his skin and his heart beats violently against his chest, feeling almost like his old one instead of some mechanical construction, but blood and veins and muscles, like it should be, like it used to be.
His hand reaches for it, feels the pounding beneath his fingers, and only after a few more seconds of panic, it finally dawns on him… it was only a dream. The things he felt, the things he saw, even if there is truth to them, they’re gone now. He’s alone.
Jon runs his hands over his face as his breathing calms down. Still the pain in her voice and the desperation of her cries, their echoes stick with him like the scars to his body. Because it seemed so real.
And maybe it’s his punishment, to wake up like this for the rest of his life. Though if there’d be such a thing as justice in this world, he knows he’d be far worse off.
He turns his head before he gets up; blinking neon lights inform him that it's about four pm. Another side effect of his insomnia, to always wake up at such ungodly hours. But even this late, the streets continue to be bustling with activity.
Jon props his arms on the window sill and watches them from above. Rain falls down on them; men and women, with children and without, pass by, loaded with their belongings, presumably in the process of finding shelter for the night. But most of them will have no such luck, the few hostels around them are already filled to the brim.
Most would feel pity for them. After all they’ve been through, they don't deserve to end here like this. It is unfair, he knows that. Yet all he feels is the rage lying dormant in his stomach, bound up with the incredible shame for he has done his share on things to be as they are now.
A quick glance upwards shows that, yet again the sky is covered with another layer of dense grey clouds. For most this is the main reason they’re so eager to leave this place behind, besides hunger and poverty. By now the hope that sunlight will ever touch these grounds again has slowly but surely faded even from the last optimist of the country.
Jon himself can't even remember the day when the Long Night began. How much time has passed since the Night King and his army came and tried to destroy them all? It’s hard to look back, because usually he avoids thinking about this. All it does is cause more pain.
Everything but his damn life he’d lost in those fights. He almost died for helping to bring so many of these people to Westeros, and then again trying to keep them safe, to prevent the cybernetic revolt and hold together what’s been left of humanity. Yet still these very people, they’re out there now, buzzing in the streets like wild bees, trying everything they can to get out of here, even if it kills them.
This, it’s his true failure. Because he was too blind to see that the real enemy was, and is, still right in their midst. And that even though she had told him more than once.
As he stands there watching them, a strange-looking group catches his eye. He leans closer against the window as he sees them approach; their golden cloaks fitting as much into this place as snow into the desert. The sight of them sends a cold shiver down his spine, because even if they can hardly be compared to the Night King, he's got a damn aversion to all kinds of techs ever since.
He’s seen this mechs before, once or twice in his life, but never so far away from the capital. They’re Cersei’s henchmen, hardly more intelligent than an ordinary toaster. Why does she bother to send them here?
It's quick and piercing, the rising fear that maybe it's him they're after. Looking for the true heir to the iron throne, even if no one knows his secret except his family. His old family that he never fit in with and his new family that he didn't fight enough for. Maybe it's a redemption if they take his head.
At least then they'd be together again.
But deep down, he knows that's not the case. It’s something else that made them take the long way up north. And that something is not him.
Instead of brooding further, Jon turns away and heads for the shower. The hot stream soothes his tense muscles and a part of his worries sinks down the drain with the water. After he’s dried, he takes Longclaw from his nightstand, puts the blaster into the holster on his hip and, with his hair still wet, he slips into some old jeans, a black shirt, his boots and takes the few stairs down to the bar.
He’s met with an unpleasant smell of dust and ale as soon as the floor above his head turns into the ceiling.
The air around here has always been this stuffy, the furniture always old and broken. During all these wars Castle Black has not changed a bit, but continues to be the same rat hole in which he spent so much of his youth. It’s the kind of thing many long for during these days.
“Good morning,” Tyrion greets him. The way he speaks, with his tongue a bit too heavy in his mouth, indicates that the glass of wine in front of him is not his first and won’t be his last. “Or should I better say good night? No, that doesn't seem right... good noon?”
Jon ignores him and takes the bowl of soup Davos has thankfully saved him.
When the latter returns from the storeroom, a crate of beer in his arms, he gives him a quick once-over, then clicks his tongue. “Poor sleep again?”
The spoon is already halfway to his mouth, so he slurps it down before he answers. “No worse than usual.”
He gets a firm nod in return as the crate is put on the counter and a single beer next to his hand. The rest finds its way beyond the bar as Jon mutters his thanks and even forces himself to smile a little.
Because grateful he is that the old man came back with him, back to where it all began, at the Wall, among the unseen, the unwanted and the unknown. It might be both a curse and a blessing that they’ve returned to this place. Now that the Night’s Watch no longer exists, no one bothers them here, no one cares that they’ve occupied this old building. But still it’s not a place that holds good memories for either of them. Right there, on the dirty floor next to the creaking front door, is still a stain on the boards, left by his dried blood.
“You’ve seen those gold cloaks on the streets?” Davos asks and Jon looks up.
“I did.” He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand and shoves the bowl aside. “You know what they want?”
“Searching for someone, no doubt.”
Their eyes dart over to Tyrion, but he just chuckles before downing the last sip of wine. “I think it's rather touching of my sister to go to such trouble just because she misses the sight of me. I feel a bit flattered.”
“Don’t take it personal lad,” Davos scoffs at him and takes the bottle Tyrion's hand just reached for, “but I don't think it's you they're looking for.”
“Oh?” This seems to make him curious. “Well… why not enlighten us then. Who else might they come for?”
It's just a quick glance, the flicker of his eyes, but Jon knows Davos well enough to tell that what he’s about to say next is not something he's gonna like. “I think it’s the Dragon Queen they’re after.”
Admittedly, he didn't see that coming. Tyrion's face loses all color as Jon feels a painful sting in his chest.
But it goes unnoticed as Davos continues. “Maybe you're both quite happy drowning in your self-pity. But I still think it’s rather odd, that there’s never been a body.” He takes one of the glasses from the sink and starts polishing, as if it’s the weather he’s talking about. “No photo, no evidence, nothing.” He turns his eyes back at Tyrion. “Doesn’t look like your sister to enjoy her victory only in secret, does it?”
Jon’s hands begin to tremble as he tries to understand what Davos is attempting to tell them. Even though it’s a thought that has come to himself some times before, in moments when he could no longer bear the pain, when his grief threatened to consume him whole. Still hearing it out loud feels different. He balls his hands into a fist and takes a deep breath which catches their attention. “They said she got executed.”
Davos' look softens as he notices the strain in his voice. And it seems like he’s about to drop the subject as he takes his empty bowl and makes his way to the kitchen. But Jon should know better. Just before he’s out of sight, he gives him one last glance over his shoulder. “You know, people have lied for less in the past.”
With that, he leaves them alone, remaining in their seats as silence settles over them like a heavy dark veil. None of them is able to say anything back. As Tyrion reclaims the wine bottle, Jon reaches behind the counter and fishes for his pack of cigarettes.
Even if neither of them pulled the trigger, they both feel responsible, guiding the executioner's hand. It was their abandonment, their abuse of her trust, what killed her in the end. So her blood is on their hands, the blood of the woman they love, even if only one of them was foolish enough to ever tell her.
“You think there's anything to it?” Tyrion clears his throat, his eyes still cast down.
“No.” Maybe . Jon takes another drag and watches the white smoke until it dissolves into thin air.
“Good.” The dwarf shifts in his seat so he’s able to reach into the pockets of his trousers. ”Because otherwise this would be a bit more complicated.”
He places his hand flat on the counter and Jon hears a soft clink under his palm. And indeed, when he pulls it away again, three small iron coins lie in front of him on the crunched wood. They look simple, almost worthless, but on closer inspection one can see the fine engraving, the deep shimmering lines wherever light is able to touch them.
“ Valar Morghulis ,” Tyrion says like it’s all the explanation he needs.
“All men must die,” Jon translates, because that much he remembers. “What does this mean?”
“It's our ticket out of here.” Tyrion’s body is now turned so that he gets a better look at him. “I won these at Queenscrown, coins of the faceless men. So the only thing we need now is a ship to Braavos, which fortunately sets sail from Eastwatch in just about two days. And those…” He lifts one of the coins, “assure us the passage.”
It's not the first of these things making their rounds here. Jon has heard many of those tales before. Chips, keycards, all sorts of things that supposedly make an impossible escape possible. They're the kind of stories desperate people tell themselves to create a little bit of hope they can cling to. Still this is the first of them he finds somehow plausible.
He takes one coin himself and twists it between his fingers. “I think Arya has told me about this. You say you won them?”
“I did.” The same hope shines in Tyrion's eyes that Jon has seen in all the others. “So what do you say? You ready to leave this shithole behind?”
It's tempting, he has to give him that much. It’s a nice thought to leave just everything behind, to start somewhere new, in a warmer place without scars, without ghosts. But he’s not naive enough to believe that they wouldn’t accompany him wherever he goes.
So he shakes his head. “I can’t leave Westeros. It’s… I belong here, it’s home.”
“What good has this home ever done to you?” Tyrion leans back with a mocking smirk playing on his lips.
The answer is that it did neither of them any good. Still Jon’s on the verge of saying that it’s not the place but the people who have disappointed him.
He doesn't get to it though. A sudden sound catches their attention. There’s some rustling outside the door, rattling of the handle which is followed by heaving banging against the wood.
Jon irritated, Tyrion afraid, they both spin on their chairs to face the entrance.
“Open the door, in the name of the Queen,” a voice tells them; it’s one they both know only too well.
“Jaime,” Tyrion mouths and Jon nods.
As if on cue, Davos comes back. His eyes flick from one to the other, then back to the door. Without another word, he beckons Tyrion to join him; the back exit leads from the kitchen through the basement.
The knocking becomes more insistent as Tyrion, swaying slightly, follows Davos' instruction. Whatever awaits them, Jon will have to deal with it on his own. At the last second he remembers the coins, forgotten on the counter, closes his fist around them and shoves them into the pockets of his jeans.
Then the door burst open.
If it isn’t for the mechanical hand and the little grey in his beard, he’d just look like the man Jon met all those years ago back at Winterfell, back when he’d thought, this is what a king should look like.
Now he knows better though, knows that behind all the glamour there’s only a lonely coward waiting.
“Snow,” Jaime grins as he approaches him and the rest of the mechs fill the room. None of them seem to mind that they just took the door apart. The odds are slim that he will get it replaced.
“Lannister,” Jon says, keeping a straight face. He forces himself to hold his gaze, even if he’s more than tempted to follow the robots searching the modest spaces around them. “It’s been a while.”
“It certainly is. Back to your roots it is?” the knight tilts his head as he waits for him to show any sign of emotion.
But he waits in vain. The only thing Jon gives him is a flick of his brows. “I guess I'm not the only one.” It's obvious that the next sharp remark is already on the tip of Lannister's tongue, but Jon beats him to it. “What do you want here?”
Jaime chuckles, “and still no man of much words it seems.” He rests his golden hand on the handle of the gun holstered around his waist. Not as an obvious threat, yet the intention behind it is clear. “I'll get straight to the point then… I came to ask if you've had any unusual encounters over the last couple of days?”
Jon snorts, his eyes still narrowed. “You mean other than you storming my bar and destroying my door?” When one of the mechs is about to head up the stairs, he gets in its way and blocks its path.
The thing turns its helmet to look at his commander, who shakes his head slightly. So the robot backs away, not especially happy about it. And Jaime’s smirk flatters as well. “I think you know why we’re here, don’t you?”
“Should I?” Until just now Jon thought it was all for Tyrion. But suddenly he's not so sure anymore. The fact that he’s not even asking about his brother shows that there's more to it than meets the eye.
Jaime studies him like he’s searching for something in his face, maybe some hidden reaction, something to expose his lie. Jon holds his gaze, waiting patiently, until his opponent breaks eye contact. Like he didn't find what he was looking for, neither in his bar nor in his expression.
Still he continues with his inspection, his gaze flies over the old furnishings, but stops as he notices the glass of wine and the beer bottle beside it. “You haven’t seen my brother recently, do you?”
“Define ‘recently’ ,” Jon replies.
The tension between them grows and it certainly won't be long before Jaime gets tired of the games. But to his surprise, the smirk returns to his lips. “It might bother you, but we have more in common than you think, you and me.” With his mechanical hand, he strokes his chest, the spot of his heart, to emphasize his point.
But it’s way more than that, Jon knows, other things they share than the cpu and false nerve cords they both carry and tried so hard to fight against. It’s the fact that they fell in love with their own kin, the betrayal of the woman of their dreams. Even if for Jaime, this makes two different people, and for Jon, it was one and the same.
“Were you the one who killed her?” he says because then at least he’d get his revenge.
One sharp eyebrow is raised at him. “No, I did not.”
“You know who did it?”
Seconds stretch as he waits for his answer. But to his disappointment Jaime shakes his head. And it seems there’s nothing left to say for him, so he finally turns, ready to make his exit. “I’ll see you soon, Snow.”
Jon's gaze remains on the door even after the last merch has left. He closes his fist even tighter around the coins as he slumps back against some table, then finally squeezing his eyes shut. It's to be expected that it’s her image that comes up, her silver hair, her warm smile. And without a chance to prevent it, a false hope starts to spread inside him, whether he likes it or not.