Chapter Text
The drumming stops in the same moment as his heart. He can feel their eyes on him. Father's face betrays nothing. The maester steps forward, brow furrowed in... grief? Concentration? In his hands the scroll that seals Jon's fate. It's his seventeenth summer and it'll be his last. He's been voted Summer King of Winterfell. The boy Jon Snow is dead. Only the Summer King remains.
He can nearly hear his blood rushing through his veins. There are shouts now, cheers. A cry, somewhere. He drops to his knees. A wreath of ivy is gently placed on his head.
"Rise," the maester says.
His voice sounds resigned. Jon gets up in a fluent motion. On a sign of the maester, two men step up and start to remove Jon's clothes. Once he's fully undressed a gasp runs through the crowd. Jon doesn't care. He's dead.
After what feels like an eternity he's wrapped in a long, thick cloak. His feet remain bare. The maester steps aside and Jon makes his way to the throne, crafted from wicker branches. He looks down on it. He'd rather die standing up. But that isn't something he can think about now. They're waiting. He turns around to face the crowd. The maester's voice rings out.
"Hail the Summer King!"
Cheers erupt, shrill cries that have Jon's skin crawl. They're cheering for his death... Jon sits down, his mind reeling, his vision blurring.
The celebrations continue. Jon watches. Slowly he starts to make out their faces again. Father, wearing a mask of stone. Sansa, shocked. Arya and Bran are gone, probably dragged away when his name had been drawn. He lets his gaze wander across the mass of people, until he finds him. Robb's eyes are wide in terror. Jon raises a corner of his mouth. No need to be so shocked. The lot could've fallen on him. It still could, next year, or the year after that. Three more years until Robb will be safe.
They learn it early, in the North. The possibility of being chosen is always hanging over their heads. From their fifteenth to their twentieth summer no boy is safe. Not even the heir of Winterfell. Though it is seldom that a highborn is chosen. They're far and few in between after all, there are so many more commoners. When a highborn gets chosen, it always causes a huge uproar. Jon remembers when some years back the heir of Roose Bolton was made Summer King. Bolton didn't utter a word for his son, just like Father won't.
He keeps searching the crowd, looking for her. This must feel like a gift to her. A gift of the gods she doesn't follow. When he finds her, Lady Stark's eyes are sparkling with glee. Jon feels hot rage burn through him. But he smiles at her, a wide smile. It makes her uncomfortable, he can see it. After all, what cause does he have to smile? Tomorrow, Jon thinks. Tomorrow, mylady, I shall make you even more uncomfortable.
He's the Summer King. Four months and three weeks. During which he can do what he feels like, take whatever – whomever – he wants. No one can refuse the Summer King, for he makes the greatest sacrifice for them all.
A shuffle through the crowd draws his attention. Greyjoy, making his way to Robb. He must be relieved, although he doesn't look like it. He looks... Jon doesn't know how to describe it. Not like himself. He should be relieved. It's his twentieth summer, his last time to take part. Next year he'll be safe. Should he even partake? Jon wonders. He's not of the North. But every year he dutifully did. Was it Father, had he forced him? Greyjoy has reached Robb, he grabs his shoulder and hisses something in his ear. He seems to be shaking with tension. With a last look up at Jon, Robb lets Greyjoy drag him away.
Jon leans back. He hasn't eaten all day, but now he's not feeling hungry. The gluttony can wait until tomorrow. It doesn't matter anyway. The first wench shyly makes her way over to the throne. Jon thinks back to last year's Summer King, a man from Wintertown. By this time he already had three girls in his lap. Maybe, Jon thinks, maybe they're more timid with him because he's Ned Stark's bastard. He waves her away.
The wench pouts, but moves back. It's a great honour, and a blessing, to lay with the Summer King. He'll have to fend off a lot more. But it's the night of Beltane. There might be a child. Even though bastards fathered by the Summer King aren't looked down upon like others, like himself... Jon does not want to father a child he'll never be able to hold. He laughs at that thought, a short, harsh bark. It's irrelevant now, all of this. He's dead.
After a couple more hours he can't sit anymore. The only cushion between him and the slender wicker branches is his cloak. He gets up. The maester seems like he wants to stop him, but Father shakes his head at him. They let him go, of course they do. Father knows he wouldn't flee. Jon would never dishonour them. The North needs him, needs the Summer King to make the sacrifice. Besides... Jon wouldn't know where to go.
He wanders around aimlessly, trying to ignore the stares and whispers.
"Ned Stark's own blood. The gods will be pleased."
"Poor boy. He's so young."
"We've had younger ones. He's a pretty lad though."
"Aye. I'd love to have his child. Oh look, he's blushing."
Jon flees, their laughter still in his ears. The courtyard is deserted and he slumps down on a bale of straw. From outside he can hear the drums again. The fire will be restoked until it's time to burn the Winter King. It's not fair, Jon thinks. The Winter King is a straw dummy. He buries his face in his hands. The straw dummy didn't have his whole life still before him. The straw dummy can't feel the flames licking at him. It isn't fair, it isn't fair, it isn't fair–
A noise from somewhere has him look up. He hears it again, a strangled cry, coming from the stables. He slowly gets to his feet and walks over. Probably Greyjoy with a whore, or a kitchen maid. It's like a slap in the face. Jon is preparing for his death while Greyjoy takes a jolly tumble in the hay. He could tell him to stop, Jon thinks. He can do anything now.
He wraps his cloak tighter around himself, mindful not to get stuck or make a noise. When he comes closer the noise sounds more like someone crying. Robb? Jon's heart aches at the thought. Of course his brother would cry for him. He peers around the corner, but what he sees – Robb is there alright, but he's not the one sobbing uncontrollably. Greyjoy is curled into a tight ball in Robb's lap, fists clenched in Robb's doublet. Robb is stroking his back, making soothing noises.
"Shshsh... it's going to be alright... calm down, Theon, that's not going to help... I know... shshsh..."
His own voice sounds choked as well.
Jon backs away in confusion. What in the seven hells... Greyjoy's behaving like he's the one going to burn.
Shortly before sunrise Jon is lead to his new chambers by his father and the maester. The maester bows and excuses himself soon, but Father lingers. The stony mask has slipped, Lord Stark has vanished.
"I'm so sorry, Jon."
Jon doesn't move, lets Father hug him.
"Good night, son. My king."
The last word is heavy with sadness. He leaves Jon alone.
Jon surveys his new chamber. It's vastly different from his old one, opulent even. The bed is huge, with layer upon layer of thick furs covering it. Jon tosses his heavy cloak aside and, naked, he crawls into bed. He doesn't sleep.
The next day he feels unable to get up. He hadn't been drinking at all yesterday, but he feels like it. He doesn't have to get up. A little squire is stationed outside his door and every wish Jon can utter is fulfilled immediately. His fire is stoked, food and drink are brought to him, even his chamber pot. Most of the time Jon stares into nothing.
That night Robb comes to see him. He sits down on the bed wordlessly and draws Jon into his arms. That's when he cries, mourning the life he could've had, the future that's been taken from him. Robb just holds him silently through it. After a while Jon feels empty, hollowed. He shouldn't drag this out any longer, so he sighs and straightens.
"Thank you. For coming. For letting me be myself for one more moment."
His face hardens. It's over. Robb should go, his brother is dead. He can feel it inside himself. The part of him that is Jon, smaller already, clinging to him. He can't afford to be Jon, to be soft. He has to kill the boy to survive. Survive... the irony is wonderful, and the Summer King laughs about it. Jon could never take it, those months. Being prepared and indulged, pampered and worshipped, groomed for his death.
The Summer King's smile feels cold on his lips, leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He'll get used to it.
"Leave now. Let them know I will talk to them on the morrow."
Robb understands. His eyes are dark with loss when he bows.
"Yes, my king."