FIC: More Than Ever (Stannis/Jon, Davos)
Apr. 25th, 2015 01:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
linndechirTitle: More Than Ever
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Jon, Davos
Rating: PG
Words: 4000
Warnings: spoilers for ADWD
Summary: A few months after the end of the war, Jon is injured protecting Stannis from would-be assassins.
Author's Note: Written for round 12 of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
got_exchange. This is set in the same verse as my other Kingsguard!Jon fics and briefly alludes to Trouble Finding North, but there's really no need to read any of the other fics first.
Jon did not wake up to find anyone keeping watch by his bedside – not that he ever would have expected that. He woke up to the familiar, heavy weight of Ghost draped over his legs, the smell of milk of the poppy, and a dull pain in his shoulder. His vision was swimming, but he decided that had to be due to the poppy rather than the blood loss. The bandage on his shoulder felt clean and dry, like his wound had stopped bleeding.
He was in his bed on the top floor of the White Tower, the door to the stairs open, probably so he would be heard if he called for help. He could tell that it was afternoon from the low winter sun shining into his room – it still felt like a small miracle to see the sun at all this late in the day, after spending the worst part of the winter in the North. He wondered how long he'd been asleep. It had been afternoon, too, when they'd ridden back into King's Landing after an inspection of granaries just outside the city. More gold had been borrowed from the Iron Bank to import food from Essos, but even though the worst of the famine had been staved off, the kingdom hardly lived in plenty, even this far in the South. And Stannis knew that scarcity led as inevitably to corruption as greed did, so despite his best attempts to put men in charge whom he could trust, he liked to check up on the various grain storages, at least those near the city. Not least because the last thing they needed was a starving mob rioting through the streets of King's Landing.
They'd almost reached the city again when it had happened. It hadn't been a full scale attack – that would have required more men, which meant a greater risk of any of those men talking if they failed and were captured, and whoever had wanted the king dead did not want his name attached to the crime, at least not until it was accomplished. So instead he'd sent two assassins, who'd been smart enough at least to wait at a turn of the road that gave them an excellent opportunity to ambush the king's small party. The first crossbow bolt had missed its mark, but the second one might have done better if Jon had not reacted fast enough, pulled himself and his horse between the attackers and his king, and then pursued them into the copses before they could reload their crossbows.
It had been the first time he'd killed a man since the last battles in the Crownlands, and it didn't feel any better than it had months before. It wasn't until he'd seen one of the soldiers who were riding with them drag off the second assailant – this one still alive, and maybe able to tell them who'd sent them – that he even noticed the pain in his shoulder, where the second crossbow bolt had found its way into his flesh at the very edge of his breast plate.
It would be just my luck to die after the war ended, he'd thought, and the voice in his head had sounded disturbingly like Dolorous Edd. He didn't remember much after that, only arms helping him back to his horse, Stannis' straight-backed silhouette on his destrier, his eyes angry and hard as he looked at Jon, and at least Jon had passed out with the knowledge that he hadn't failed his king.
However much time had passed since then, he imagined that someone else had kept Stannis safe in the meantime, or else Jon would have been thrown out of the White Tower by now. Or more likely someone would have slit his throat. The young maester who came to check on his wounds when Jon called weakly told him as much, reassured him that the king was alive and no sudden rebellion had broken out.
Jon drifted in and out of sleep the next day. One time – midday, he figured from the light shining into his room, reflecting off the white walls and making the day seem far brighter than it probably was outside – he woke from a soft creak on the wooden floor. Ghost had sneaked out while Jon had been asleep. Instead a familiar, bearded face smiled down at Jon.
“Lord Davos.” Jon tried to sit up, and rather than shooing him back down like the maester had, Davos helped him carefully, then handed him a cup of wine for his parched throat.
“I thought I should come by and see how you're doing, Ser Jon,” Davos said. They hadn't spoken all that much in private during the war itself, for all that Davos had only rarely left the king's side after his return from Skagos. They'd talked about strategies and fleets and provisions, and Jon knew as much about the man's family and history as anyone did, but not much beyond that. But he liked Davos, his unassuming manner, the kindness that he'd shown Rickon, his boundless loyalty to Stannis that never kept him from speaking his mind. The Hand of the King looked more comfortable on the simple wooden chair in Jon's room than he did in the pomp of the Red Keep. “His Grace is concerned.”
Jon smiled a little. “I doubt he said that.”
“No, he called you a reckless fool,” Davos replied with a smile. “I think that was it.”
Jon chuckled and took another swallow of wine. His head was clearer than the last few times he'd woken up, although he was aware that the wine might change that far too easily. He lowered his cup, not wanting to get drunk.
“Did you find out who sent them?” Jon asked after a moment.
“No. Whoever was behind this had the good sense not to approach them personally. And, well …”
“It's hard to narrow it down,” Jon said dryly. “Half the lords in the Seven Kingdoms want Stannis dead and to replace him with someone more malleable. You'd think they'd show a little gratitude to the man who saved them from getting overrun by the Others.”
“Most of them still think we did nothing more than scare off a few wildlings.” There was a shadow flitting over Davos' face, and Jon looked away. They'd all seen enough things beyond the Wall that no man could ever forget nor speak of. “And it's not the lords who would have starved if King Stannis hadn't done his best to keep his subjects fed.”
Jon fought down the urge to argue, to explain why they were wrong, but he knew that Lord Davos was the last man in the kingdom who needed to be convinced of Stannis Baratheon's worth. He probably knew more of it than Jon himself.
“So we're just waiting for this to happen again.” Jon almost found himself gritting his teeth, but caught himself in time. It wasn't a habit he was planning to imitate. “Who's with him now?”
“Ser Rolland and a few men of his household guard. He trusts them.” Davos smiled. “And your wolf, I believe.”
“I was wondering where Ghost had gone,” Jon said. The milk of the poppy had kept him from dreaming, drawn him into a sleep so deep that he couldn't reach out to Ghost. No matter the pain in his shoulder, he'd decided not to let the maester give him more of it. He had imagined that Ghost had gone hunting – no easy feat these days, and on many days Ghost found barely more than a rabbit. The winter had been long and harsh, and many of the animals that had survived it had been hunted down by hungry men. But it was good to know that Ghost kept an eye on the king in his stead.
“His Grace will be as safe as a king can be,” Davos said. He reached out and gave Jon's uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze. There was an almost fatherly kindness in his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon couldn't help but think of Winterfell, of father bidding him and Robb good night after Old Nan had told them yet another of her stories (of snarks and grumkins beyond the Wall, and the older they grew the more they'd laughed about her tales), squeezing their shoulders and ruffling their hair before he blew out the candles and pretended he didn't know that Jon and Robb would keep whispering in the dark long after he'd gone. Jon didn't think that he reminded Lord Davos of the sons he'd lost, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
When Davos pulled back, Jon couldn't help but glance at his hand, the one with the mangled fingers, and not for the first time he thought that Davos had to love their king a great deal to serve him so faithfully after losing both four knuckles and four sons in his service.
But then Jon reminded himself that he himself had almost given up his life more than once to follow Stannis, and his honour on top of that, and however often he doubted himself, he did not think that he would decide differently if he was given the same choice again. He suspected that he and Lord Davos had that much in common.
~ ~ ~
Jon was actually awake – awake and bored out of his mind – when the king came to see him later that day. The only time Stannis had ever come to the White Tower had been shortly after they'd taken King's Landing, when Stannis had brought him a white cloak, draped it around his shoulders despite Jon's protests, and stayed longer with him than he should have.
He didn't look much different now than he had then. Still wearing armour like the war hadn't been won yet, and Jon could hardly blame him for it. He thought back of stories he'd read as a boy, of how Aegon the Conqueror had worn armour for the rest of his life, although the books hadn't agreed on whether it had been a proud affectation, a symbol of his strength or actual necessity. He also remembered that the same had been said about Maegor the Cruel, who'd taken the throne from his brother's son and been murdered on it. Jon had a feeling that some men would much rather remember that second story.
The king's face was still as hollow and gaunt as ever; Stannis Baratheon was not a man to indulge when the kingdom starved – or, so Jon suspected, even when the kingdom was living in plenty. He was followed by Ghost, who immediately jumped onto Jon's bed and made himself comfortable at his feet.
“Your Grace,” Jon said, trying to sit up a bit straighter at least, as he couldn't get to his feet, nor on his knees.
“Ser Jon.” Stannis gave him a hard look, mustering him intently, his eyes lingering for a moment on the bandage around Jon's shoulder. Then he dragged the wooden chair Lord Davos and the maester had used when visiting Jon to the bed and sat down.
There were days when the title still irked Jon – a traitor's title, a bribe for a weakling who'd turned from his duty to the Night's Watch (a fool's duty, Stannis' voice still rang in his mind), an empty courtesy for a man who'd never been a squire, never learnt what it meant to be a Southern knight – but that day it filled his chest with warmth, almost like he'd earned it.
“The maester tells me that your wound was shallow and should heal soon enough,” Stannis said without preamble, although Jon knew that even this small nicety almost counted as, in Stannis' words, “empty prattle”.
“So he says,” Jon replied. Ghost shifted on the bed to press his nose against Jon's hand, and Jon gratefully ruffled his fur. “You won't get stuck with a cripple on your Kingsguard then.”
Stannis grimaced, the corners of his mouth pulling down further and his brow furrowing deeper. He probably didn't appreciate being reminded of Jaime Lannister, who'd lost his hand long before he'd lost his head.
“And even if, Ghost at least would still be there,” Jon added quickly before Stannis could reply. The direwolf lifted his head at the mention of his name, before he yawned and closed his eyes. “As good a bodyguard as I am.”
“Not much for conversation, though,” Stannis said dryly, and Jon bit back a smile.
“I would have thought you'd appreciate that, Your Grace.”
The corners of Stannis' mouth twitched into the shadow of a smile, but he fell silent after that. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, and even though that was par for the course with Stannis, Jon didn't miss that the past few days were weighing heavily on him. He knew the feeling all too well. It was one thing to have men try and kill you in battle – Stannis had experienced that often enough, after all – but another to have men try to murder you. Jon still woke up some nights from the phantom pain of daggers stuck into his back, and at least Stannis didn't have to put familiar faces to his would-be assassins. Though Jon doubted if that made it any easier, knowing that the men who wanted him dead once might well try again.
“The realm will quiet down in time,” Stannis said finally. “Once order has been restored, the same lords that accommodated themselves to the Targaryens and to Robert and to the Lannisters will make their peace with the my rule as well. They're like rats, they'll manage to thrive under any master.”
Stannis gritted his teeth. Jon had no doubt that he'd gladly hang every single lord in the realm and replace them all, but for all that he was harsh in his justice, he was not indiscriminate. And the realm needed order at least as much as it needed justice, so some rats had to be tolerated, for all that Stannis could barely stomach their smell.
“People tried to kill Robert, too, in the first year of his rule, and then they gave up.” Another unhappy grimace. After all, nobody truly believed that Robert Baratheon's death had been but a hunting accident. “For a while.”
Listening to him Jon suddenly realised that Stannis was trying to reassure himself, but that he found depressingly little in the history of that damn throne he'd won that could be reassuring. Westeros had bowed to Aegon the Conqueror, but it had never thanked his descendants, and the throne that should have brought the realm peace had known more blood and betrayal than anything else.
“You said it yourself, the day we took King's Landing,” Jon said quietly. He knew better than to try and comfort Stannis with lies. “Ruling the realm will be harder than conquering or defending it.”
“I forgot what a cheerful nature you have, Snow,” Stannis scoffed, but Jon knew that look in his eyes, grudging respect and an odd fondness in the way he said his name. It wasn't that Stannis hadn't looked at him that way very often in the past weeks, but that he usually looked away much more quickly than he did now, blue eyes lingering on Jon's with something akin to longing. Davos had told him that the king had been worried, and looking at Stannis now, his eyes as much open wounds as the one numbing Jon's shoulder, Jon could actually believe him. They'd both been through worse during the war, but for all that they'd constantly reminded themselves that the realm was still far away from peace and prosperity, it had been impossible not to start believing that the fighting was finally over.
On a sudden impulse Jon reached out and took Stannis' hand. They had barely touched at all since the last battles, but Stannis' fingers felt just like Jon remembered them, calloused and bony, but filled with inexorable strength when they squeezed Jon's hand after a moment's hesitation. It wasn't much of a touch, certainly not compared to the desperate way they'd clung to each other in the darkest nights at the Wall and even afterwards, on the way South, but it was more tenderness than either of them had felt in weeks.
They sat quietly for a while, Jon staring at their hands and Stannis staring at the wall behind Jon's head. Finally Stannis cleared his throat, his fingers twitched a little, but Jon did not let him go just yet.
“When I asked you to join my Kingsguard, I thought about keeping you by my side, where I needed you. And I knew you would do your duty to me as unerringly as you did your duty to the Night's Watch. I didn't … think of this,” he said.
“You didn't think that being your Kingsguard might get me killed?” Jon couldn't quite bite back a grin. “Maybe you should have taken that into consideration before giving me a white cloak.”
“As if anything else would have got you off that bloody Wall of yours,” Stannis snapped back, but there was little anger in his voice. It was an old argument, repeated more out of habit at this point than ire. His frown deepened. “Far more Kingsguard knights died in wars than were killed by lowly cutthroats. Just as many died in their sleep.”
“I don't plan on dying any time soon, Your Grace.” Jon scolded himself for the words the moment he said them; empty prattle, after all no man ever planned on dying, but for once in his life Stannis looked like he needed to hear them. His fingers were still curled tightly around Jon's, as if to reassure himself that Jon was still there. As if Stannis had realised in that moment what he was doing, he let go of Jon's hand and scoffed at his words, but at least he didn't berate him.
“I need you for more than battles, Snow, so do try not to get your head cut off,” he said instead. His voice and his jaw softened the slightest bit when he added, “Good counsel and loyalty are scarce in this nest of vipers.”
“Aren't they everywhere?” Jon looked down and still felt Stannis' eyes burning into him, the heat in them not uncomfortable in itself, but still disquieting for reminding him of things they had vowed not to speak of again. They hadn't shared a bed since routing the last bands of soldiers and mercenaries in the Crownlands, one quiet freezing night in the king's tent, Stannis' hands more careful than they usually were as they ghosted over Jon's bruised ribs. They hadn't mentioned any of that after returning to King's Landing, Jon a constant shadow by Stannis' side, but rarely ever alone with him for long.
So when Stannis' hand grabbed his chin, Jon shuddered as violently as he had the very first time Stannis had touched him at the Wall, his fingers rough and warm, their touch the most welcome surprise. Jon bent to it as easily as he never had to Stannis' words, lifted his chin and met the king's eyes. It wasn't anger he'd seen in them, not now and not when he'd stumbled back up to the road with blood flowing from his shoulder. It was concern, and more, fear. He'd seen that same look in Stannis' eyes when he'd spoken of Lord Davos back at Castle Black, when he'd thought him dead or just tried to convince himself to give up hope.
“They are,” Stannis said. His thumb pressed hard enough into Jon's chin that it almost hurt, but Jon leant gratefully into the touch. “But I need them here more than ever.”
Jon swallowed; he couldn't blame his dizziness now on the wine or the milk of the poppy, and his tongue felt as parched as when he'd woken up for the first time. He couldn't think of anything to say, but instead of merely nodding and averting his eyes, he bowed his head ever so slightly and let his lips brush over Stannis' thumb. A faint touch that didn't deserve to be called a kiss, but Stannis' hand trembled for a heartbeat. For a moment neither of them moved, they held still like the wings of a soaring hawk before it swooped down, and then Stannis leant in to press a dry kiss on Jon's lips.
There was no finesse in it, but it wasn't like the starved, hungry kisses they had shared on nights before the next battle, hands curled angrily into fabric and hair, fingers digging almost painfully into whatever skin could be reached. For all that Stannis' lips were as rough as ever, there was something more tender about this kiss, slower and lingering, born from a deeper yearning than just a desire to feel warm and stave off nightmares. The only time Stannis had ever kissed him like that had been the last time he'd been in this room, one hand still resting on the white cloak he'd just draped over Jon's shoulders, a quiet promise that they would still have this at least no matter what else the realm would exact from them, a promise neither of them had kept until now.
Gods, but Jon had missed him.
The kiss felt much longer than it probably was, but Jon still ached from the loss when Stannis pulled back too quickly, his gaze averted, his hand clenched into a fist as if to keep himself from touching Jon again. He didn't met Jon's eyes when he got up and told him curtly that he needed to get back to his duties as if Jon had purposefully kept him from them, but Jon had long learnt to distinguish between the different shades of Stannis' harsh words.
Stannis didn't return the next day, but instead sent a servant carrying three heavy ledgers with the instruction to look through them for irregularities. Jon wondered briefly if he should be annoyed that Stannis had so little regard for his injury, but then he remembered telling Ser Rolland the night before how bored he'd grown lying in bed all day, and he had no doubt that his Kingsguard brother had mentioned that to Stannis. He imagined that if he asked Stannis about it, the king would probably just snap at him that an injured shoulder had hardly turned Jon into a cripple nor a half-wit.
Whenever he needed a break from his work, Jon let his mind wander to Ghost, sometimes while he was awake, sometimes while dozing for a little while. Without the milk of the poppy clouding his mind, he slipped easily into the direwolf's skin, adjusted to his senses like to his own. King's Landing was filled with a myriad of sounds and smells, many of them far from pleasant, but it was hardly worse than Castle Black when it had been filled with countless wildlings and half of the royal army, and Stannis' familiar scent was grounding. Jon let himself listen to Small Council meetings at times, to angry arguments with various lords and bitter complaints to Lord Davos, but often it was enough to let Ghost doze by Stannis' feet, always still alert enough to notice any comings and goings.
It would have to be enough until he was up on his feet again. His head knew that Stannis was well protected, but he still slept more soundly knowing that Ghost was where he couldn't be. And when Stannis absent-mindedly reached down to run his fingers through thick white fur, when he let Ghost sleep by the foot of his bed at night, Jon thought that his king's dreams were calmer for it as well.
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire
Pairings/Characters: Stannis/Jon, Davos
Rating: PG
Words: 4000
Warnings: spoilers for ADWD
Summary: A few months after the end of the war, Jon is injured protecting Stannis from would-be assassins.
Author's Note: Written for round 12 of
got_exchange. This is set in the same verse as my other Kingsguard!Jon fics and briefly alludes to Trouble Finding North, but there's really no need to read any of the other fics first.Jon did not wake up to find anyone keeping watch by his bedside – not that he ever would have expected that. He woke up to the familiar, heavy weight of Ghost draped over his legs, the smell of milk of the poppy, and a dull pain in his shoulder. His vision was swimming, but he decided that had to be due to the poppy rather than the blood loss. The bandage on his shoulder felt clean and dry, like his wound had stopped bleeding.
He was in his bed on the top floor of the White Tower, the door to the stairs open, probably so he would be heard if he called for help. He could tell that it was afternoon from the low winter sun shining into his room – it still felt like a small miracle to see the sun at all this late in the day, after spending the worst part of the winter in the North. He wondered how long he'd been asleep. It had been afternoon, too, when they'd ridden back into King's Landing after an inspection of granaries just outside the city. More gold had been borrowed from the Iron Bank to import food from Essos, but even though the worst of the famine had been staved off, the kingdom hardly lived in plenty, even this far in the South. And Stannis knew that scarcity led as inevitably to corruption as greed did, so despite his best attempts to put men in charge whom he could trust, he liked to check up on the various grain storages, at least those near the city. Not least because the last thing they needed was a starving mob rioting through the streets of King's Landing.
They'd almost reached the city again when it had happened. It hadn't been a full scale attack – that would have required more men, which meant a greater risk of any of those men talking if they failed and were captured, and whoever had wanted the king dead did not want his name attached to the crime, at least not until it was accomplished. So instead he'd sent two assassins, who'd been smart enough at least to wait at a turn of the road that gave them an excellent opportunity to ambush the king's small party. The first crossbow bolt had missed its mark, but the second one might have done better if Jon had not reacted fast enough, pulled himself and his horse between the attackers and his king, and then pursued them into the copses before they could reload their crossbows.
It had been the first time he'd killed a man since the last battles in the Crownlands, and it didn't feel any better than it had months before. It wasn't until he'd seen one of the soldiers who were riding with them drag off the second assailant – this one still alive, and maybe able to tell them who'd sent them – that he even noticed the pain in his shoulder, where the second crossbow bolt had found its way into his flesh at the very edge of his breast plate.
It would be just my luck to die after the war ended, he'd thought, and the voice in his head had sounded disturbingly like Dolorous Edd. He didn't remember much after that, only arms helping him back to his horse, Stannis' straight-backed silhouette on his destrier, his eyes angry and hard as he looked at Jon, and at least Jon had passed out with the knowledge that he hadn't failed his king.
However much time had passed since then, he imagined that someone else had kept Stannis safe in the meantime, or else Jon would have been thrown out of the White Tower by now. Or more likely someone would have slit his throat. The young maester who came to check on his wounds when Jon called weakly told him as much, reassured him that the king was alive and no sudden rebellion had broken out.
Jon drifted in and out of sleep the next day. One time – midday, he figured from the light shining into his room, reflecting off the white walls and making the day seem far brighter than it probably was outside – he woke from a soft creak on the wooden floor. Ghost had sneaked out while Jon had been asleep. Instead a familiar, bearded face smiled down at Jon.
“Lord Davos.” Jon tried to sit up, and rather than shooing him back down like the maester had, Davos helped him carefully, then handed him a cup of wine for his parched throat.
“I thought I should come by and see how you're doing, Ser Jon,” Davos said. They hadn't spoken all that much in private during the war itself, for all that Davos had only rarely left the king's side after his return from Skagos. They'd talked about strategies and fleets and provisions, and Jon knew as much about the man's family and history as anyone did, but not much beyond that. But he liked Davos, his unassuming manner, the kindness that he'd shown Rickon, his boundless loyalty to Stannis that never kept him from speaking his mind. The Hand of the King looked more comfortable on the simple wooden chair in Jon's room than he did in the pomp of the Red Keep. “His Grace is concerned.”
Jon smiled a little. “I doubt he said that.”
“No, he called you a reckless fool,” Davos replied with a smile. “I think that was it.”
Jon chuckled and took another swallow of wine. His head was clearer than the last few times he'd woken up, although he was aware that the wine might change that far too easily. He lowered his cup, not wanting to get drunk.
“Did you find out who sent them?” Jon asked after a moment.
“No. Whoever was behind this had the good sense not to approach them personally. And, well …”
“It's hard to narrow it down,” Jon said dryly. “Half the lords in the Seven Kingdoms want Stannis dead and to replace him with someone more malleable. You'd think they'd show a little gratitude to the man who saved them from getting overrun by the Others.”
“Most of them still think we did nothing more than scare off a few wildlings.” There was a shadow flitting over Davos' face, and Jon looked away. They'd all seen enough things beyond the Wall that no man could ever forget nor speak of. “And it's not the lords who would have starved if King Stannis hadn't done his best to keep his subjects fed.”
Jon fought down the urge to argue, to explain why they were wrong, but he knew that Lord Davos was the last man in the kingdom who needed to be convinced of Stannis Baratheon's worth. He probably knew more of it than Jon himself.
“So we're just waiting for this to happen again.” Jon almost found himself gritting his teeth, but caught himself in time. It wasn't a habit he was planning to imitate. “Who's with him now?”
“Ser Rolland and a few men of his household guard. He trusts them.” Davos smiled. “And your wolf, I believe.”
“I was wondering where Ghost had gone,” Jon said. The milk of the poppy had kept him from dreaming, drawn him into a sleep so deep that he couldn't reach out to Ghost. No matter the pain in his shoulder, he'd decided not to let the maester give him more of it. He had imagined that Ghost had gone hunting – no easy feat these days, and on many days Ghost found barely more than a rabbit. The winter had been long and harsh, and many of the animals that had survived it had been hunted down by hungry men. But it was good to know that Ghost kept an eye on the king in his stead.
“His Grace will be as safe as a king can be,” Davos said. He reached out and gave Jon's uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze. There was an almost fatherly kindness in his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon couldn't help but think of Winterfell, of father bidding him and Robb good night after Old Nan had told them yet another of her stories (of snarks and grumkins beyond the Wall, and the older they grew the more they'd laughed about her tales), squeezing their shoulders and ruffling their hair before he blew out the candles and pretended he didn't know that Jon and Robb would keep whispering in the dark long after he'd gone. Jon didn't think that he reminded Lord Davos of the sons he'd lost, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.
When Davos pulled back, Jon couldn't help but glance at his hand, the one with the mangled fingers, and not for the first time he thought that Davos had to love their king a great deal to serve him so faithfully after losing both four knuckles and four sons in his service.
But then Jon reminded himself that he himself had almost given up his life more than once to follow Stannis, and his honour on top of that, and however often he doubted himself, he did not think that he would decide differently if he was given the same choice again. He suspected that he and Lord Davos had that much in common.
~ ~ ~
Jon was actually awake – awake and bored out of his mind – when the king came to see him later that day. The only time Stannis had ever come to the White Tower had been shortly after they'd taken King's Landing, when Stannis had brought him a white cloak, draped it around his shoulders despite Jon's protests, and stayed longer with him than he should have.
He didn't look much different now than he had then. Still wearing armour like the war hadn't been won yet, and Jon could hardly blame him for it. He thought back of stories he'd read as a boy, of how Aegon the Conqueror had worn armour for the rest of his life, although the books hadn't agreed on whether it had been a proud affectation, a symbol of his strength or actual necessity. He also remembered that the same had been said about Maegor the Cruel, who'd taken the throne from his brother's son and been murdered on it. Jon had a feeling that some men would much rather remember that second story.
The king's face was still as hollow and gaunt as ever; Stannis Baratheon was not a man to indulge when the kingdom starved – or, so Jon suspected, even when the kingdom was living in plenty. He was followed by Ghost, who immediately jumped onto Jon's bed and made himself comfortable at his feet.
“Your Grace,” Jon said, trying to sit up a bit straighter at least, as he couldn't get to his feet, nor on his knees.
“Ser Jon.” Stannis gave him a hard look, mustering him intently, his eyes lingering for a moment on the bandage around Jon's shoulder. Then he dragged the wooden chair Lord Davos and the maester had used when visiting Jon to the bed and sat down.
There were days when the title still irked Jon – a traitor's title, a bribe for a weakling who'd turned from his duty to the Night's Watch (a fool's duty, Stannis' voice still rang in his mind), an empty courtesy for a man who'd never been a squire, never learnt what it meant to be a Southern knight – but that day it filled his chest with warmth, almost like he'd earned it.
“The maester tells me that your wound was shallow and should heal soon enough,” Stannis said without preamble, although Jon knew that even this small nicety almost counted as, in Stannis' words, “empty prattle”.
“So he says,” Jon replied. Ghost shifted on the bed to press his nose against Jon's hand, and Jon gratefully ruffled his fur. “You won't get stuck with a cripple on your Kingsguard then.”
Stannis grimaced, the corners of his mouth pulling down further and his brow furrowing deeper. He probably didn't appreciate being reminded of Jaime Lannister, who'd lost his hand long before he'd lost his head.
“And even if, Ghost at least would still be there,” Jon added quickly before Stannis could reply. The direwolf lifted his head at the mention of his name, before he yawned and closed his eyes. “As good a bodyguard as I am.”
“Not much for conversation, though,” Stannis said dryly, and Jon bit back a smile.
“I would have thought you'd appreciate that, Your Grace.”
The corners of Stannis' mouth twitched into the shadow of a smile, but he fell silent after that. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, and even though that was par for the course with Stannis, Jon didn't miss that the past few days were weighing heavily on him. He knew the feeling all too well. It was one thing to have men try and kill you in battle – Stannis had experienced that often enough, after all – but another to have men try to murder you. Jon still woke up some nights from the phantom pain of daggers stuck into his back, and at least Stannis didn't have to put familiar faces to his would-be assassins. Though Jon doubted if that made it any easier, knowing that the men who wanted him dead once might well try again.
“The realm will quiet down in time,” Stannis said finally. “Once order has been restored, the same lords that accommodated themselves to the Targaryens and to Robert and to the Lannisters will make their peace with the my rule as well. They're like rats, they'll manage to thrive under any master.”
Stannis gritted his teeth. Jon had no doubt that he'd gladly hang every single lord in the realm and replace them all, but for all that he was harsh in his justice, he was not indiscriminate. And the realm needed order at least as much as it needed justice, so some rats had to be tolerated, for all that Stannis could barely stomach their smell.
“People tried to kill Robert, too, in the first year of his rule, and then they gave up.” Another unhappy grimace. After all, nobody truly believed that Robert Baratheon's death had been but a hunting accident. “For a while.”
Listening to him Jon suddenly realised that Stannis was trying to reassure himself, but that he found depressingly little in the history of that damn throne he'd won that could be reassuring. Westeros had bowed to Aegon the Conqueror, but it had never thanked his descendants, and the throne that should have brought the realm peace had known more blood and betrayal than anything else.
“You said it yourself, the day we took King's Landing,” Jon said quietly. He knew better than to try and comfort Stannis with lies. “Ruling the realm will be harder than conquering or defending it.”
“I forgot what a cheerful nature you have, Snow,” Stannis scoffed, but Jon knew that look in his eyes, grudging respect and an odd fondness in the way he said his name. It wasn't that Stannis hadn't looked at him that way very often in the past weeks, but that he usually looked away much more quickly than he did now, blue eyes lingering on Jon's with something akin to longing. Davos had told him that the king had been worried, and looking at Stannis now, his eyes as much open wounds as the one numbing Jon's shoulder, Jon could actually believe him. They'd both been through worse during the war, but for all that they'd constantly reminded themselves that the realm was still far away from peace and prosperity, it had been impossible not to start believing that the fighting was finally over.
On a sudden impulse Jon reached out and took Stannis' hand. They had barely touched at all since the last battles, but Stannis' fingers felt just like Jon remembered them, calloused and bony, but filled with inexorable strength when they squeezed Jon's hand after a moment's hesitation. It wasn't much of a touch, certainly not compared to the desperate way they'd clung to each other in the darkest nights at the Wall and even afterwards, on the way South, but it was more tenderness than either of them had felt in weeks.
They sat quietly for a while, Jon staring at their hands and Stannis staring at the wall behind Jon's head. Finally Stannis cleared his throat, his fingers twitched a little, but Jon did not let him go just yet.
“When I asked you to join my Kingsguard, I thought about keeping you by my side, where I needed you. And I knew you would do your duty to me as unerringly as you did your duty to the Night's Watch. I didn't … think of this,” he said.
“You didn't think that being your Kingsguard might get me killed?” Jon couldn't quite bite back a grin. “Maybe you should have taken that into consideration before giving me a white cloak.”
“As if anything else would have got you off that bloody Wall of yours,” Stannis snapped back, but there was little anger in his voice. It was an old argument, repeated more out of habit at this point than ire. His frown deepened. “Far more Kingsguard knights died in wars than were killed by lowly cutthroats. Just as many died in their sleep.”
“I don't plan on dying any time soon, Your Grace.” Jon scolded himself for the words the moment he said them; empty prattle, after all no man ever planned on dying, but for once in his life Stannis looked like he needed to hear them. His fingers were still curled tightly around Jon's, as if to reassure himself that Jon was still there. As if Stannis had realised in that moment what he was doing, he let go of Jon's hand and scoffed at his words, but at least he didn't berate him.
“I need you for more than battles, Snow, so do try not to get your head cut off,” he said instead. His voice and his jaw softened the slightest bit when he added, “Good counsel and loyalty are scarce in this nest of vipers.”
“Aren't they everywhere?” Jon looked down and still felt Stannis' eyes burning into him, the heat in them not uncomfortable in itself, but still disquieting for reminding him of things they had vowed not to speak of again. They hadn't shared a bed since routing the last bands of soldiers and mercenaries in the Crownlands, one quiet freezing night in the king's tent, Stannis' hands more careful than they usually were as they ghosted over Jon's bruised ribs. They hadn't mentioned any of that after returning to King's Landing, Jon a constant shadow by Stannis' side, but rarely ever alone with him for long.
So when Stannis' hand grabbed his chin, Jon shuddered as violently as he had the very first time Stannis had touched him at the Wall, his fingers rough and warm, their touch the most welcome surprise. Jon bent to it as easily as he never had to Stannis' words, lifted his chin and met the king's eyes. It wasn't anger he'd seen in them, not now and not when he'd stumbled back up to the road with blood flowing from his shoulder. It was concern, and more, fear. He'd seen that same look in Stannis' eyes when he'd spoken of Lord Davos back at Castle Black, when he'd thought him dead or just tried to convince himself to give up hope.
“They are,” Stannis said. His thumb pressed hard enough into Jon's chin that it almost hurt, but Jon leant gratefully into the touch. “But I need them here more than ever.”
Jon swallowed; he couldn't blame his dizziness now on the wine or the milk of the poppy, and his tongue felt as parched as when he'd woken up for the first time. He couldn't think of anything to say, but instead of merely nodding and averting his eyes, he bowed his head ever so slightly and let his lips brush over Stannis' thumb. A faint touch that didn't deserve to be called a kiss, but Stannis' hand trembled for a heartbeat. For a moment neither of them moved, they held still like the wings of a soaring hawk before it swooped down, and then Stannis leant in to press a dry kiss on Jon's lips.
There was no finesse in it, but it wasn't like the starved, hungry kisses they had shared on nights before the next battle, hands curled angrily into fabric and hair, fingers digging almost painfully into whatever skin could be reached. For all that Stannis' lips were as rough as ever, there was something more tender about this kiss, slower and lingering, born from a deeper yearning than just a desire to feel warm and stave off nightmares. The only time Stannis had ever kissed him like that had been the last time he'd been in this room, one hand still resting on the white cloak he'd just draped over Jon's shoulders, a quiet promise that they would still have this at least no matter what else the realm would exact from them, a promise neither of them had kept until now.
Gods, but Jon had missed him.
The kiss felt much longer than it probably was, but Jon still ached from the loss when Stannis pulled back too quickly, his gaze averted, his hand clenched into a fist as if to keep himself from touching Jon again. He didn't met Jon's eyes when he got up and told him curtly that he needed to get back to his duties as if Jon had purposefully kept him from them, but Jon had long learnt to distinguish between the different shades of Stannis' harsh words.
Stannis didn't return the next day, but instead sent a servant carrying three heavy ledgers with the instruction to look through them for irregularities. Jon wondered briefly if he should be annoyed that Stannis had so little regard for his injury, but then he remembered telling Ser Rolland the night before how bored he'd grown lying in bed all day, and he had no doubt that his Kingsguard brother had mentioned that to Stannis. He imagined that if he asked Stannis about it, the king would probably just snap at him that an injured shoulder had hardly turned Jon into a cripple nor a half-wit.
Whenever he needed a break from his work, Jon let his mind wander to Ghost, sometimes while he was awake, sometimes while dozing for a little while. Without the milk of the poppy clouding his mind, he slipped easily into the direwolf's skin, adjusted to his senses like to his own. King's Landing was filled with a myriad of sounds and smells, many of them far from pleasant, but it was hardly worse than Castle Black when it had been filled with countless wildlings and half of the royal army, and Stannis' familiar scent was grounding. Jon let himself listen to Small Council meetings at times, to angry arguments with various lords and bitter complaints to Lord Davos, but often it was enough to let Ghost doze by Stannis' feet, always still alert enough to notice any comings and goings.
It would have to be enough until he was up on his feet again. His head knew that Stannis was well protected, but he still slept more soundly knowing that Ghost was where he couldn't be. And when Stannis absent-mindedly reached down to run his fingers through thick white fur, when he let Ghost sleep by the foot of his bed at night, Jon thought that his king's dreams were calmer for it as well.
