The cold wind howled through Winterfell, rattling the ancient stones and sending shivers down the spines of those inside. Jon stood on the ramparts, looking out over the snow-covered fields, his breath fogging in the icy air. His thoughts were heavy, weighed down by the decision looming over him—the crown, the North, the future.
The Northern lords were gathering again, summoned to Winterfell by Sansa and Davos at Jon's request. Word had spread quickly, as it always did, and the great houses of the North would soon arrive to discuss what came next. They had reclaimed Winterfell, but now Jon faced a more daunting task: uniting the fractured North under one banner.
The wind whipped Jon's cloak around him, and he pulled it tighter, feeling the weight of his sword, Ice, at his side. It was an old Stark tradition for the Lord of Winterfell to wield the family's ancestral greatsword. Jon had taken up the blade after their victory, but even now it felt strange in his hands—a symbol of a legacy he still struggled to claim as his own.
Footsteps approached, and Jon turned to see Davos walking up to join him. The Onion Knight, as ever, wore a somber expression, though his sharp eyes missed nothing.
"They'll be here soon," Davos said, stopping beside Jon and gazing out at the empty fields. "The lords, I mean."
Jon nodded, his mind still elsewhere. "They'll want answers."
"They'll want a king," Davos corrected, his voice low. "And not just any king. They want you, Jon. They're hungry for a leader, someone to rally behind. They see what you've done—the Free Folk, the battles, reclaiming Winterfell. In their eyes, you're already their king."
Jon exhaled slowly, his breath a cloud in the cold air. "I didn't ask for this. I never wanted it."
"Aye," Davos agreed, his voice carrying a note of sympathy. "But the North needs more than just a commander. They need a figurehead, someone who can hold them together. If you don't take the crown, someone else will. And the North… well, it might not survive another division."
Jon clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He had been a soldier, a leader in war, but ruling was something else entirely. He had seen what power did to men, how it twisted them, how it drove them to madness. He didn't want to be like that. But could he afford to walk away from the responsibility when the North needed him most?
"I don't care about titles," Jon said, his voice edged with frustration. "I care about the real threat. The dead are still out there, beyond the Wall, and no crown will stop them."
"A crown won't stop them," Davos agreed. "But it'll give you the power to unite the North, to prepare for what's coming. You know as well as I do that we can't face the army of the dead alone. If the lords of the North follow you, we have a chance."
Jon stared out at the frozen landscape, the bleakness of it a mirror to the turmoil inside him. He knew Davos was right. The North needed unity, and they needed strength if they were to survive the coming winter. But could he truly wear a crown and still be the man he was? Would the weight of it crush him as it had so many others?
Before he could respond, a new figure joined them. Sansa's familiar silhouette emerged from the stairwell, her long fur-lined cloak trailing behind her. Her face was set in a calm, determined expression, though her eyes softened slightly when they met Jon's.
"They're almost here," Sansa said quietly, coming to stand beside him. "The lords of the North."
Jon nodded, his heart heavy. "I know."
Sansa hesitated for a moment, then placed a hand on his arm. "Jon… you don't have to do this alone."
Her words were a quiet offer of support, and Jon felt a surge of gratitude for his sister. She had been through so much, and yet she stood beside him now, ready to face whatever came next.
"I don't know if I'm ready for this," Jon admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
"No one is ever ready," Sansa replied gently. "But you've already proven yourself, Jon. You've earned their loyalty. You've earned their respect."
Davos nodded in agreement. "The North needs someone like you—someone who puts the people before power. That's why they trust you."
Jon looked between them, his mind racing. He had been raised to believe that leadership was a burden, one to be carried with honor and humility. Ned Stark had taught him that. But Jon had never imagined it would be his burden to bear. And yet here he was, on the cusp of something far greater than he had ever envisioned for himself.
He was about to speak when a horn sounded from the gates below. The Northern lords had arrived.
The three of them descended the stairs in silence, the cold stone steps echoing under their boots. As they reached the courtyard, Jon saw the banners of the great Northern houses fluttering in the wind—House Mormont, House Glover, House Karstark, and others. The lords themselves dismounted from their horses, their faces a mix of exhaustion and expectation.
Jon exchanged a glance with Sansa, who gave him a subtle nod. Together, they approached the assembled lords, Davos following close behind.
The Great Hall was quickly filled with the voices of the Northern lords, their discussions buzzing with anticipation. As Jon entered, the room fell silent, all eyes turning toward him.
Lord Glover was the first to speak, stepping forward with a grim expression. "Lord Snow," he said, his tone formal but respectful. "We've come as you requested. But I'll be honest—we're not just here to discuss the future of Winterfell."
Jon stood tall, meeting Glover's gaze. "I understand, Lord Glover. And I appreciate all of you coming. Winterfell is ours again, but we face greater challenges ahead. The dead are coming. They're the real enemy."
The lords exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves.
"Winter is here," Lady Mormont's young but fierce voice cut through the murmurs. "But so is Jon Snow. He fought for us. He led us to victory. And he'll lead us again."
Jon felt a pang of guilt at her words. He had fought, yes, but so had so many others. Too many had died under his command. But now, it seemed, the North was looking to him for something more than just survival—they wanted him to lead them into the future.
Lord Manderly, his large frame imposing, stepped forward next. "The North has been leaderless for too long. We need someone who will protect our people, who will unite the houses. We need a king."
A murmur of agreement swept through the hall, the tension thick in the air. Jon looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the faces of the lords who had fought beside him, who had suffered and bled for their homes.
"I'm no king," Jon said, his voice steady but filled with conviction. "I've never been one to sit on a throne or wear a crown. All I've ever wanted was to protect the people, to fight for the living. The real war is still to come, and we need to stand together if we're going to survive."
The lords listened intently, but Jon could see the resolve in their eyes. They weren't just asking him to lead them into battle—they were asking him to be more.
"But the North needs a king," Lord Glover pressed. "A Stark."
Sansa stepped forward then, her voice calm but firm. "Jon may be a Snow, but he's Ned Stark's son. He has proven himself time and time again. The North should rally behind him, not because of his name, but because of his actions. He's the leader we need."
The room fell silent once more, the lords exchanging uncertain glances. Jon felt the weight of their expectations pressing down on him, the responsibility of their trust settling on his shoulders.
After a long pause, Lady Mormont stepped forward, her small frame standing tall in the face of the gathered lords. "I don't care if he's a bastard. Jon Snow is my king. The King in the North!"
Her declaration echoed through the hall, and one by one, the lords began to join her.
"The King in the North!" they chanted, their voices rising in unison.
Jon stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never wanted a crown, but now the North had given him one.
He was the King in the North.
And the weight of that title had never felt heavier.