A/N: So, I was inspired to do a Tormund/Brienne one-shot, by my favourite friend/artist lovelykotori, but somehow I managed to create something, a whole lot bigger! Thus, here we are! While, this will eventually include some Tormund/Brienne fluff and (possibly) mild smut, it'll mainly be centred around Jon! Hope you folks enjoy! Keep in mind that this is my first GOT fan-fic, so please do forgive any discrepancies or blunders on my part! :)

Chapter 1: Plans for the Winter

The King in the North. It was a title he could never possibly have dreamed of. Now, the chivalrous hero, Jon Snow, overlooked the battlements of his new castle, peering closely upon the Kingsroad. Years ago, Robert Baratheon ventured upon this same road on his fateful journey to Winterfell. If only the King of Westeros had kept his affairs in the South, where they belonged, instead of riding North in a journey that would unwittingly be the beginning of the end, for House Stark. His honorable father would still be alive. Lady Catelyn would continue spurning and loathing him. Robb, his older brother and predecessor, would be japing alongside him, as they oversaw young Bran's miserable attempts at marksmanship. And Arya, dearest of all, his eccentric little Arya, the miniature tomboy that he'd always been so fond of, would constantly gripe about not wanting to be a lady and proclaiming how she yearned to be a great warrior that led her own armies and controlled her own destiny, as opposed to a timid, meek little female that was bound by the whims and wishes of some nasty, domineering Lord husband.

But it was thoughts of Rickon that grieved him more than any other. An innocent boy of eleven, heartlessly murdered by that evil, twisted, psychopath Ramsay. Sansa repeatedly assured Jon that it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could've possibly done different to save their baby brother. She was totally right, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Curse the Umbers! It was all their fault! How could they commit treason, so easily?! For millennia, they'd been the most loyal bannermen to House Stark, yet in the span of a few days, they suddenly decided to jump into bed with Bolton's bastard!

Jon let out a deep exhale, pressing his fingers against his eyes. Now wasn't the time to brood over what could've been. Many battles were yet to fought, chiefly that which awaited him beyond the wall. With the entire North and the Knights of the Vale at his behest, Jon knew that he had control over one of the greatest forces in all of Westeros, yet it wasn't nearly enough, not against the sinister army of wights and White-Walkers that sought to bring ruin upon the living world.

Before the mutiny at castle black, Samwell Tarly had informed him of Maester Aemon's great niece and the fact that she not only commanded legions of trained soldiers, fiercely loyal to her cause, but three great dragons, which grew larger with each passing moment. Forging an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen would be most auspicious. The late King Stannis' former seat of Dragonstone, lay vacant. It was of primary import that they seize the island, along with the hoards of dragon glass therein, waiting to be mined. Thousands of obsidian swords, daggers, arrowheads, spearheads and axeheads could be crafted to combat the accursed White-walkers, while the legendary winged beasts of the Dragon Queen, set ablaze, the army of the dead with their fiery breath, putting a final rest to the hapless souls, whose lifeless bodies were pawned away, for the cause of evil. Much needed to be done, to protect the world of the living.

"Riders, approaching!" Shouted the watchman, breaking Jon from his musings. A minute later he recognised the pair heading towards winterfell.

"Open the gate." Ordered the Wolf King.

"Open the gate!"

Brienne of Tarth rode with no real haste, eyes downcast, as she made her way towards the lacking welcoming party.

"My Lady." Jon tilted his head respectfully, upon making his way down from the parapets, a gesture that was returned. "Any news from the South? Did Ser Brynden not agree to join us?"

Lord Selwyn's only child sighed dejectedly, shoulders slumping. A few taut seconds passed by, without word.

"Why?" The dispirited King asked. He'd heard many stories about the legendary Blackfish. Having him as an ally would not only lift his morales, but please Sansa a great deal, since she would get to meet one of the last living relatives, from her mother's side.

"It's not what you think, my Lord."

"Jon Snow is our King!" Robett Glover stiffly asserted, standing beside his leader. "You will refer to him as Your Grace!"

To say that she was stunned by the sudden announcement was an understatement. Brienne heard about the great victory in Winterfell on her way there, but hadn't the slightest clue that the North had already chosen a new King. The revelation was absolutely mind-blowing. Nonetheless, the Lady of Tarth soon shook it off and matched Lord Glover's grimace with her own, upon recognizing the silver fist brooch, pinned to his fur coat.

"And where were you when your King fought against the Boltons?!" She spat. "Hiding in the safety of your castle, like a coward, while thousands died?!"

With a growl, Robett pressed his palm on the pommel of his sword, only to be stopped by Jon, before a bloody brawl erupted.

"It's alright." He said reassuringly, putting up his hand. "Lady Brienne has sworn to protect my sister. She's a friend of House Stark and the North." He shifted his gaze back to Brienne. "And you, my Lady, should not be so hard on Lord Glover. His wife and children were thrown into the dungeons and scores of his subjects were murdered, by the Ironborn. While he did err, his reasons were noble. He refused to put the lives of his men, at risk." He gestured for her to follow him. "Come, there's much to discuss."

Brienne and Robett glared at one-another for a few moments, before she headed towards the Great Hall. Sitting opposite each other, Jon and Brienne conversed at length.

"The Lannisters and the Freys lay siege to Riverrun, but the Blackfish refused to surrender." She abjectly recounted. "I begged him to come to our aid, but he just wouldn't have it. In the end he chose to die, fighting." Pausing for a few seconds, she shook her head, letting out a wry chuckle. "No matter what I do, I always fail. King Renly, Lady Catelyn and now, Ser Brynden, too."

"You didn't fail." Jon replied consolingly, placing a comforting hand, atop hers. Brienne looked up at him, in surprise. "You did your best. If it weren't for you, my sister would've still been Ramsay's prisoner and so would my brother. Not to mention, the Boltons would still be occupying Winterfell, most likely."

Brienne gave Jon a hint of a smile, believing then that this was one of the few men in history, who were truly worthy of their royal title.

"Thank you." She bowed her head, pausing awhile, before continuing. "My King."

"You're welcome." Jon smiled benignly.

As the hours trickled by, the Lady of Tarth often found herself under the lascivious scrutiny of a certain red-bearded wildling, who just wouldn't take the hint! She found that man detestable, impertinent and completely revolting! Could he not just leave her be?! A knock on the helm, by Podrick Payne's sparring sword jolted her from her resentful thoughts.

"My Lady, are you okay?" The squire asked, solicitously. Even at his best, he'd never been able to touch Lady Brienne. This was most unusual and a cause for concern.

"I'm fine!" She hissed, waving her hand dismissively, before continuing in a calmer voice. "I just need to sit down, awhile."

"Are- are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" She huffed and shook her head. "You're relieved for the rest of the day."

"Okay." He mumbled timidly and proceeded to saunter away, face downcast, wrongly believing that he'd done something to offend his Lady.

"Pod!" Brienne called out. The squire turned towards her. "You did good." She said earnestly. "You've improved a lot, over the last few days. You're a quick learner."

"Thank you, my Lady." He smiled beatifically. Though extremely rare, her words of praise never failed to heighten the young man's self-worth.

Brienne went over to the Godswood and closely inspected the thick, Weirwood tree. She'd seen several such trees before, but none this size.

"I thought you Southerners prayed to your new Gods." Came the guttural voice of the last person she wanted to hear.

"What do you want?" Brienne grimaced at the wildling General.

"There're many things I want." Tormund smiled suggestively, whereby the female warrior nearly gagged. Before Brienne could rebuff him, he continued. "But in truth, I came here for a little prayer of my own."

"You pray?" She frowned, slightly thrown off.

"That surprise you?"

"You just don't strike me as the praying type." Brienne remarked in a crude voice, turning away. A short interval followed.

"I never was a godly man." Tormund recounted. "I spent a long time, wondering why men would kneel before some bleeding hunk of wood, with red leaves." He looked towards the sacred, white tree. "If I cut that thing down now, I doubt anything would happen, so what could I possibly gain, by praying to something that can't even protect itself?"

A moment of silence passed.

"So what changed your outlook?" Brienne asked curiously, not facing him.

"War. Death. Slaughter." He replied simply, pausing between each word. "Countless men, women and children met their end at the edge of my blade. Taking life always came easy to me."

Brienne didn't think she could possibly revile this man, the way she did after hearing that, though it hardly surprised her, given the barbarous infamy of the wildlings.

"That is, until I saw it happening to my own people." He sighed dejectedly, upon recalling the grisly massacre at Hardhome. "I saw scores of them, hacked to bits by their own dead brothers and sisters." Tormund went on, in a pained, broken voice that held a spark of hate and vitriol, within its gruff decibels. "I saw the Night King lift his hands and moments later, the dead rose back up, by the thousands, standing beside him, as a part of his damned army, forever cursed."

"I- I'm sorry." Brienne said awkwardly, not knowing what else to say. It certainly sounded like a horrible sight to behold. Half a minute ticked by.

"You wondered why I pray to the gods." Tormund said. The Southern woman set her eyes on him, giving the wildling her undivided attention. "It's because I've looked upon the face of true evil and it's far worse than anything I'd ever imagined. The only way a man can sleep at night, after seeing the things I've seen, is to believe that there's something good out there, some greater force watching over us, that'll help us get through the darkness, in one piece."

"Maybe there is, maybe there isn't." Said Jon Snow, just entering the scene, gathering the attention of the two present. "Either way, we'll have to face the long night."

"Your Grace." Brienne knelt before the King.

"Rise, my Lady." He ordered and she promptly stood to her feet. "May I speak with Tormund, in private?"

Brienne creased her brows at Jon a moment, before begrudgingly bowing and taking off.

"Your Grace?" Tormund chuckled, suddenly recalling a past event. "Remember when we first met? You thought I was Mance and said the same thing to me, as you got down on all fours hahahaha."

"How could I forget?" Jon rolled his eyes, letting out a droll laugh.

"Now you're the King and every Lord for seven hundred miles is bending the knee."

"It seems that way." The wolf King said, looking up into the sky. "But, I never chose this."

"No, you didn't." The bearded General replied. "Yet here you are, the King in the North!" He exclaimed, spreading his arms out wide and inclining his head sideways, just a little, in a feigned bow.

"I- uh- don't know how to say this, but-" Jon bit his bottom lip, clearly uncomfortable. He'd given this quite a bit of thought, but bringing it up was quite troublesome, for the new monarch.

"But?" The wildling took a step closer, his interest piquing.

"You're one of the few people, the only people that I can really trust." He acknowledged, much to the astonishment of a wide-eyed Tormund. "Only a handful of my own countrymen enlisted to support my cause, but you stood beside me, without a second thought and convinced the rest of the Free Folk to do the same."

"I did." Tormund nodded, after a brief pause.

"I've seen you fight men and I've seen you lead them into battle." Jon stated. "I know you and I respect you, as a man and as a warrior."

"Where exactly are you going with this?"

"I want you to be my Hand." He answered.

"Your- Hand?" Frowned a bemused Tormund.

"Hand of the King." Jon replied. "In other words, my second-in-command. You would rule the North, by my side and answer to no one, except me."

The wildling General was completely floored and unable to utter a single, coherent sound, for at least a good minute or so.

"I- I- don't understand." Tormund finally said. "There're dozens of Lords you can choose from. Why me?"

"Because I know you better than I know them." He responded. "And I trust you."

"You are a fool, Jon Snow." Tormund shook his head. He and Sansa were the only ones who called him by his name. The Free Folk still referred to him as "King Crow", while everyone else addressed him as "Your Grace".

"I'm a fool for trusting you?"

"No, you're a fool for asking me to serve you." He replied. "I thought you knew by now that the Free Folk do not kneel, not before anyone." The Wolf King couldn't help the air of disappointment, embedding upon his handsome features. "Ah, don't look so grim, King Snow." Tormund said reassuringly, clapping a firm hand on Jon's shoulder. "I'll stand beside you in any battle, at anytime." He solemnly vowed. "The Free Folk are indebted to you and will always be your allies, just not your servants."

"Very well." Jon sighed, after a moment.

"Look, most of the Lords following you, hate the Free Folk." Tormund argued, seeing Jon's disenchantment. "How many would you antagonize, by giving me authority over them?"

"Too many, I guess." The King placed a hand on his nape, knowing his friend's logic was irrefutable. "I was hoping they'd be more accepting, with you by my side, but- you're probably right."

"If you want my advice, then listen well." The bearded wildling proposed. "Your Northern Lords will follow you, no matter what, so if you want a 'Hand', I would suggest one of those cunts from the Vale. I saw them cut through the Bolton infantry, like bread. If you're looking for powerful allies, they're the right ones."

Jon mused for a good moment or so.

"That would be the ideal choice." He acknowledged. "Lord Royce was a great friend of my father's when he grew up in the Eyrie, so I suppose he'd be the best option, in that case."

"So pick him then."

"Alright." Jon gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Tormund."

"Don't thank me." The wildling laughed. "Just get the fuck out of here, so I can pray in peace."

"If you say so." Jon chuckled and offered him, his hand. Tormund shook it firmly, before they nodded to one-another and the King went on his way.

XXXX

It was done. Lord Yohn Royce swore to serve Jon Snow as Hand and with that, the Lords of the Vale fell in line, one by one. The Lord of Runestone also warned Jon about Littlefinger, telling him to be cautious around the crafty, whoremonger. Jon's fury heightened after learning that Baelish had cast blame upon Lord Royce after selling Sansa to the Boltons, a move that nearly saw him executed by the young Lord of the Eyrie, Robin Arryn. He was certain that Royce would never betray Sansa, not after all the stories he'd heard about the honorable warrior, growing up.

The thunderous Wolf King unsheathed Longclaw and began searching out the cunning, brothel-keeper with two dozen soldiers by his side, intent on throwing him into the cells, where he belonged.

Unfortunately for the Northern King, however, Baelish had long since escaped Winterfell and was untraceable. Sighing in resignation, the White Wolf returned to the Great Hall and summoned the Lords of the Vale and the North, in order to determine his next move. Lord Royce surmised that Littlefinger had probably returned to the Eyrie, likely seeking to poison the mind of young Robin Arryn and sway him against Jon.

"If Lord Arryn opposes me, then what?!" Jon cursed vexedly, pressing the base of his palm against his forehead. "Without the Knights of the Vale, we stand no chance against our enemies!"

"The Knights of the Vale stand with you, your Grace." Lord Royce adamantly assured.

"But what about-"

"Lord Arryn?" The Lord of Runestone raised an eyebrow. "The Valemen are sworn to serve House Arryn, true, but we are not sworn to serve that loathsome, knave Petyr Baelish." He vehemently declared, a bitter edge to his voice. "So long as that miserable worm whispers falsehoods in Sweetrobin's ear, we cannot fulfil our vows to our young Lord and call it honorable." Royce sighed dejectedly, shoulders sagging. He turned towards his fellow Lords, who exchanged doubtful glances amongst one-another. "You all know me and you all knew Jon Arryn, a righteous man of honor and nobility." He pointed towards the King. "And a true friend of House Stark.

"Lord Eddard was raised in his halls, alongside Robert Baratheon. When the Mad King called for their heads, Lord Arryn rose up in rebellion against the Targaryens and together, they took the Iron Throne! And now, all three of them are dead, by the treacherous hands of those Lannister rats!" He grit his teeth fiercely. "And what was our reply?! Did we raise our armies in rebellion, as Lord Arryn did?! No, we stood back and did nothing, when Lord Eddard's eldest was murdered, as a guest, at his own uncle's wedding, along with Lady Catelyn and the men serving under them!"

The Lords of the Vale dropped their heads in shame, unable to deny the truth behind Yohn Royce's words.

"We failed House Stark once!" He exclaimed vociferously. "But never again! Stand with me, my Lords and let us honor the memories of our beloved Jon Arryn as well as those of Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon!" He drew his sword and turned back towards Jon Snow, raising it high. "THE KING IN THE NORTH!" He promptly knelt, pressing the blade on the wooden floor.

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!" Followed another Lord.

"THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH! THE KING IN THE NORTH!" Swords were successively unsheathed one at a time, finely honed blades gliding against metal scabbards, in a series of euphonic echoes that resounded across the Great Hall of Winterfell.

Though the Lords of the Vale had already given Jon their allegiance, their loyalty towards him was now cemented. The majority of their soldiers were already at Winterfell and he prayed that others would join them too. Baelish had to die for his treachery, that much was certain.

The Wolf King let out a huge sigh of relief, as his hold over the North was bolstered greatly.

XXXX

A day later, news fast reached Winterfell that the Silver Queen had set sail across the Summer sea, headed towards South Westeros with hundreds of ships, tens of thousands of soldiers and three, enormous dragons. Word was that both the Reach and Dorne had now sworn allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen. Most shocking of all was the revelation that the boy King Tommen Baratheon was dead and his mother, the whore Queen, now tainted the Iron Throne. It was crystal clear that the days of House Lannister were numbered. Given the geography of Westeros, the Targaryen Queen's most likely course of action would be to sack Lannisport and continue pushing Eastwards.

The Wolf King, thus, dispatched an envoy to get word to Daenerys as soon as she landed, informing her of the harrowing threat that lay North of the Wall and the need for them to join forces, in overcoming said threat. He also made sure to highlight the importance of the once-royal stronghold of Dragonstone, in the coming war. A pact with the last living child of the Valyrian bloodline would not come easy, given the sour history between House Stark and House Targaryen, but it had to be done, no matter the cost.

It was also learned that Walder Frey had been assassinated in the very halls where he'd orchestrated the red wedding; poetic justice at its finest. His sons, Lothar and Black Walder disappeared hours earlier and were presumed dead. The "Brotherhood Without Banners" were allegedly behind everything, though nothing was confirmed, as of yet. The Rivermen immediately seized the opportunity, rising up in rebellion, once again, to reclaim their strongholds from the wretched Freys.

The Wolf King took a gambit and had 3000 Northern infantry, 2000 Valemen cavalry and several hundred archers travel South across the Neck with a number of portable siege units, to assail the Twins from the East Bank of the Green Fork, while the Riverlords battered them, from the West. A final end to the cursed House Frey would deliver yet another decisive blow to the Lannisters! King Robb Stark, the Young Wolf and beloved brother of Jon, would be avenged at last! He trusted Lord Royce with the command of the army.

In order to thwart the possibility of another Ironborn invasion, he charged Lord Manderly, Lord Glover and Lady Ryswell, with the task of strengthening the defenses of Torrhen's Square, Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin, also instructing them to enlist and train, able-bodied, devout young men and women, who were eagerly willing to take up arms and fight for their new King, whose legend had swept across the lands, like a hurricane, whipping the North back into shape. The plethora of shields, pikes, swords and other military paraphernalia acquired from the fallen soldiers, after the battle of Winterfell would serve a good purpose. Jon's myriad loyal subjects hadn't known hope like this, ever since the tragic demise of King Robb. Blacksmiths, metallurgists, craftsmen, builders, weavers and masters-at-arms worked harder than ever before, getting the people prepared for the horrors that awaited them.

Since winter was here and ready to strike at any moment, crops were rapidly harvested across the North, before they would be killed off, by the frost. Were it not for the fertile terrains of White Harbor and those South of the wall, given to the Free Folk, the North would scarcely last two months under the unyielding mercilessness of the winter. With their ongoing support, however, the Maesters estimated that they could go on for just over half a year, before running out of resources. But it wasn't anywhere close to enough. Each and every moment counted. Alliances needed to be forged as quickly as possible, especially with the Riverlords, whose fecund lands and bountiful streams would provide immeasurable aid, during this gruesome winter.

The defenses of White Harbor were also reinforced greatly, in the unlikely event of an attack from any men loyal to Littlefinger.

Jon, himself, left Sansa back at Winterfell to rule in his stead, while he led a strong, mounted regiment towards the Dreadfort, determined to seize the vacant castle and reward it to House Hornwood, for their loyalty, in supporting his campaign against the Boltons, despite the bleak odds. The paltry force residing in the castle were fearful of what would become of them, knowing that Ramsay had burned down Winterfell, after capturing it from Theon Greyjoy. The castellan assured Jon that he had little love for the bastard son of a Kingslayer, since he was sure that Ramsay was behind the murder of his father, as well as both half-brothers. Jon knew that the craven was merely trying to save his own skin. Nonetheless, he offered clemency to him and his subjects, as long as they travelled North and took the black. Though reluctant, he accepted the King's offer, since it was more than generous and certainly much better than the alternative.

A/N: So what did you think, folks? Do tell, as you drop a review! :D