Cross the Line

Chapter Six

Jon Snow wished to go north.

North, to the land of giants and the Free Folk, to where the snow seemed untouched by the Andals and the Rhoynar, or even the First Men. He knew that the First Men, the Free Folk, had disturbed the land, but Jon could not imagine a more pure land.

However, he was tied here, to what remained of his family. They tethered him here, not allowing him to go but not forcing him to stay.

He felt the strings on him; his hands were tied to Arya, his legs tied to Bran, and sweet, sweet Sansa had her strings wrapped around his heart. Ghost felt woven around him, a part of him. He could never part from them for long, all his pieces belonging to those who shared his heritage.

But this place was not home. Home might have been Winterfell once, but Lady Catelyn Stark made him an outcast in Winterfell from the moment he'd arrived as a babe. She wished he'd never existed, that he'd died in the crib, never to set his eyes on her pure Stark children. This place was the home he'd always wanted, the dream that was always out of reach.

Often Jon wondered, if his mother had never died, would he have ever seen these walls? Would he have known his father? Would Catelyn still have hated him?

Jon would never know.

Like his mother, those answers were lost to the grave.

Jon shook himself of his thoughts, trying to focus on the discussions being held right in front of him. Since he'd returned from the woods, from his meeting with his sisters, he could hardly focus.

The Dragon Queen kept glancing his way, trying to form a connection over battle preparations, but Jon kept avoiding her gaze. He could not face her, could not risk her seeing the secrets hidden in his gaze. He was struggling to hide his secrets as it was.

He felt torn in two, forced to hide half of himself. But he could not fail in this, could not reveal the things he hid from all. He would be what his people needed. He knew what everyone needed of him, and he would provide it for as long as he could.

If only he could convince his heart that this was the right course.

Ser Davos could see his King struggling to remain attentive. The White Wolf has been restless as of late, hard to pin down. Not only that, but he was easy to anger as well. In the past week, he'd probably snapped at someone or other over sixty times, rivaling that damned direwolf's temper. Jon was wilder in the north, more gruff. He had less tact, if he ever had any.

Northerners weren't known for their tact.

Ser Davos answered for Jon when he could, covering for him when he couldn't. There were a few times when Davos had to play the part of the deaf, old soldier just so Jon could hear a question repeated. Luckily, no one would question a battle-hardened man like himself, especially not one who'd lived through the Battle of Blackwater.

Davos glanced over to the Hand of the Queen, studying the Halfman. He remembered that this was the man who had thought to blow up Blackwater Bay, how he'd used wildfire to do it. Davos could still see his son, bright and alive, until the green flames claimed him in an explosion that should have killed Davos too. At first, it had been hard not to blame the little Lannister, the Lioness and her Cub, the Old Lion, even the dead Stag King and all the Seven Kingdoms.

His boy had died, and it was all for a war for a stupid throne.

All for a war he'd dragged his son into.

Now, after losing his little Princess Shireen and losing all faith in Stannis, Davos had let go of some of the pain at the loss of his son and had come to blame no one but the war and himself.