linndechir (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
linndechir) wrote2012-07-02 02:02 am
linndechir) wrote2012-07-02 02:02 am
Entry tags:
FIC: A Dream of Winter (Stannis/Jon)
Title: A Dream of Winter
Fandom: ASOIAF
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Jon
Rating: R
Words: 6716
Warnings: vague spoilers for ADWD
Prompt: Jon/Stannis, anything exploring their dynamic.
Summary: When King Stannis returns to the Wall years after the war, he brings back memories Jon was trying too hard to forget.
Author's note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
outboxed on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
got_exchange.
King Stannis Baratheon left the Wall on the first clear day after their victory against the Others, when the snow storms finally subsided and the sun was shining again, although it was still freezing cold and the roads covered in snow. Most of his army had already cleared out of Castle Black by the time the king mounted his brown destrier in the courtyard, and Jon walked over to him. They had said their goodbyes in private earlier that morning, but it would hardly do if the Lord Commander wasn't there to see the king leave.
Jon stood next to the horse, let one hand rest on the animal's neck. Stannis looked down at him – he seemed as tightly wound as always, blue eyes too intense in his gaunt face, but the determination in them never wavered. If anything, he looked more hopeful now than during the months they had been defending the Wall. Jon couldn't blame him – what kind of an enemy were Southern lords to a man who had defeated the Others?
"Have you come to tell me that you've changed your mind?" the king asked quietly, his words meant for Jon's ears only. There was no smile on his face, but Jon could see that Stannis wasn't serious, that he did not actually expect a change of heart.
"I've come to wish you good luck," Jon replied, stroking the horse's neck. The king scoffed.
"I thought the Night's Watch didn't take sides." The scorn in his voice was clearly audible, but Jon had grown used to that. He had grown used to so many of Stannis' habits and quirks, as used as he had once been to his brothers'. For a moment he felt sick when he realised that he might never see Stannis again, just like he would never see Robb again, or father, or Arya. The moment passed when he looked up again, Stannis' blue eyes anchoring him like a steadying hand on his arm. It was hard to imagine Stannis Baratheon dying. The man seemed far too stubborn for death.
"You are the rightful king of Westeros," Jon finally said, as if that was reason enough.
And if you weren't, you would still deserve the throne more than any other man in the realm. Jon didn't say that, though, knew that it was a compliment Stannis would not appreciate. As much as Stannis rewarded and punished his men according to their deeds, as much as he cared about what they deserved, the idea that he should deserve anything seemed completely foreign to the king. It simply didn't seem to matter to a man who had never got anything he deserved.
"I would not even have considered the offer if any other man had made it," Jon said instead. Stannis looked down at him, his face unreadable, but when he gathered up the reins his hand briefly brushed against Jon's. Jon barely felt the touch through both their gloves, but it was clearly not accidental and that was enough to bring a small smile to his lips.
"Lord Snow."
"Your Grace." Jon stepped aside. As Stannis rode out of Castle Black, part of Jon wanted to run after him, tell him that he had changed his mind, that he wanted to go South with him after all, that he wanted the knighthood and the white cloak and a page in the Book of Brothers. But he had sworn an oath. Stannis' place was on his Southern throne, but Jon's place was not by his side. Whether they deserved better or not had never been the point.
* * *
"I need more men to keep the other garrisons running, and more money to have them repaired," Jon repeated, exasperated after hours of arguing. He had forgotten just how stubborn the king could be. "With the Others defeated, the wildlings have nothing better to do than to try and raid the South again. If you don't want that to happen -"
"Of course I don't want that to happen," Stannis snapped. His voice was as sharp as it had been all those years ago, and he was as tense during what was, technically, a minor argument as he had been in the midst of a battle. "But I do think that you should talk to the Northern lords before you bother me with this."
"The North has suffered more from the winter than anyone else in the kingdoms. They have even less to give than you, Your Grace."
Stannis was grinding his teeth again. His eyes were fixed on the papers on the table: calculations and lists of money, food reserves, men, all neatly documented. It had been almost five years since Stannis had left the Wall to go South and claim his kingdom, and Jon did not know when they would next see each other after this visit. He was determined to get as much from Stannis as possible while he could actually speak to him, rather than exchange ravens every few weeks.
Jon waited patiently while the king went over the numbers again. It didn't surprise him that Stannis made all these decisions himself, that he hadn't brought any counsellors with him – the king seemed to know his kingdom's wealth and debts and resources by heart. Jon expected another argument, another objection, but instead Stannis suddenly looked up.
"You haven't changed one bit, Lord Snow," he said. Jon had almost forgotten what it felt like to have those blue eyes rest on him, that hard, thoughtful look, as if Stannis was looking right through him, as if he could see things even Jon barely knew about himself. Those eyes had kept him going through months of battle that had felt like years, if only because Jon hated to see disappointment in them. Jon would have never admitted it, but Stannis had been his strength in those months, and the more he had thought about it in the last years, the more he had come to realise that Stannis had relied just as much on him.
"Neither have you, Your Grace." It was true. Stannis Baratheon – these days the only king in Westeros, unchallenged and recognised, though certainly not loved, by all – looked much the same as he had during the war. He wasn't quite as gaunt anymore, though still very lean, but none of the old harshness had left him. He had fought for his throne with an iron determination, but it brought him no joy now that he had it. Stannis' letters were always terse, and although he usually kept to Watch matters, Jon hadn't missed the occasional barb at the court with all its spitlickers and schemers. Stannis Baratheon ruled out of duty, and as far as Jon could tell from his correspondence with Sansa and Bran the kingdom was better off for it. The winter had been harsh, but the king's prudent rule had kept the otherwise unavoidable famine in check. Spring was slowly coming, and the kingdom found itself in a far less dire state than anyone could have hoped for.
Jon had thought about Stannis a lot in the past years, but since the king had arrived on the day before they had been arguing without pause. It almost made him wonder why he had ever missed Stannis.
"I will instruct the lords of the realm to send their criminals to the Wall rather than execute them, but don't expect too much. Too many men have died during the war, and someone still needs to work the fields come spring." Stannis paused, glanced again at the figures. "I can't give you as much money and grain as you asked for, but I will see what can be spared."
He gathered the papers to take them with him. Jon expected him to leave to examine them again in private, but on the way to the door the king stopped, went over to the window and peered out. While winter was slowly coming to an end in the South – Sansa had mentioned in her last letter that the first flowers were blooming already – at the Wall the snow was still several feet deep. It didn't look much different from the last time Stannis had been here. For a minute Jon stared at the king's back – straight, strong, unbroken.
"Your Grace?" Stannis didn't answer, and Jon walked over to him to see if anything outside had caught the king's attention. It was dark already, not that that meant much. Up at the Wall the sun still went down early in the evening, and they had been in Jon's study for many hours. His shoulder brushed against Stannis', and he flinched a little. This was not the right time to revisit certain memories.
"Sometimes I envy you, Snow," Stannis finally said, his eyes fixed on the endless white outside. Jon chortled.
"I told you, the Wall grows on you if you stay long enough."
Stannis glared at him, but there was no real anger in his eyes. Jon had seen him angry often enough to know the difference. This was just mild annoyance, and when was Stannis ever not annoyed?
"I should have taken you with me to King's Landing, if only as a punishment for giving me so much trouble."
"My place is here." Jon had to bite back a sigh. Were they going to rehash this old argument again? Would he have to repeat all his reasons why he couldn't have accepted Stannis' offer, whether he wanted to or not?
"With rapers and thieves? You belong with better men."
"And the men in King's Landing are better?" Jon asked with a wry smile, unsurprised to see both a flash of anger in the king's eyes and a twitch in his jaw muscles. The briefest moment in which Stannis felt irritated, before appreciation for Jon's bluntness took over.
"There would be one more good man if you were there," Stannis said. His voice was so level that it took Jon a moment to comprehend his words, to realise that Stannis had paid him a compliment – and not one of his usual backhanded compliments that were half an insult, but a true compliment. He really had to hate King's Landing.
"I wouldn't feel like a good man anymore if I had come with you." Jon couldn't quite keep the sadness out of his voice. There were days when he regretted, or at least doubted his decision. It wasn't so much when the cold bit into his flesh, nor when he had to deal with all the everyday problems of the Watch. No, that he could live with, that was his duty.
But he did have regrets when the loneliness became too unbearable. When he took his meals alone, because the Lord Commander did not simply sit and joke with his men. When he spent his evenings trying to talk to Satin, but his rank was like a wall between them. When his doubts ate at him and he couldn't share them with anyone. When he slept alone at night, every night – and there were so many nights in five long years. And every morning when he woke up, he thought of the white bed he could have in a white tower, of the days he could spend by the king's side in an easy routine, serving, not commanding, sharing his loneliness with one who had been alone long before he had inherited a crown.
Some of his dreams were pleasant, beautiful, childish dreams of knights and kings, but often enough they turned sour. Often enough Stannis would suddenly look at him in disapproval and scorn, and call Jon a traitor who had given up his principles because he was too weak to do his duty.
Jon had regrets even for feeling regret.
Stannis' sigh interrupted his brooding. "I know. I know why you refused." Stannis smiled, but it was a grim sight. "I probably would have refused as well if I had been in your place."
Jon stared at him a little. It had always struck him as odd that Stannis could be so angry about Jon's refusals – both of Winterfell and later of the Kingsguard – when Jon was all but sure that Stannis would have made the same decisions. But the king had never acknowledged that back then, and it had taken Jon a long time to see just how similar they were.
But that similarity had been what had brought them closer to each other during the war. They were both lonely, in their own ways, they both had to stay above their men. In a time that would have driven any man to despair, they had been the only one the other could turn to. They had grown from uneasy allies to ... Jon still didn't know what to call it. Friend seemed such a strange word to apply to Stannis Baratheon, lover even stranger. Brother meant something too different for both of them, and ally would have failed to express the trust that had grown between them. Stannis Baratheon wouldn't have asked an ally to forsake his vows and come South with him. He wouldn't have offered to make a mere ally the Lord Commander of his new Kingsguard, that dark night after their last battles in the North had been won, when Stannis had been preparing to return South to win his throne.
They hadn't gone to bed together that night, too exhausted even for that. Jon had been shocked at the king's offer, the only offer that could have tempted him even more than Winterfell once had, what seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet as much as he hated the thought of Stannis leaving, Jon couldn't accept.
When Jon had refused Winterfell, Stannis had been angry. When Jon refused the Kingsguard, Stannis looked hurt. The pain in those usually so calm blue eyes made Jon's heart ache, but he couldn't betray his vows out of ... whatever it was that he had come to feel for his king in those months. His king, he thought, and that was already more than he should allow himself to feel.
They stood by the window in silence, both staring out at the black sky, both lost in thought. Jon wondered what Stannis was thinking about, if that night five years ago was also on his mind, or if he was maybe going through the numbers again, juggling with money and debt and meagre resources like he had done for the past five years in a desperate attempt to keep his kingdom from starving.
It was a comfortable silence. As tense as things had been between them at the beginning, they had soon become comfortable around each other after Stannis had returned to the Wall. There had been something simple about the war they were fighting, something that had made all their other disagreements seem petty. And even now that they were arguing about men and money again, there was still a kinship between them that Jon had never felt with any other man.
After a while Jon noticed that Stannis was looking at him. He shuddered when he met Stannis' eyes. He knew that look – warmer than the usual cold appraisal, like a blue fire, and yet with a hint of softness in it that Jon only ever saw when they were alone. Jon didn't know if he was surprised or not when Stannis raised one hand to his face, fingertips gently brushing over by now old scars, tracing them down along Jon's cheek. The king's fingers were warm and rough, not one bit softer than they had been all those years ago.
Jon wondered what he should do, if he should say anything, if he should stop Stannis, but he was already pressing his cheek against the king's warm hand, hungry for any touch. Nobody had caressed him since Stannis had left five years ago, since that last time their hands had brushed in the courtyard.
"Your Grace," he started.
"No." Stannis' voice sounded hoarse, his eyes intense as they stared into Jon's.
"Stannis," Jon corrected himself, still not sure how to continue, but then he felt Stannis' lips on his own. It barely deserved to be called a kiss, just clumsy pressure against his mouth as if Stannis had forgotten how to kiss, but Jon returned it eagerly. He felt as if he hadn't even realised how cold he had been until Stannis' arms wrapped around his body.
* * *
It was as clumsy as that first time they had kissed, and just as hesitating. It had been during the war, when winter was so dark and cold that the sun sometimes barely came up for an hour, when the war they were fighting seemed endless, when all that kept them going was duty and the stubborn refusal to give up, even though they had long lost all hope that they would ever win.
Even men like them made rash choices when they did not expect to live past the next day.
They had both retired to the king's chambers – it was warmer than the room Jon slept in, and they did not have wood to waste on unnecessary fires. The battle outside the Wall had abated for the moment; they needed every bit of rest they could get.
The king was wounded, a scratch on his cheek and a deeper one on his arm, where a blade had sliced through his armour. Jon himself was only sweaty and exhausted, but he frowned in worry when he saw how pale Stannis was. It was an odd feeling, but one that had almost become a habit over the past weeks, ever since Stannis had returned from Winterfell. At first Jon had thought it was only legitimate concern, for no one knew what Stannis' men would do if their king died – Jon doubted they would keep fighting. But it had slowly turned into more than that, more even than only respect for the man, and though it was hard to like Stannis Baratheon, Jon found it increasingly hard to dislike him.
"Someone should take a look at that wound, Your Grace," Jon pointed out and already turned to get help, but Stannis held him back.
"Others have more grievous wounds than me, and we can't afford to lose more men." That made Jon smile, despite their grim situation – that Stannis would disregard his own wounds not out of selfless consideration, but simply because the outcome of this war was the only thing that mattered to him.
"Then let me clean your wound." As Stannis wanted to protest, Jon cut him off. "You haven't come this far to die of blood poisoning, Your Grace."
Stannis had already sent his squire away to catch a few hours of sleep, and although he didn't look pleased about it, he didn't object when Jon helped him out of his armour. It was awkward, clammy fingers fumbling with buckles and straps, and it was hardly helpful that Jon's mind constantly pointed out to him that he was undressing his king. Jon scolded himself for blushing like a girl when he helped Stannis out of the padding he wore underneath the armour, scolded himself even more when he allowed himself to let his eyes wander over the king's bare chest.
Jon evaded Stannis' gaze as he cleaned the wound on his arm. It was hardly more than a scratch, not deep enough to keep him from fighting on, but they both knew that men had died from smaller wounds if they were left to fester. The king held still, barely flinched when Jon bandaged his arm.
Jon didn't know if it was exhaustion or loneliness that made his hands linger on Stannis' arm, fingertips resting against warm skin, gently retracing the curve of his biceps and sliding up to his shoulder. Stannis felt so warm, so alive, and maybe that was what Jon needed more than anything else in that moment. Their eyes met when the king looked up, and Jon knew he should step away, knew he should say something non-committal and never mention this again, but he felt as if Stannis' eyes rooted him to the spot. Those cold, hard, determined eyes that never showed even the slightest bit of doubt, like the only anchor Jon had left when his own men expected him to have neither fears nor doubts. Outside having Stannis by his side gave him more strength, but in here it made him feel like a helpless child. He clung to Stannis' shoulder, his fingernails leaving red crescents on the pale skin.
"Let me stay." Jon barely recognised his own voice. It sounded hoarse and small, like the boy he thought he had stopped being long ago. Stannis looked at him like he knew too well that Jon was asking for more than just that, more than just to stay with him, but he nodded. Just the curtest nod, and even at that he looked ashamed. Stannis was tense as a bowstring, his muscles quivered under Jon's hand, as if this was already too much, or maybe just not enough.
Jon would spend the next years wondering what had possessed him that night that he leant in closer, that he allowed his hand to slide further up, curling gently at the back of Stannis' neck; wondering even more what had been going through Stannis' head that the king had let him, had leant into him. It had felt almost accidental when their lips met, clumsy and desperate, and they were soon clinging to each other like drowning men to a lifeline.
Stannis pulled Jon down and against him and Jon stumbled into his lap, would have lost his balance if not for Stannis' arms around him. The king winced when Jon's armour scratched over his bare chest, but Jon's hands trembled too much now to undress. All he could do was try to be as little in the way as possible as the king helped him out of his armour, mirroring Jon's own movements earlier. Jon all but melted against Stannis when the last piece of fur and chain mail clanked to the floor.
Neither of them really knew what they were doing that night, their touches were awkward and hasty, as if they both feared that it would only take a moment for either of them to reconsider. Stannis' hands were hard and sweaty on Jon's skin, his mouth like a furnace against Jon's neck, his shoulders, his throat. Jon didn't know how they managed to stumble to the bed without breaking any limbs. The air was pushed out of his lungs when Stannis fell on top of him, but Jon kept clinging to him, kept holding him close. It was as if he felt warm, felt safe for the first time in years, a brief flare of light and life in a world that seemed to consist of nothing but winter and death.
Stannis' voice, made for sharp commands and cold sneers, was a wordless growl against Jon's throat; his fingertips dug bruises into Jon's hips as the king thrust against him, but even that was as welcome as the breathless kisses on his skin.
Jon knew he should be ashamed, appalled by himself, but all he could feel was a heat filling the emptiness in his chest that had been there since he had left Winterfell. And as he came apart under the firm strokes of Stannis' hand, as he felt Stannis spill over his thighs, Jon couldn't bring himself to blame either of them for wanting to be themselves for just one night.
Stannis stayed on top of him afterwards, his weight heavy on Jon's smaller body, too heavy, but Jon wouldn't have wanted him to leave. His breath was hot and quick on Jon's neck, lips pressing against Jon's racing heartbeat, dark stubble rasping over thin skin. The fingers of his clean hand curled into Jon's hair, combed through tangled, dirty strands as gently as other men would with a lady's artful curls. There was nothing soft about Stannis Baratheon's body, but in that moment Jon realised that there was a softness inside him, a gentleness that he doubted even his wife or daughter knew about. Jon's skin ached where teeth had nicked at his throat, where fingers had dug too hard into his flesh, where sharp hipbones bruised his thighs, but there was something sweet even about that, like a reminder that this was real, not a feverish dream during the few hours of sleep they caught between battles.
They both fell asleep before long, drifted off where they lay, their limbs still entangled, breathing warm onto each other's skin. Jon did not know how long he slept before he was woken by the king shifting and shaking in his sleep, grimacing and mumbling. Jon couldn't make out a single word except for a name, muttered sometimes in an almost pleading tone, sometimes angry, but most often his voice was laced with terror. Renly, Renly, Renly ...
Jon felt like an intruder; he had never seen the king so unguarded, so vulnerable, more so now than when Stannis had moaned against his lips. He considered crawling out of bed, but he couldn't leave Stannis like this, not when the nightmare seemed to wreck what bit of sleep they could afford. Jon stroked Stannis' cheek, nuzzled his jaw gently, then mumbled his name. It was the first time he called him by his name, and the king woke with a startled gasp, his eyes wide and almost black in the dark of the room.
"Stannis," Jon said again, and the king's eyes cleared, as if he remembered only now where he was. "You were dreaming," Jon added apologetically. He didn't say 'you were having a nightmare', didn't want Stannis to know that Jon had seen the panic on his face, but Stannis still seemed ashamed. He didn't look surprised, though, and Jon wondered if he always slept so badly, if that accounted for the dark rings underneath his eyes. He looked more exhausted now than he had after the battle.
"I woke you," Stannis only said, his voice hoarse with sleep and something else. Jon shook his head, not because it wasn't true, but because it didn't matter. He squeezed the back of Stannis' neck to pull him close again, felt a brief moment of hesitation before Stannis relented and sank back against Jon's chest. His breathing was too quick and shallow, but it slowed when Jon kept massaging his neck.
He knew better than to ask. He had only heard rumours about Lord Renly's death, that he had been murdered by his own men after crowning himself, but not much more. Jon could relate to the pain of losing a brother, but he could not even imagine what it must be like to feel betrayed by your own blood. He wondered once more if he should leave, but Stannis seemed to be calming down in his arms, his thin body had stopped shaking, though his hands still clung painfully hard to Jon's shoulder.
"Let me stay," Jon mumbled again, a soft echo of his words earlier that night, and Stannis nodded against his shoulder.
The words became almost like a ritual in the following weeks, every time they had a few hours to themselves, every time they needed a moment to breathe, to feel some sort of warmth and comfort. Stannis' nightmares started to abate, and it made Jon smile to think that Stannis found the same peace with him as Jon did. He grew as used to the warm pressure of Stannis' chest against his back, the hot breath against the nape of his neck, the deep rumble of his voice in the morning, as he was to Stannis' sharp orders on the battlefield, his cold determination, his iron strength.
When Stannis left the Wall, Jon barely slept for a week until he got used to being alone again.
* * *
Years later, Jon almost laughed in relief when he stretched out on the bed, half naked and sweaty and spent. He only bit back his smiles because he knew Stannis would misunderstand them, knew the king would feel mocked. So he reached out with one hand instead, let his fingers ghost over Stannis' stomach, smiling as he felt hard muscles twitch under his fingertips. Stannis' eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. He looked relaxed.
It was dark in the room. The fire had all but burnt down, the candles on the desk weren't enough to light the whole room, and no light fell in through the windows. It was new moon, Jon realised only now, just like it had been that night when Stannis had offered him a place on the Kingsguard. He remembered, for he had stared out of the window for what had seemed like an hour while he had pondered on the offer. The sky had been as black then as it was now.
He felt Stannis move more than he saw him in the dark, and even after five years apart their bodies fit easily together. Jon didn't even think before he rolled onto his side, shifting comfortably when Stannis' chest pressed against his back, when strong arms pulled a blanket over both of them and then wrapped around Jon's body. Stannis' stubble tickled a little against the soft skin behind Jon's ear. The king made a content little noise that Jon still remembered from their nights during the war, but that sounded so much unlike him that Jon had started wondering if he had only imagined it.
"I will keep arguing with you for a few more days if this is what it leads to," Jon said after a while. His voice was low, playful; he felt light-headed and as carefree as a child, even as Stannis growled against his ear. Jon chuckled and rubbed back against him. He didn't want to think about tomorrow; he knew Stannis too well to think that this would make their negotiations any easier. These moments they shared had never been between the King and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, they had nothing to do with their duties during the day.
Stannis' hand rubbed lazy circles over Jon's stomach. His touches felt a little awkward, they always had, but Jon was used to it, liked it even. It was like an unspoken promise that this was as rare, as unusual for Stannis as it was for Jon, not just one meaningless tumble among many. Stannis was quiet for so long that Jon was starting to think that he had fallen asleep, but then the king stirred against his back.
"Do you ever regret it?" No need to explain what he meant. Staying here. Rejecting my offer. Choosing the black cloak over the white.
Jon barely even considered lying to him. Stannis valued the truth too much, even if that truth hurt.
"Every day." Jon's hand covered Stannis', pressed it closer to his chest. "I didn't stay at the Wall because I like it so much here."
He felt a light tremor in Stannis' chest, as if the king was laughing, although no sound left his lips.
"All those years ago, you said that I could serve the realm just as well by your side as I can here. Better even. That you needed me more than the Watch does." The words warmed Jon's heart still, reminded him of the trust Stannis had put in him. His chest ached a little.
"And I still do," Stannis said quietly. His lips brushed against the fuzz on Jon's neck as he spoke. "If you changed your mind now -"
"And what then?" Jon turned his head to look at Stannis, although it was too dark to read the expression in his eyes. "What would have happened if I had accepted? If I accepted now?"
Stannis didn't reply, didn't even meet Jon's eyes.
"Don't tell me it would be like this in King's Landing. With your wife there, with the court around us, with eyes following you everywhere." Jon swallowed hard. He had given this far too much thought, had even hoped in childish moments that Stannis would ask him again. "What good would it do either of us?"
"Is that why you refused?" Stannis finally looked at him now. There was no anger in his voice, he sounded calm, not reproachful. "This, and not your duties, your 'place' here?"
Jon smiled sadly, then turned away, his head settling tiredly against the pillow.
"Can't it be both?"
Stannis remained quiet, but Jon felt him nod. Strong arms tightened around him, so much it almost hurt, but Jon needed that, needed the warm pressure of hands against his stomach, the almost desperate sigh against his neck. Stannis didn't argue with him, and that was answer enough.
As much as Jon liked to think that his sense of duty and his vows had kept him here, he knew there was more to it. The only thing he dreaded more than being alone at the Wall was being just as alone at Stannis' side, constantly around him without ever being with him, and yet the thought of what it might have been like still gnawed at him.
"I wish you wouldn't ask me again," Jon said after a while. "This has to be enough."
And for seven nights, it was. Their days were spent arguing until they finally reached an agreement, then waiting for another few days until the roads were clear enough for Stannis and his entourage to leave. Their nights were spent together, quiet most of the time, breathless whispers and mumbled words they'd both later pretend never to have said, but Stannis didn't ask Jon to leave with him again. The look in his eyes whenever he spoke of King's Landing was enough to make Jon's chest ache. As much as he hated the idea of Stannis leaving again, he was almost grateful for it when the time came. He wasn't sure if he could have let him go if Stannis had stayed much longer.
* * *
The king was almost ready to leave when Jon came to see him on the morning of his departure. A heavy fur cloak was already draped around his shoulders, but Stannis nevertheless sent his squire away with an impatient gesture when Jon entered. Jon glanced at the bed – the bed he had only sneaked out of two hours earlier, for once awake before Stannis. The king followed his gaze; Jon saw a tightening in his jaw, but Stannis didn't comment on it. His eyes met Jon's.
"Lord Snow." He frowned. "Did you think of any other demands you wanted to make before I leave?"
Jon laughed softly as he stepped closer.
"No, Your Grace. I merely wanted to wish you a safe journey."
"You could have done so outside."
It was Jon's turn to frown. He had left quietly in the early morning hours to avoid being discovered by Stannis' squire or servants, but he was hardly going to limit his farewell to a few short words in the courtyard. Not after the last week, not any more than he had done the last time the king had left the Wall. He swallowed his reproaches, knowing that Stannis had little use for complaints. They stood in silence for a minute, awkwardly not looking at each other, neither of them knowing what to say.
"When will we see each other again?" Jon asked finally. He wanted to correct himself immediately – who knew if the king even planned to come to the Wall ever again? Maybe this was goodbye forever. The thought of never seeing Stannis again made his stomach churn, and Jon had to remind himself not to look too pleading.
"In time," Stannis said simply. Jon felt pathetic for the relief that flooded him.
"Another five years?" And this time he could not quite keep his voice from trembling, could not suppress the sliver of hope that he might not have to wait for quite so long, but it barely survived under Stannis' hard, almost accusing gaze.
"You chose this, Jon." Stannis only ever used his first name when they were in bed together, and even then only rarely. Jon couldn't remember if the king had ever said it with such anger in his voice.
"We do not choose our duties, Your Grace. I could not abandon the Night's Watch any more than you could abandon your throne," Jon reminded him, but his words sounded hollow and he could only hope that Stannis would have the decency not to mention the other reasons. He did not want another argument, did not want to part from the king in anger, not when he didn't know when, if they would meet again. Stannis' eyes softened a little, and he sighed. For what seemed like a very long time, Stannis was silent, as if he was desperately trying to find the right words. He looked pained almost, but in the end he only shook his head and turned away, as if to leave.
Jon held him back before he could think about it, one hand tightening around the king's wrist. Stannis tensed up and looked at him in confusion – Jon had rarely ever touched him without being touched first. Jon wanted to kiss him, a last moment of warmth before he would have to face the cold alone again, but he found that he couldn't. This wasn't the right time. This was between the King and the Lord Commander, with their titles separating the men behind them. If he had wanted a kiss, he should have asked for it before leaving bed. Jon's hand slid down until his fingers brushed over Stannis' palm. Stannis briefly took his hand, squeezed it, and then let go. For a moment Jon felt as if he was falling, drowning, before he came to his senses again.
"Give my regards to my brothers when you see them on your way South," Jon said, as if to break the last bit of tension between them. Stannis nodded curtly, for once bit back a snide remark on what he thought of such meaningless courtesies. The king's eyes lingered on Jon's face, as if he still wanted to say something, but he still didn't seem to know how.
Stannis turned without another word and left the room, Jon followed only half a step behind him. He wondered, once again, what it would have been like to live this way, always a step behind his king, by his side, a white shadow that accompanied him everywhere. He wondered how close they would have been then, how close Stannis would have allowed them to be. Jon chased the thought away – he would have hundreds, thousands of lonely nights to brood on missed chances and dream of what might have been.
Jon barely paid attention to their formal goodbye in the courtyard, terse words before the king mounted his horse and rode out of Castle Black, followed by knights who all looked far happier than him to leave the Wall. Jon watched them leave, watched them later from the top of the Wall until they were nothing but black dots on the Kingsroad, and even after he had lost sight of them, he still stood there, staring.
He didn't want to go back down, to face his men and return to his everyday tasks, but he could only linger for so long, and the cold was starting to bite through his clothes and make him shiver. He had not refused Stannis Baratheon's countless offers only to shirk his duties now. With a sigh and a last glance South Jon returned to the lift to start his way down. He had another hard day in front of him, and another lonely, moonless night.
He wasn't sure if knowing that Stannis Baratheon's days were just as hard and his nights just as lonely was a small consolation, or if that only made it worse.
Fandom: ASOIAF
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Jon
Rating: R
Words: 6716
Warnings: vague spoilers for ADWD
Prompt: Jon/Stannis, anything exploring their dynamic.
Summary: When King Stannis returns to the Wall years after the war, he brings back memories Jon was trying too hard to forget.
Author's note: Written for
outboxed on got_exchange.King Stannis Baratheon left the Wall on the first clear day after their victory against the Others, when the snow storms finally subsided and the sun was shining again, although it was still freezing cold and the roads covered in snow. Most of his army had already cleared out of Castle Black by the time the king mounted his brown destrier in the courtyard, and Jon walked over to him. They had said their goodbyes in private earlier that morning, but it would hardly do if the Lord Commander wasn't there to see the king leave.
Jon stood next to the horse, let one hand rest on the animal's neck. Stannis looked down at him – he seemed as tightly wound as always, blue eyes too intense in his gaunt face, but the determination in them never wavered. If anything, he looked more hopeful now than during the months they had been defending the Wall. Jon couldn't blame him – what kind of an enemy were Southern lords to a man who had defeated the Others?
"Have you come to tell me that you've changed your mind?" the king asked quietly, his words meant for Jon's ears only. There was no smile on his face, but Jon could see that Stannis wasn't serious, that he did not actually expect a change of heart.
"I've come to wish you good luck," Jon replied, stroking the horse's neck. The king scoffed.
"I thought the Night's Watch didn't take sides." The scorn in his voice was clearly audible, but Jon had grown used to that. He had grown used to so many of Stannis' habits and quirks, as used as he had once been to his brothers'. For a moment he felt sick when he realised that he might never see Stannis again, just like he would never see Robb again, or father, or Arya. The moment passed when he looked up again, Stannis' blue eyes anchoring him like a steadying hand on his arm. It was hard to imagine Stannis Baratheon dying. The man seemed far too stubborn for death.
"You are the rightful king of Westeros," Jon finally said, as if that was reason enough.
And if you weren't, you would still deserve the throne more than any other man in the realm. Jon didn't say that, though, knew that it was a compliment Stannis would not appreciate. As much as Stannis rewarded and punished his men according to their deeds, as much as he cared about what they deserved, the idea that he should deserve anything seemed completely foreign to the king. It simply didn't seem to matter to a man who had never got anything he deserved.
"I would not even have considered the offer if any other man had made it," Jon said instead. Stannis looked down at him, his face unreadable, but when he gathered up the reins his hand briefly brushed against Jon's. Jon barely felt the touch through both their gloves, but it was clearly not accidental and that was enough to bring a small smile to his lips.
"Lord Snow."
"Your Grace." Jon stepped aside. As Stannis rode out of Castle Black, part of Jon wanted to run after him, tell him that he had changed his mind, that he wanted to go South with him after all, that he wanted the knighthood and the white cloak and a page in the Book of Brothers. But he had sworn an oath. Stannis' place was on his Southern throne, but Jon's place was not by his side. Whether they deserved better or not had never been the point.
* * *
"I need more men to keep the other garrisons running, and more money to have them repaired," Jon repeated, exasperated after hours of arguing. He had forgotten just how stubborn the king could be. "With the Others defeated, the wildlings have nothing better to do than to try and raid the South again. If you don't want that to happen -"
"Of course I don't want that to happen," Stannis snapped. His voice was as sharp as it had been all those years ago, and he was as tense during what was, technically, a minor argument as he had been in the midst of a battle. "But I do think that you should talk to the Northern lords before you bother me with this."
"The North has suffered more from the winter than anyone else in the kingdoms. They have even less to give than you, Your Grace."
Stannis was grinding his teeth again. His eyes were fixed on the papers on the table: calculations and lists of money, food reserves, men, all neatly documented. It had been almost five years since Stannis had left the Wall to go South and claim his kingdom, and Jon did not know when they would next see each other after this visit. He was determined to get as much from Stannis as possible while he could actually speak to him, rather than exchange ravens every few weeks.
Jon waited patiently while the king went over the numbers again. It didn't surprise him that Stannis made all these decisions himself, that he hadn't brought any counsellors with him – the king seemed to know his kingdom's wealth and debts and resources by heart. Jon expected another argument, another objection, but instead Stannis suddenly looked up.
"You haven't changed one bit, Lord Snow," he said. Jon had almost forgotten what it felt like to have those blue eyes rest on him, that hard, thoughtful look, as if Stannis was looking right through him, as if he could see things even Jon barely knew about himself. Those eyes had kept him going through months of battle that had felt like years, if only because Jon hated to see disappointment in them. Jon would have never admitted it, but Stannis had been his strength in those months, and the more he had thought about it in the last years, the more he had come to realise that Stannis had relied just as much on him.
"Neither have you, Your Grace." It was true. Stannis Baratheon – these days the only king in Westeros, unchallenged and recognised, though certainly not loved, by all – looked much the same as he had during the war. He wasn't quite as gaunt anymore, though still very lean, but none of the old harshness had left him. He had fought for his throne with an iron determination, but it brought him no joy now that he had it. Stannis' letters were always terse, and although he usually kept to Watch matters, Jon hadn't missed the occasional barb at the court with all its spitlickers and schemers. Stannis Baratheon ruled out of duty, and as far as Jon could tell from his correspondence with Sansa and Bran the kingdom was better off for it. The winter had been harsh, but the king's prudent rule had kept the otherwise unavoidable famine in check. Spring was slowly coming, and the kingdom found itself in a far less dire state than anyone could have hoped for.
Jon had thought about Stannis a lot in the past years, but since the king had arrived on the day before they had been arguing without pause. It almost made him wonder why he had ever missed Stannis.
"I will instruct the lords of the realm to send their criminals to the Wall rather than execute them, but don't expect too much. Too many men have died during the war, and someone still needs to work the fields come spring." Stannis paused, glanced again at the figures. "I can't give you as much money and grain as you asked for, but I will see what can be spared."
He gathered the papers to take them with him. Jon expected him to leave to examine them again in private, but on the way to the door the king stopped, went over to the window and peered out. While winter was slowly coming to an end in the South – Sansa had mentioned in her last letter that the first flowers were blooming already – at the Wall the snow was still several feet deep. It didn't look much different from the last time Stannis had been here. For a minute Jon stared at the king's back – straight, strong, unbroken.
"Your Grace?" Stannis didn't answer, and Jon walked over to him to see if anything outside had caught the king's attention. It was dark already, not that that meant much. Up at the Wall the sun still went down early in the evening, and they had been in Jon's study for many hours. His shoulder brushed against Stannis', and he flinched a little. This was not the right time to revisit certain memories.
"Sometimes I envy you, Snow," Stannis finally said, his eyes fixed on the endless white outside. Jon chortled.
"I told you, the Wall grows on you if you stay long enough."
Stannis glared at him, but there was no real anger in his eyes. Jon had seen him angry often enough to know the difference. This was just mild annoyance, and when was Stannis ever not annoyed?
"I should have taken you with me to King's Landing, if only as a punishment for giving me so much trouble."
"My place is here." Jon had to bite back a sigh. Were they going to rehash this old argument again? Would he have to repeat all his reasons why he couldn't have accepted Stannis' offer, whether he wanted to or not?
"With rapers and thieves? You belong with better men."
"And the men in King's Landing are better?" Jon asked with a wry smile, unsurprised to see both a flash of anger in the king's eyes and a twitch in his jaw muscles. The briefest moment in which Stannis felt irritated, before appreciation for Jon's bluntness took over.
"There would be one more good man if you were there," Stannis said. His voice was so level that it took Jon a moment to comprehend his words, to realise that Stannis had paid him a compliment – and not one of his usual backhanded compliments that were half an insult, but a true compliment. He really had to hate King's Landing.
"I wouldn't feel like a good man anymore if I had come with you." Jon couldn't quite keep the sadness out of his voice. There were days when he regretted, or at least doubted his decision. It wasn't so much when the cold bit into his flesh, nor when he had to deal with all the everyday problems of the Watch. No, that he could live with, that was his duty.
But he did have regrets when the loneliness became too unbearable. When he took his meals alone, because the Lord Commander did not simply sit and joke with his men. When he spent his evenings trying to talk to Satin, but his rank was like a wall between them. When his doubts ate at him and he couldn't share them with anyone. When he slept alone at night, every night – and there were so many nights in five long years. And every morning when he woke up, he thought of the white bed he could have in a white tower, of the days he could spend by the king's side in an easy routine, serving, not commanding, sharing his loneliness with one who had been alone long before he had inherited a crown.
Some of his dreams were pleasant, beautiful, childish dreams of knights and kings, but often enough they turned sour. Often enough Stannis would suddenly look at him in disapproval and scorn, and call Jon a traitor who had given up his principles because he was too weak to do his duty.
Jon had regrets even for feeling regret.
Stannis' sigh interrupted his brooding. "I know. I know why you refused." Stannis smiled, but it was a grim sight. "I probably would have refused as well if I had been in your place."
Jon stared at him a little. It had always struck him as odd that Stannis could be so angry about Jon's refusals – both of Winterfell and later of the Kingsguard – when Jon was all but sure that Stannis would have made the same decisions. But the king had never acknowledged that back then, and it had taken Jon a long time to see just how similar they were.
But that similarity had been what had brought them closer to each other during the war. They were both lonely, in their own ways, they both had to stay above their men. In a time that would have driven any man to despair, they had been the only one the other could turn to. They had grown from uneasy allies to ... Jon still didn't know what to call it. Friend seemed such a strange word to apply to Stannis Baratheon, lover even stranger. Brother meant something too different for both of them, and ally would have failed to express the trust that had grown between them. Stannis Baratheon wouldn't have asked an ally to forsake his vows and come South with him. He wouldn't have offered to make a mere ally the Lord Commander of his new Kingsguard, that dark night after their last battles in the North had been won, when Stannis had been preparing to return South to win his throne.
They hadn't gone to bed together that night, too exhausted even for that. Jon had been shocked at the king's offer, the only offer that could have tempted him even more than Winterfell once had, what seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet as much as he hated the thought of Stannis leaving, Jon couldn't accept.
When Jon had refused Winterfell, Stannis had been angry. When Jon refused the Kingsguard, Stannis looked hurt. The pain in those usually so calm blue eyes made Jon's heart ache, but he couldn't betray his vows out of ... whatever it was that he had come to feel for his king in those months. His king, he thought, and that was already more than he should allow himself to feel.
They stood by the window in silence, both staring out at the black sky, both lost in thought. Jon wondered what Stannis was thinking about, if that night five years ago was also on his mind, or if he was maybe going through the numbers again, juggling with money and debt and meagre resources like he had done for the past five years in a desperate attempt to keep his kingdom from starving.
It was a comfortable silence. As tense as things had been between them at the beginning, they had soon become comfortable around each other after Stannis had returned to the Wall. There had been something simple about the war they were fighting, something that had made all their other disagreements seem petty. And even now that they were arguing about men and money again, there was still a kinship between them that Jon had never felt with any other man.
After a while Jon noticed that Stannis was looking at him. He shuddered when he met Stannis' eyes. He knew that look – warmer than the usual cold appraisal, like a blue fire, and yet with a hint of softness in it that Jon only ever saw when they were alone. Jon didn't know if he was surprised or not when Stannis raised one hand to his face, fingertips gently brushing over by now old scars, tracing them down along Jon's cheek. The king's fingers were warm and rough, not one bit softer than they had been all those years ago.
Jon wondered what he should do, if he should say anything, if he should stop Stannis, but he was already pressing his cheek against the king's warm hand, hungry for any touch. Nobody had caressed him since Stannis had left five years ago, since that last time their hands had brushed in the courtyard.
"Your Grace," he started.
"No." Stannis' voice sounded hoarse, his eyes intense as they stared into Jon's.
"Stannis," Jon corrected himself, still not sure how to continue, but then he felt Stannis' lips on his own. It barely deserved to be called a kiss, just clumsy pressure against his mouth as if Stannis had forgotten how to kiss, but Jon returned it eagerly. He felt as if he hadn't even realised how cold he had been until Stannis' arms wrapped around his body.
* * *
It was as clumsy as that first time they had kissed, and just as hesitating. It had been during the war, when winter was so dark and cold that the sun sometimes barely came up for an hour, when the war they were fighting seemed endless, when all that kept them going was duty and the stubborn refusal to give up, even though they had long lost all hope that they would ever win.
Even men like them made rash choices when they did not expect to live past the next day.
They had both retired to the king's chambers – it was warmer than the room Jon slept in, and they did not have wood to waste on unnecessary fires. The battle outside the Wall had abated for the moment; they needed every bit of rest they could get.
The king was wounded, a scratch on his cheek and a deeper one on his arm, where a blade had sliced through his armour. Jon himself was only sweaty and exhausted, but he frowned in worry when he saw how pale Stannis was. It was an odd feeling, but one that had almost become a habit over the past weeks, ever since Stannis had returned from Winterfell. At first Jon had thought it was only legitimate concern, for no one knew what Stannis' men would do if their king died – Jon doubted they would keep fighting. But it had slowly turned into more than that, more even than only respect for the man, and though it was hard to like Stannis Baratheon, Jon found it increasingly hard to dislike him.
"Someone should take a look at that wound, Your Grace," Jon pointed out and already turned to get help, but Stannis held him back.
"Others have more grievous wounds than me, and we can't afford to lose more men." That made Jon smile, despite their grim situation – that Stannis would disregard his own wounds not out of selfless consideration, but simply because the outcome of this war was the only thing that mattered to him.
"Then let me clean your wound." As Stannis wanted to protest, Jon cut him off. "You haven't come this far to die of blood poisoning, Your Grace."
Stannis had already sent his squire away to catch a few hours of sleep, and although he didn't look pleased about it, he didn't object when Jon helped him out of his armour. It was awkward, clammy fingers fumbling with buckles and straps, and it was hardly helpful that Jon's mind constantly pointed out to him that he was undressing his king. Jon scolded himself for blushing like a girl when he helped Stannis out of the padding he wore underneath the armour, scolded himself even more when he allowed himself to let his eyes wander over the king's bare chest.
Jon evaded Stannis' gaze as he cleaned the wound on his arm. It was hardly more than a scratch, not deep enough to keep him from fighting on, but they both knew that men had died from smaller wounds if they were left to fester. The king held still, barely flinched when Jon bandaged his arm.
Jon didn't know if it was exhaustion or loneliness that made his hands linger on Stannis' arm, fingertips resting against warm skin, gently retracing the curve of his biceps and sliding up to his shoulder. Stannis felt so warm, so alive, and maybe that was what Jon needed more than anything else in that moment. Their eyes met when the king looked up, and Jon knew he should step away, knew he should say something non-committal and never mention this again, but he felt as if Stannis' eyes rooted him to the spot. Those cold, hard, determined eyes that never showed even the slightest bit of doubt, like the only anchor Jon had left when his own men expected him to have neither fears nor doubts. Outside having Stannis by his side gave him more strength, but in here it made him feel like a helpless child. He clung to Stannis' shoulder, his fingernails leaving red crescents on the pale skin.
"Let me stay." Jon barely recognised his own voice. It sounded hoarse and small, like the boy he thought he had stopped being long ago. Stannis looked at him like he knew too well that Jon was asking for more than just that, more than just to stay with him, but he nodded. Just the curtest nod, and even at that he looked ashamed. Stannis was tense as a bowstring, his muscles quivered under Jon's hand, as if this was already too much, or maybe just not enough.
Jon would spend the next years wondering what had possessed him that night that he leant in closer, that he allowed his hand to slide further up, curling gently at the back of Stannis' neck; wondering even more what had been going through Stannis' head that the king had let him, had leant into him. It had felt almost accidental when their lips met, clumsy and desperate, and they were soon clinging to each other like drowning men to a lifeline.
Stannis pulled Jon down and against him and Jon stumbled into his lap, would have lost his balance if not for Stannis' arms around him. The king winced when Jon's armour scratched over his bare chest, but Jon's hands trembled too much now to undress. All he could do was try to be as little in the way as possible as the king helped him out of his armour, mirroring Jon's own movements earlier. Jon all but melted against Stannis when the last piece of fur and chain mail clanked to the floor.
Neither of them really knew what they were doing that night, their touches were awkward and hasty, as if they both feared that it would only take a moment for either of them to reconsider. Stannis' hands were hard and sweaty on Jon's skin, his mouth like a furnace against Jon's neck, his shoulders, his throat. Jon didn't know how they managed to stumble to the bed without breaking any limbs. The air was pushed out of his lungs when Stannis fell on top of him, but Jon kept clinging to him, kept holding him close. It was as if he felt warm, felt safe for the first time in years, a brief flare of light and life in a world that seemed to consist of nothing but winter and death.
Stannis' voice, made for sharp commands and cold sneers, was a wordless growl against Jon's throat; his fingertips dug bruises into Jon's hips as the king thrust against him, but even that was as welcome as the breathless kisses on his skin.
Jon knew he should be ashamed, appalled by himself, but all he could feel was a heat filling the emptiness in his chest that had been there since he had left Winterfell. And as he came apart under the firm strokes of Stannis' hand, as he felt Stannis spill over his thighs, Jon couldn't bring himself to blame either of them for wanting to be themselves for just one night.
Stannis stayed on top of him afterwards, his weight heavy on Jon's smaller body, too heavy, but Jon wouldn't have wanted him to leave. His breath was hot and quick on Jon's neck, lips pressing against Jon's racing heartbeat, dark stubble rasping over thin skin. The fingers of his clean hand curled into Jon's hair, combed through tangled, dirty strands as gently as other men would with a lady's artful curls. There was nothing soft about Stannis Baratheon's body, but in that moment Jon realised that there was a softness inside him, a gentleness that he doubted even his wife or daughter knew about. Jon's skin ached where teeth had nicked at his throat, where fingers had dug too hard into his flesh, where sharp hipbones bruised his thighs, but there was something sweet even about that, like a reminder that this was real, not a feverish dream during the few hours of sleep they caught between battles.
They both fell asleep before long, drifted off where they lay, their limbs still entangled, breathing warm onto each other's skin. Jon did not know how long he slept before he was woken by the king shifting and shaking in his sleep, grimacing and mumbling. Jon couldn't make out a single word except for a name, muttered sometimes in an almost pleading tone, sometimes angry, but most often his voice was laced with terror. Renly, Renly, Renly ...
Jon felt like an intruder; he had never seen the king so unguarded, so vulnerable, more so now than when Stannis had moaned against his lips. He considered crawling out of bed, but he couldn't leave Stannis like this, not when the nightmare seemed to wreck what bit of sleep they could afford. Jon stroked Stannis' cheek, nuzzled his jaw gently, then mumbled his name. It was the first time he called him by his name, and the king woke with a startled gasp, his eyes wide and almost black in the dark of the room.
"Stannis," Jon said again, and the king's eyes cleared, as if he remembered only now where he was. "You were dreaming," Jon added apologetically. He didn't say 'you were having a nightmare', didn't want Stannis to know that Jon had seen the panic on his face, but Stannis still seemed ashamed. He didn't look surprised, though, and Jon wondered if he always slept so badly, if that accounted for the dark rings underneath his eyes. He looked more exhausted now than he had after the battle.
"I woke you," Stannis only said, his voice hoarse with sleep and something else. Jon shook his head, not because it wasn't true, but because it didn't matter. He squeezed the back of Stannis' neck to pull him close again, felt a brief moment of hesitation before Stannis relented and sank back against Jon's chest. His breathing was too quick and shallow, but it slowed when Jon kept massaging his neck.
He knew better than to ask. He had only heard rumours about Lord Renly's death, that he had been murdered by his own men after crowning himself, but not much more. Jon could relate to the pain of losing a brother, but he could not even imagine what it must be like to feel betrayed by your own blood. He wondered once more if he should leave, but Stannis seemed to be calming down in his arms, his thin body had stopped shaking, though his hands still clung painfully hard to Jon's shoulder.
"Let me stay," Jon mumbled again, a soft echo of his words earlier that night, and Stannis nodded against his shoulder.
The words became almost like a ritual in the following weeks, every time they had a few hours to themselves, every time they needed a moment to breathe, to feel some sort of warmth and comfort. Stannis' nightmares started to abate, and it made Jon smile to think that Stannis found the same peace with him as Jon did. He grew as used to the warm pressure of Stannis' chest against his back, the hot breath against the nape of his neck, the deep rumble of his voice in the morning, as he was to Stannis' sharp orders on the battlefield, his cold determination, his iron strength.
When Stannis left the Wall, Jon barely slept for a week until he got used to being alone again.
* * *
Years later, Jon almost laughed in relief when he stretched out on the bed, half naked and sweaty and spent. He only bit back his smiles because he knew Stannis would misunderstand them, knew the king would feel mocked. So he reached out with one hand instead, let his fingers ghost over Stannis' stomach, smiling as he felt hard muscles twitch under his fingertips. Stannis' eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. He looked relaxed.
It was dark in the room. The fire had all but burnt down, the candles on the desk weren't enough to light the whole room, and no light fell in through the windows. It was new moon, Jon realised only now, just like it had been that night when Stannis had offered him a place on the Kingsguard. He remembered, for he had stared out of the window for what had seemed like an hour while he had pondered on the offer. The sky had been as black then as it was now.
He felt Stannis move more than he saw him in the dark, and even after five years apart their bodies fit easily together. Jon didn't even think before he rolled onto his side, shifting comfortably when Stannis' chest pressed against his back, when strong arms pulled a blanket over both of them and then wrapped around Jon's body. Stannis' stubble tickled a little against the soft skin behind Jon's ear. The king made a content little noise that Jon still remembered from their nights during the war, but that sounded so much unlike him that Jon had started wondering if he had only imagined it.
"I will keep arguing with you for a few more days if this is what it leads to," Jon said after a while. His voice was low, playful; he felt light-headed and as carefree as a child, even as Stannis growled against his ear. Jon chuckled and rubbed back against him. He didn't want to think about tomorrow; he knew Stannis too well to think that this would make their negotiations any easier. These moments they shared had never been between the King and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, they had nothing to do with their duties during the day.
Stannis' hand rubbed lazy circles over Jon's stomach. His touches felt a little awkward, they always had, but Jon was used to it, liked it even. It was like an unspoken promise that this was as rare, as unusual for Stannis as it was for Jon, not just one meaningless tumble among many. Stannis was quiet for so long that Jon was starting to think that he had fallen asleep, but then the king stirred against his back.
"Do you ever regret it?" No need to explain what he meant. Staying here. Rejecting my offer. Choosing the black cloak over the white.
Jon barely even considered lying to him. Stannis valued the truth too much, even if that truth hurt.
"Every day." Jon's hand covered Stannis', pressed it closer to his chest. "I didn't stay at the Wall because I like it so much here."
He felt a light tremor in Stannis' chest, as if the king was laughing, although no sound left his lips.
"All those years ago, you said that I could serve the realm just as well by your side as I can here. Better even. That you needed me more than the Watch does." The words warmed Jon's heart still, reminded him of the trust Stannis had put in him. His chest ached a little.
"And I still do," Stannis said quietly. His lips brushed against the fuzz on Jon's neck as he spoke. "If you changed your mind now -"
"And what then?" Jon turned his head to look at Stannis, although it was too dark to read the expression in his eyes. "What would have happened if I had accepted? If I accepted now?"
Stannis didn't reply, didn't even meet Jon's eyes.
"Don't tell me it would be like this in King's Landing. With your wife there, with the court around us, with eyes following you everywhere." Jon swallowed hard. He had given this far too much thought, had even hoped in childish moments that Stannis would ask him again. "What good would it do either of us?"
"Is that why you refused?" Stannis finally looked at him now. There was no anger in his voice, he sounded calm, not reproachful. "This, and not your duties, your 'place' here?"
Jon smiled sadly, then turned away, his head settling tiredly against the pillow.
"Can't it be both?"
Stannis remained quiet, but Jon felt him nod. Strong arms tightened around him, so much it almost hurt, but Jon needed that, needed the warm pressure of hands against his stomach, the almost desperate sigh against his neck. Stannis didn't argue with him, and that was answer enough.
As much as Jon liked to think that his sense of duty and his vows had kept him here, he knew there was more to it. The only thing he dreaded more than being alone at the Wall was being just as alone at Stannis' side, constantly around him without ever being with him, and yet the thought of what it might have been like still gnawed at him.
"I wish you wouldn't ask me again," Jon said after a while. "This has to be enough."
And for seven nights, it was. Their days were spent arguing until they finally reached an agreement, then waiting for another few days until the roads were clear enough for Stannis and his entourage to leave. Their nights were spent together, quiet most of the time, breathless whispers and mumbled words they'd both later pretend never to have said, but Stannis didn't ask Jon to leave with him again. The look in his eyes whenever he spoke of King's Landing was enough to make Jon's chest ache. As much as he hated the idea of Stannis leaving again, he was almost grateful for it when the time came. He wasn't sure if he could have let him go if Stannis had stayed much longer.
* * *
The king was almost ready to leave when Jon came to see him on the morning of his departure. A heavy fur cloak was already draped around his shoulders, but Stannis nevertheless sent his squire away with an impatient gesture when Jon entered. Jon glanced at the bed – the bed he had only sneaked out of two hours earlier, for once awake before Stannis. The king followed his gaze; Jon saw a tightening in his jaw, but Stannis didn't comment on it. His eyes met Jon's.
"Lord Snow." He frowned. "Did you think of any other demands you wanted to make before I leave?"
Jon laughed softly as he stepped closer.
"No, Your Grace. I merely wanted to wish you a safe journey."
"You could have done so outside."
It was Jon's turn to frown. He had left quietly in the early morning hours to avoid being discovered by Stannis' squire or servants, but he was hardly going to limit his farewell to a few short words in the courtyard. Not after the last week, not any more than he had done the last time the king had left the Wall. He swallowed his reproaches, knowing that Stannis had little use for complaints. They stood in silence for a minute, awkwardly not looking at each other, neither of them knowing what to say.
"When will we see each other again?" Jon asked finally. He wanted to correct himself immediately – who knew if the king even planned to come to the Wall ever again? Maybe this was goodbye forever. The thought of never seeing Stannis again made his stomach churn, and Jon had to remind himself not to look too pleading.
"In time," Stannis said simply. Jon felt pathetic for the relief that flooded him.
"Another five years?" And this time he could not quite keep his voice from trembling, could not suppress the sliver of hope that he might not have to wait for quite so long, but it barely survived under Stannis' hard, almost accusing gaze.
"You chose this, Jon." Stannis only ever used his first name when they were in bed together, and even then only rarely. Jon couldn't remember if the king had ever said it with such anger in his voice.
"We do not choose our duties, Your Grace. I could not abandon the Night's Watch any more than you could abandon your throne," Jon reminded him, but his words sounded hollow and he could only hope that Stannis would have the decency not to mention the other reasons. He did not want another argument, did not want to part from the king in anger, not when he didn't know when, if they would meet again. Stannis' eyes softened a little, and he sighed. For what seemed like a very long time, Stannis was silent, as if he was desperately trying to find the right words. He looked pained almost, but in the end he only shook his head and turned away, as if to leave.
Jon held him back before he could think about it, one hand tightening around the king's wrist. Stannis tensed up and looked at him in confusion – Jon had rarely ever touched him without being touched first. Jon wanted to kiss him, a last moment of warmth before he would have to face the cold alone again, but he found that he couldn't. This wasn't the right time. This was between the King and the Lord Commander, with their titles separating the men behind them. If he had wanted a kiss, he should have asked for it before leaving bed. Jon's hand slid down until his fingers brushed over Stannis' palm. Stannis briefly took his hand, squeezed it, and then let go. For a moment Jon felt as if he was falling, drowning, before he came to his senses again.
"Give my regards to my brothers when you see them on your way South," Jon said, as if to break the last bit of tension between them. Stannis nodded curtly, for once bit back a snide remark on what he thought of such meaningless courtesies. The king's eyes lingered on Jon's face, as if he still wanted to say something, but he still didn't seem to know how.
Stannis turned without another word and left the room, Jon followed only half a step behind him. He wondered, once again, what it would have been like to live this way, always a step behind his king, by his side, a white shadow that accompanied him everywhere. He wondered how close they would have been then, how close Stannis would have allowed them to be. Jon chased the thought away – he would have hundreds, thousands of lonely nights to brood on missed chances and dream of what might have been.
Jon barely paid attention to their formal goodbye in the courtyard, terse words before the king mounted his horse and rode out of Castle Black, followed by knights who all looked far happier than him to leave the Wall. Jon watched them leave, watched them later from the top of the Wall until they were nothing but black dots on the Kingsroad, and even after he had lost sight of them, he still stood there, staring.
He didn't want to go back down, to face his men and return to his everyday tasks, but he could only linger for so long, and the cold was starting to bite through his clothes and make him shiver. He had not refused Stannis Baratheon's countless offers only to shirk his duties now. With a sigh and a last glance South Jon returned to the lift to start his way down. He had another hard day in front of him, and another lonely, moonless night.
He wasn't sure if knowing that Stannis Baratheon's days were just as hard and his nights just as lonely was a small consolation, or if that only made it worse.
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