got fic: lone wolf (home is where you hang your sword)

[xylodemon]

Title: lone wolf (home is where you hang your sword)
Pairing: Jon/Stannis
Rating: NC17
Words: ~5,000
Summary: "You guarded me well beyond the wall. I believe I can trust you to do the same in the south."
Notes: Written for linndechir and got_exchange, Round Six.


lone wolf (home is where you hang your sword)



The thing Stannis was fighting had no true face. It was a shade carved from frost and ice, shadows shaped into a foul figure of a man, and Jon had never been so terrified in his life. He felt his fear in the low of his gut, a solid and churning weight that threatened to slow him down, freeze his feet into the thick and piling snows, but he battled as close to Stannis' back as he dared, gripping his sword in one hand and a torch in the other and praying that the fire did not wink out. They had lost too many already -- Mors Umber, Axell Florent, Melisandre, Justin Massey -- and Jon knew if Stannis fell as well the men would likely break and run.

A shrill scream ripped through the battle din, and Jon jerked around to face Stannis, turning just as Stannis swept the Great Other's head from its body. It crumpled at Stannis' feet, bloodless and pale, and Stannis kicked it onto its back, flames flickering as they died along the length of his sword. He cut a sharp profile against the steely sky, his shoulders square and his red cloak snapping against the wind; he muttered something Jon couldn't hear, then stabbed the Great Other through the chest, his sword sparking back to life with a sound like a forge bellows.

"It is done," Stannis said.

Jon nodded, taking a deep breath through the tightness in his chest; his sword arm was starting to ache, and now that he'd stopped moving he was shivering in his own sweat. Below him, the men were still fighting at the bottom of the rise, but the wights were dying easily now, confused and mindless without a leader. Ghost nosed at Jon's hip, and Jon curled his fingers into the loose fur at Ghost's neck as the wolf sniffed and bared his teeth at the Great Other's corpse.

"Shall we burn the dead?"

"Yes." Stannis rubbed his hand over his face, leaving a smear of blood that framed the hollow of his cheek. "Theirs as well as ours."



+



Jon's feet were tangled in the furs, and Stannis' fingers were digging bruises into his side. Gasping, he slid further up the pallet, twisting his hips as he rubbed his cock against Stannis' thigh. Stannis made a rough noise in the back of his throat, a rumble Jon could feel as well as hear, and he rolled them until Jon was on top, knotting his hand in Jon's hair as he pulled him down for a kiss.

It had been strangely easy to fall into this thing -- to share Stannis' tent when there were so few dry places to sleep, to share Stannis' furs rather than shiver under his own cloak, to curl up against the tense heat of Stannis' body once the winds picked up for the night, to push back when Stannis finally laid a careful hand on his hip. He knew it should probably shame him, that he passed his nights rutting with the king when he was a bastard and a deserter and far better men had died, but now that this had started he could not bring himself to stop it. He had been lonely since Ygritte died, gnawed by an empty ache he tried to ignore during his time as Lord Commander at the Wall, but he enjoyed being wanted, the slow warmth that spread through his chest from having Stannis' hands on his skin.

"Quiet, boy," Stannis hissed, as Jon moaned into the curve of his shoulder. "The guards will hear you."

Jon tipped his head back and took another ragged breath, spent with his mouth against Stannis' jaw and his fingers twisted in the furs.



+



"Where are we?" Pyp asked, looking up from the horse he was skinning. It had broken its leg, and Stannis had ordered it made into stew. Jon doubted the men would mind overmuch; they'd had little to eat beside dried pork and stale biscuits since marching away from Mole Town.

"The Wolfswood. About four days ride from Winterfell."

"Winterfell," Pyp said thoughtfully, his voice cracking as he shivered with a gust of wind. The snows and storms had eased somewhat since the Great Other died, but the weather was still bitingly cold. "I guess you're a lord, now. Truly." He gestured at Jon with a bloody hand. "Lord Snow. Lord Stark."

Jon frowned at the tree line, unsure of how to answer. Stannis hadn't offered again and Jon hadn't asked. "That's the king's decision to make."

"I guess," Pyp said, glancing over his shoulder. He was uneasy around Stannis, as were all the sworn brothers who deserted when Jon lost his command. Stannis had pardoned them under oaths of fealty, since he believed Marsh's mutiny to be both unjust and a folly, but the men were still jumpy and anxious, afraid he would suddenly change his mind and demand their heads. That wasn't Stannis' way, but Jon knew he'd never convince them otherwise. "Would you do it, though? If he asked?"

"I don't know," Jon said honestly, nudging a rime-crusted rock with his foot. He felt guilty just thinking about it, knew he would only be stealing what should have gone to Robb or Bran or Rickon, but he was the only one left now that Sansa was missing, and without the Night's Watch he had nowhere else to go.



+



Winterfell was the same ruin it had been eight moons ago, when Jon arrived with a ragged army in the weak light of dawn, a few hundred wildlings and a handful of deserters who were cold and starving and close to becoming outlaws. Jon had been desperate then, convinced that Stannis was his only refuge but also afraid that Stannis was dead, and the sad wreckage had horrified him, the crumbling towers and blackened stones, the familiar yards and gardens trampled into bloody stretches of mud. Standing before the collapsing Great Hall now, with Stannis barking orders beside him and his father's men milling into the empty spaces, Jon almost felt hopeful. Winterfell was fixable, with enough gold and time. Jon currently had neither, but if Stannis did grant him the lordship he might eventually have both.


I chose a bastard's kind of honor, and all it did was get me stabbed.


Jon took his old childhood chambers, one of the few sets of rooms in the Great Keep that survived the sackings intact. It seemed smaller, but otherwise looked much the same as Jon remembered; it smelled strongly of dirt and dust and smoke, and he threw open the window, grateful for the fresh air despite the brisk autumn wind. The window overlooked the yard where the armory had stood, where Jon had sparred with Robb and Theon, and where Ser Rodrik had taught Bran to shoot arrows, and Jon rested his elbows on the sill, watching the men raise their tents and fetch hay for their horses until Devan Seaworth came to tell him Stannis wished an audience.

He found Stannis in Lady Stark's old solar. The walls were unburnt but most the furniture had been looted or chopped into firewood; Stannis sat on one of two chairs Jon thought had been brought from the kitchens, and his table was scuffed and gouged and leaned drunkenly to one side. He glanced up as Jon closed the door, looking tired and vexed and older than his years. The firelight sharpened the shadows under his eyes and the fine lines around his mouth, and Jon wanted to stroke the short beard lining his jaw, touch the skin just below his ear.

"Your Grace."

"We march for White Harbor in three days," Stannis said, tossing a letter atop his pile of maps. It was crumpled at one end and sealed with greenish-blue wax at the other. "Lord Too-Fat has finally decided I am his rightful king."

"Do you suspect a trap?"

Stannis frowned for a moment, then huffed under his breath. "No. His fat son has returned to him, and the Boltons are dead. He has no place left to hide, so he now finds it prudent to offer me provisions and men." His chair creaked as he leaned closer to the table. "He also claims not to have killed my Lord Hand."

"Can he prove it, Your Grace?" He wants to believe it. Davos Seaworth was dear to him. "I heard he mounted Lord Seaworth's head and hands on a pike."

"Some criminal's head and hands, the way he tells it now." Stannis shuffled through his pile of letters and maps, then lifted a wrinkled scrap of parchment between two fingers. "Lord Too-Fat sent this as well, written by Lord Seaworth himself. He had scarcely learned his letters before he went to White Harbor. I recognize the clumsy hand."

"Provisions and men," Jon said, tugging at the collar of his doublet. Lady Stark's solar was too close to the hot springs; the air was warm and thick after the chill of Jon's rooms, and sweat was beading on the back of his neck. "No ships?"

"No ships. We march for King's Landing."

"Your Grace, the Kingsroad will take us past the Twins."

Stannis huffed again, louder than before. "The Late Lord Frey is more friendless than Wyman Manderly. The Lannisters have abandoned Riverrun and Raventree to root that Targaryen whelp out of the Stormlands, and I have enough of Frey's traitorous kin as hostages. He will open his gates for me, once I start hanging them in full view of his keep." Stannis took a long draught of lemon water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he set the cup on the table. "I am giving command of the Northern host to Hother Umber."

"Whoresbane?" Jon asked, his mouth suddenly sour and dry.

"Disappointed?"

"Surprised," Jon said carefully. Whoresbane is a greybeard with a blunt manner and a dark history. My father's men deserve better. "I thought you disliked him."

"I do," Stannis admitted, tapping his thumb on the table. "He has a quick temper and a slow mind, but he understands charge and retreat well enough for my purposes. As for you -- I would have you with me."

"Your Grace?"

"The men I won from Renly do not love me, and the sellswords Ser Massey purchased will turn their cloaks the moment we appear to lose the advantage." Stannis paused, his mouth twisting into a hard line. "You guarded me well beyond the Wall. I believe I can trust you to do the same in the south."

Jon opened his mouth, but was saved from speaking by a knock at the door. He unlatched it at Stannis' nod, and Devan Seaworth came through carrying a covered tray with both hands.

"Supper, Your Grace."

"Well? What is it?"

"Pease porridge, Your Grace," Devan said, setting the tray on the table and removing the lid. "Boiled potatoes and a stew made from salted fish."

"I've eaten worse. You may go."

"Shall I go as well, Your Grace?"

"Sit, Snow," Stannis said, waving at the other chair. "There is enough food here for both of us, if you don't bolt yours down like your wolf."



+



It was well past the middle of the night. The candles had burned low, dripping thin rivers of wax onto the edges of Stannis' maps, and Jon's cup of mulled wine had turned thick and bitter and cold. The men had orders to march at first light; Jon ought to be abed and asleep, not kissing the king against the door of Catelyn Stark's solar.

They had argued for hours over the disposition of Winterfell's garrison, and Jon's idea that men from the mountain clans would be best for the job. The clansmen were fierce and hardy fighters, but unused to the discipline of southron warfare; defending a keep was something they understood, and Jon had pressed the issue until Stannis' eyes flashed angry and dark. He had caught Jon's arm, his thumb bruising into the soft flesh above Jon's elbow, and Jon had worried he'd finally needled the king too far, but Stannis had pushed him back against the door and kissed him, all hot breath and rough beard and more teeth than tongue.

The door handle was biting into the well of Jon's back, but the dull pain wasn't strong enough to make him stop. He twisted one hand in the front of Stannis' doublet, using the other to tug at the placket of Stannis' breeches, swallowing a low moan as his cock rode against the hard plane of Stannis' hip. Stannis pulled Jon closer, his fingers curling into the hair at the nape of Jon's neck; he slid his mouth up over Jon's jaw, his breath catching as Jon's hand wrapped around his cock.



+



"No," Stannis said sharply. "Absolutely not."

Jon shivered, tucking his icy hands inside his cloak. They had arrived at Moat Cailin on the heels of a new storm; the tent walls were not thick enough to buffer the wind, and the carpets were dark and damp with both marsh water and thawing snow. "You asked my opinion, Your Grace."

"And your opinion is to leave two hundred good men behind."

"Yes."

"To garrison some broken rocks in a bog no lord has claimed as his own in ten thousand years."

No lord had claimed it because it was thought to be haunted by the children of the forest, but Jon knew better than to tell Stannis crib tales. "Yes."

"Enough," Stannis said, shaking his head. The light from the guttering lantern behind him flared through the fringe of his hair like a crown. "I've heard enough."

Stung, Jon offered him half a bow and reached for the tent flap. "By your leave, Your Grace."

"Hold, Snow." Stannis frowned for a moment, then made a rough, irritated noise and tossed a stag-shaped marker onto the pile of maps. "Tell me why."

"Moat Cailin can't be taken from the south."

"You said as much a year ago. If we are marching south, what does it matter?"

"It will matter to the Northern men if they can't return home."

Stannis leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs until his feet nearly touched the brazier. His face clouded with shadows as his shoulder eclipsed the lantern. "And who do you think would be manning it?"

"The Ironborn."

"The krakens are finished here. I saw to that myself."

"Balon Greyjoy's krakens, Your Grace. He has brothers."

"Euron is too mired in the Reach to come this far north, and Victarion hasn't been seen in half a year." Stannis sighed and scratched at the beard covering his chin. "With any luck, he's been lost at sea."

"What about the Freys?" Jon asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a bruise there from Stannis' teeth, and his face flushed hot as his fingers brushed over it. "Lord Walder may open his gates if you hang enough of his grandsons. He may even give you some knights, if he thinks it means seeing the back of you. But he betrayed Hoster Tully and my brother -- what's to say he won't betray you as well?"

Stannis narrowed his eyes, then snorted out a rough and mirthless laugh. "You remind me of Lord Seaworth, Snow."

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon said, biting back a smile. "You've mentioned it."

"You are far more insolent. I often regret not having your tongue out when we were at the Wall." He fell silent for a moment, studying a point between Jon's shoulder and the tent flap, then stood, pulling his cloak from his shoulders and laying it over the chair. "Where are you sleeping tonight?"

Jon's face flushed again, a slow heat that crept over his jaw and fanned over his cheek. "Nowhere, Your Grace." The storm had left the land too muddy and wet to raise many of the tents; most of the men were huddled into horse blankets on whatever dry ground they could find.

"I've already sent Devan to bed. Come and help me with this jerkin."



+



"Your brother is alive," Stannis said quietly.

"What?" Jon murmured, his face hidden in the warm curve of Stannis' neck. They always dressed and rolled into separate furs afterward, but tonight Stannis had wrapped his arm around Jon's shoulders, keeping Jon sprawled along his side, and Jon had been too comfortable and content to think on it. He was more than half asleep now, lulled by the heat of Stannis' body and the low mumble of Stannis' heart, by the hand carefully stroking up and down his back.

"Your brother," Stannis said again, sliding his hand up to Jon's neck. He twisted his fingers into Jon's hair and tugged until Jon opened his eyes. "The younger boy, Rickon. He is alive."

The narrow pallet was lumpy and weak from constantly bearing the weight of two men; it creaked loudly and tiredly as Jon leaned up on his elbow and rubbed his hand over his face. "Rickon? I don't -- "

"Before the Freys made a nuisance of themselves at White Harbor, Lord Too-Fat heard rumors of a direwolf on Skagos. Evidently, this was the main reason he pretended to kill my Lord Hand. He wished for Lord Seaworth to use his smuggler's tricks to return the boy unseen," Stannis explained. His hand slipped down to Jon's hip as Jon sat up on his knees; he pulled it back for a moment, the replaced it, his thumb slowly tracing the arc of Jon's hipbone. "As Lord Too-Fat swore to align with my cause if he did so, Lord Seaworth agreed. The Manderly knights who arrived today brought word that he succeeded."

Jon had wondered why Stannis left White Harbor with only a small handful of Wyman Manderly's men, and why a larger host had joined Stannis' camp just as dusk was beginning to bruise the sky. This was their ninth day on the Trident, lingering in the grassy stretch where the Kingsroad skirted the banks of the Green Fork; it had been clear Stannis was waiting for something, but he had rebuffed any of Jon's questions as to why.

"Is he well?"

"Well enough. He remembers little, save that his parents died and Winterfell burned. Lord Too-Fat's granddaughters will likely spoil him beyond repair."

Jon closed his eyes, warmth blooming in his chest as he imagined Rickon as he'd looked on his last day at Winterfell, a bright smile and an unruly mop of auburn curls, his hands and mouth sticky from the honeycake he'd brought into the yard. He had chased Jon and Benjen all the way out to the stables, hugging each of them by wrapping his skinny arms around their legs. With Rickon in their father's seat, Jon would have somewhere to go after the war. He could serve as Winterfell's castellan or Master-at-Arms, and return home without any guilt or regrets.

"I've told no one but you," Stannis said, his leg brushing Jon's bent knee as he stretched. "The Northern lords remain compliant because they believe I will eventually grant one of them Winterfell, but I thought you would like to know."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

He would hate to leave Stannis, but he doubted Stannis would need him once he took the throne.



+



Stannis mounted his horse as the sun rose over the rolling hills south of God's Eye, his voice rough as he called the men into their lines. His grey cloak was pulled tightly around his shoulders, a steely color that brightened the blue of his eyes.

"What's the news, Your Grace?" Jon asked, pulling reign at Stannis' side.

"The Lannisters managed to rout the Targaryen host at Stonehelm."

"Aegon is dead?"

"Dead or captured. Either way, he is finished." Stannis' mouth twitched, the closest thing Jon had ever seen to a smile. "His sellswords deserted him. Half scattered into the Rainwood, and the other half traded their dragon standards for lions."

"And the Lannisters?"

"They took heavy losses, and are making slow progress toward the Kingsroad," Stannis said. He glanced back toward the men, who were just about ready. His cloak snapped loudly in the wind. "If we make haste, we can reach King's Landing well before them."

The horns sounded, and Jon spurred his horse forward, following Stannis down the Kingsroad.



+



Stannis' cloak was Baratheon yellow, a sunny smear at the edge of Jon's sight. They lost their horses hours ago -- somewhere near the sept, Jon thought, the same sept where his father died -- and since then it had been all Jon could do to stay at Stannis' side. He knew fighting inside a city would be ugly work, Ser Rodrick had told him as much the first time he held a sword, but that had not truly prepared him for the women and children, for the narrow and winding passages littered with haywains and market carts, for the fires burning in every other building, the smoke rising to hang thick and black over the reaching spires of the Red Keep.

The spear took him through the thigh, skewering him like a boar. The pain was less of a shock than the sudden way his legs collapsed beneath him; he crashed to the ground in an awkward sprawl of limbs, heat searing in his thigh and his jaw cracking against the cobblestones as Stannis' yellow cloak disappeared around the corner.

You guarded me well beyond the Wall.

He reached for his sword, inching closer on his elbows, his hand wrapping around the hilt as something warm and wet nudged against his cheek. It was Ghost, his white fur matted with dirt and his muzzle red with blood.


I believe I can trust you to do the same in the south.


"Find the king," Jon said, twisting his fingers into the fur behind Ghost's ear. His hand was shaking. "Do you understand me? Stannis. Find Stannis."

Ghost nosed at Jon's cheek again, loping away just as Jon's vision went black.



+



Jon woke in an unfamiliar room. The walls were pale, unpolished stone, hung with simple woollen tapestries of silver and white, and the bed was large and finely carved, set to face a wide window that opened over the sea. He couldn't see the water, but he could hear the gulls, their cries sharp and shrill over low murmur of the waves washing against the shore.

His thigh ached, a dull and constant pain that flared from his knee to his hip and worsened if he moved. He sat up as much as he could, startling when he found a short, pink-faced maester watching him from the doorway.

"Oh, good," the maester said brightly. "It was past time you came awake. You've been asleep these last three days."

"My leg," Jon asked, wincing as he tried to sit up further. The room seemed to tilt to one side. "My leg -- "

"Healing cleanly. You should be walking and riding without trouble in a fortnight. I was more worried about all the blood you lost."

Jon could still see it, staining his hands, pooling on the cobblestones as he tried to crawl toward the castle. Toward Stannis' yellow cloak. "Stannis. I -- is the king -- "

The maester cut him off by pressing a cup of wine to his lips. "King Stannis is quite well. He has paid you four visits. I must say, he was rather vexed when you refused to bestir yourself."

Jon smiled at that; it sounded exactly like Stannis. He started to ask about Ghost, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. The maester set the wine aside and hurried to open it; Ghost came through first, pausing to lick the maester's hand, then Stannis, dressed in a black doublet stitched in red and gold. He looked slightly less gaunt than Jon remembered, but he had a dark bruise purpling his jaw and a long cut healing over his cheek.

"Snow."

"Your Grace."

Ghost nosed at Stannis' thigh, then jumped onto the bed to settle at Jon's feet. He rested his huge head on his paws, baring his teeth and tongue in a yawn before closing his eyes.

"Your beast saved my life," Stannis said quietly.

"I asked him to."

Stannis scoffed, but the noise lacked the usual disdain. "Randall Tarly pinned me at the castle gate. He nearly took my head, but your wolf knocked him down and savaged his sword arm. I won't bother telling you how quickly he yielded."

Jon smiled. "I should write Sam. He'll probably laugh himself to death."

"Sam? Oh, yes -- your fat friend at the Wall. He's Lord Tarly's son." Stannis moved closer to the bed, then frowned at the maester over his shoulder. "You may leave us."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The door closed with a slow creak. Stannis studied Jon for a moment, then leaned down and kissed him. His mouth was warm and oddly hesitant, and Jon wished he felt well enough to truly participate. The best he could do was slide his hand up over Stannis' shoulder and tuck his fingers into the collar of Stannis' doublet.

"It took me a full day to find you," Stannis said.

He was worried. "Where was I?"

"The Street of Sisters."

"Where am I now?"

"White Sword Tower."

Jon started to ask why, but his tongue suddenly felt strange and thick. Dreamwine. The maester gave me dreamwine. His voice cracked with a long yawn, and Stannis kissed him again as his eyes slid closed.



+



The door opened as Jon was coaxing last night's fire back to life. He turned as quickly as he leg would allow, flushing with embarrassment when he saw it was Stannis; it was barely an hour past first light, and Jon was still dressed in his nightclothes, rough breeches and a loose-fitting shirt missing two buttons at the neck.

"Your Grace."

"Snow." Stannis gestured for Jon to sit, then moved to stand by the window. Behind him, the sky was slowly gaining color, still more grey than blue. "How is your leg?"

"Better," Jon said. It had not yet been a fortnight; his thigh was often stiff and sore in the mornings, but it warmed up within the first hour, and he could walk well enough, if he moved slowly and took careful steps. "Much better."

Stannis nodded, then said, "I need to speak with you about your sister. Sansa."

"You've found her?" Jon asked, hope unfurling in his stomach. He had nearly convinced himself she was dead.

"Somehow, she escaped the chaos of Joffrey's wedding with Petyr Baelish," Stannis said, his mouth twisting with distaste. "She is currently at White Harbor, with a small host from the Eyrie. I am arranging for her to bring your brother here, so I can formally seat him at Winterfell and send the Northern men home."

"Thank you, Your Grace. I -- "

Stannis waved him off. "Winterfell is his birthright, as Eddard Stark's son. But he is only a child. He will need a regent."

He is sending me away. Jon's chest pulled tight, and a sour knot twisted into the back of his throat. "Yes, Your Grace."

"I need to know if Sansa will suffice."

Sansa. He means to name Sansa as Rickon's regent. "Yes."

"I want no trouble in the North -- not when Euron's reavers are still pillaging the Reach." Stannis turned away from the window and moved to stand beside Jon's chair. "If I name a woman as Winterfell's regent, will your father's men heed her?"

"I believe so, if it's Sansa," Jon said, wincing as he shifted in his chair. "I believe they'd prefer Eddard Stark's daughter to some stranger from the south."

Stannis studied him for a moment, his mouth pulling with a frown. "You wanted it."

"No," Jon said honestly.

"Good. I need you here."

"Doing what, Your Grace?"

"Commanding my Kingsguard."

Jon stared. He thought of Bran, who had dreamed of wearing a white cloak, and of Sansa, who'd sang songs about Duncan the Tall and Aemon the Dragonknight. Jon was nothing like them; he was a bastard who deserted the Wall and had been lucky enough not to lose his head for it.

"Your Grace," he said finally, his voice thin and quiet. "I'm -- "

"A lesser man would have ran from that thing I fought beyond the Wall." He laid his hand on Jon's shoulder, his thumb just brushing the hollow of Jon's throat. "You never left my side."

"I'm not a knight."

"Can you kneel with that leg?"

Jon wasn't sure. "Yes."

"Then do it."



+



The Great Hall was brightly lit, the torches on the walls burning everything in orange and gold. A teeming crowd pressed on either side of the carpet, all the lords and ladies who had sworn fealty to the new king; Stannis hated more than half of them, and he barely tolerated the rest. They were liars and flatterers, and Stannis complained about them quite often in Small Council meetings, less often when Jon was curled beside him on his bed.

Jon stood to the right of the Iron Throne, with Ghost waiting at his feet, watching as the huge oak-and-bronze doors inched open. Rickon came through first, dressed in a new doublet of white and grey, and Sansa followed behind him, her auburn hair flashing like copper in the torchlight. They made slow progress, with Rickon pausing every few steps to wave at Jon or talk to someone in the crowd. Sansa urged him on with gentle words and soft smiles, but halfway to the dais he stopped and turned around.

"No. I don't want to."

Nervous laughter ran through the crowd, and spots of color bloomed on Sansa's cheeks.

"He is nearly as insolent as you," Stannis whispered.

"Yes, Your Grace," Jon said, and smiled.