Insights

Jon Snow

Jon came to with a start. His sharp intake of breath mixed with the draft emanating from the ajar door. His throat was chilled, and he coughed many times to chase the nip away. With great difficulty, he drew himself to his elbows and winced at how he chafed against his tunic which was stiff from the cold. Ghost had retreated to the corner and lay with his great snowy head perched between massive paws. His eyes fixed on Jon.

"Well you seem to be in fine form," Jon groaned, "unlike myself at the moment." He made a pitiful sight indeed, collapsed in a tangle of limbs like a young lad who had been drunken underneath the table. He had regained control over his arms, but his legs were still autonomous, beings beyond his control even if they were attached to his body. The most logical plan was to wait out the numbness drowning his legs, and he was more than willing to comply.

Feeling resurfaced slowly in fits and starts. Tingles danced along his calves and thighs like thousands of Sansa's beloved sewing pins plucking holes in prized silk. However, Jon would not stand to be anyone's needlework. Wincing through the blitz of sensations in his legs,he stood up, albeit shakily, and after a few strides, closed the door. He sighed in contentment, utterly glad no more no more glacial drafts would penetrate his sleeping cell.

Turning to face Ghost, a flurry of questions bubbled upward. Jon hadn't the faintest idea how he ended up splayed out cold in the middle of his meager quarters with the door open to permit all kinds of wintry horrors inside. He tilted his head and regarded Ghost pointedly, almost expecting an explanation.

"You gotta meet me halfway here Ghost. What happened? Did someone do this? Was it one of the initiates who stole into my cell and clobbered me upside the head? My head is smarting fiercely, now that I think about it."

Jon massaged the portion of his skull that took the impact from his fall. It was extremely tender, and when he regained more alertness, it would throb like thunder. But something seemed off about his supposition.

It wouldn't make sense for me to be attacked by another initiate, there are too many unknowns.

"Not even someone as daft as Grenn or mean as Rast would fail to close the door after their ambush. Perhaps they would want to bash some fear of the Seven into me, but they wouldn't outright sentence me to death. And that's what an open door was in the dead of night at the Wall: a death sentence. Everyone already struggled to keep warm enough with all the furs, wools, and cottons at hand without unfettered subjection to the snow and ice. If I were found dead, sans weapon and lethally frostbitten in his cell, foul play would be the only reasonable explanation. Everyone knows me to be hot headed or arrogant at times, but I am a Northmen through and through, I have always known to always secure my lodgings against the weather.' Jon began to pace and grow steadier on his feet.

'Also, it is veritable lunacy to make a move on me while Ghost is near. I never doubt that he and I are a team, a perpetual promise to watch each other's backs is one of the cords that connects us together for all time. If someone attempted to harm me, and Ghost was able to do anything, he would at the very least maim his master's assailant. And for as strong of a grudge that the others have against me, they aren't masochists looking to lose digits or even entire extremities. Everyone knows to steer clear of a direwolf at all times. So, I was not incapacitated by anyone. No one tried to kill me. I am at a loss. Ghost, have any ideas?"

Air chuffed from Ghost's snout; that was all the response he would get. So Jon returned to examining the possibilities with vigor. His mind reeled back to his last waking moments, but he was only met with dense fog. He couldn't seem to recollect any of what transpired before he fell unconscious. There was a block as obstinate as Arya, massive as Hodor, and unmovable as the ramparts of Winterfell impeding his memory.

"Oh for the love! I am acting like a twit! I am wasting what precious time I have left to sleep. Rest will benefit me far better than interrogating you all night. What was I thinking asking a direwolf to bely my confusion." Jon's voice receded into a low grumble and he pulled at his curls in frustration as he stomped to bed and disrobed.

It was a lengthy and clumsy process interjected by the vilest of swears, but Jon was finally able to shirk off his trousers, jerkin, undershirt and boots off without anymore bodily injury. He slipped into the cot and burrowed under the meager coverings, patting the space next to him for Ghost to nestle in.

Ghost wasted no time in complying and cozied into covering Jon's frame. But before Jon snuffed out the candles held aloft his cot, the direwolf bucked back and playfully headbutted Jon's shoulder.

Jon knew immediately what had irked Ghost.

"Alright, alright. You aren't that poor of a conversationalist, I concede, and all offense is retracted. You're a much more stimulating speaking partner than anyone of the human variety in this frozen hellhole. But don't let that get to your head; that isn't saying much. Intelligence and tact are few and far between within the ranks of the Night's Watch, so it isn't saying a lot that you can outwit the likes of Alliser Thorne or Albett. Good night, boy."

Jon spat into his forefinger and thumb and watched as the light flickered away from the extinguished candles.

Ghost playfully bit Jon before sleep claimed them both, and Jon smiled a little, knowing his companion was keen enough to catch the hidden jape undermining Ghost's exceeding intellect. He loved the direwolf, but even his affection for Ghost could not drive off Jon's jumbled memories. The reasons for his fainting stuck to his skull like the gummy sap of a Weirwood. His wonderings were tantalizingly tempting in their rich red hue, but just far enough out of reach on the pearl white bark for Jon to retrieve. Giving up, Jon accepted that he would not remember how he passed out before the night was over. He slipped into a fitful sleep of lullabies, wolves, and red tresses.

The morning dawned defiantly. Waking and getting dressed was a trying affair due to the immense clamor of Ser Alliser Thorne reprimanding Jon for his tardiness. Alliser's jeers to hurry Jon up were as pestering as the whistle of a tea kettle about ready to burst into a mass of iron and steam. Jon's own frustration seethed to a boil inside of him, and he muttered several profanities as he fell over while pulling up his woolen stockings.

"Enough beauty sleep, Lord Snow." Jon shoved his breeches on over his stockings. "Your brothers are up already, having shivered their sleep off ages ago."

Jon fastened his jerkin to his undershirt.

"Hurry up you fancy pants bastard, I won't wait all day."

Jon jammed his feet into his leather boots.

"Our other recruits don't reckon it's too fair they stand out in the blistering cold doing combat drills, while you lounge around with your mutt!"

Ned Stark's bastard fastened his belt and a finger got stuck in the clasp; he winced.

"By now you'll be prettier than the Queen herself with all that rest."

Jon shrugged on his coal woolen cloak.

"If you don't come out now, I'll drag you out myself."

Jon fitted his fur lined gloves onto his hands, and he was finished dressing.

He burst forward with Ghost at his side, the two moving together like a flowing mirage of beast and man, and finally responded to the Master at Arms' taunts.

"Alright, Ser. Your point has been made plenty clear; I have obviously let my brothers down. I am no more deserving of more sleep than the rest of them. I am ready to begin my drills," Jon forced out as diplomatically as possible, but he wasn't convinced that his words were delivered without a nasty bite. He then bowed his head in deference, and smiled hollowly.

Alliser seemed less than satisfied, contempt etched his dismal face into a menacing scowl. He nodded and turned on his heel, but felt the need to throw one more heckle over his shoulder.

"And the Holy Seven let out their long-awaited breath during your absence. Come and hope to show that your skills with the sword improved as much as your morning disposition. I tire of waiting on you."

Jon wished to roll his eyes, but instead addressed Ghost.

"Cluck Cluck." Jon clicked his tongue at Ghost, and his direwolf nodded with the uncanny dignity and obedience of a man. Ghost was by no means obsequious but knew when he needed to follow orders.

The trio stalked down the wooden staircase cascading down the tilted tower. With each step, the staircase creaked and croaked threateningly. The precariousness of the steps caused Jon and Ghost to hurry their descent and beat Alliser to the crust of snow awaiting them at the bottom.

In their pursuit of stable ground Ghost and Jon unintentionally brush past the Master of Arms and bump sides with him. Ser Alliser was not amused.

"Although your vigour is commendable, never venture to rush past your superior officers again. It is unbecoming of the Night's Watch for recruits to jolt against their betters and walk before them. Show some respect or you will be mucking out the stables with the other lowly stewards and rejects. Instead of a sword you will have a shovel and pitchfork."

Thorne ignored the rude gesture Jon tried so valiantly to hide and continued towards the training yard with his austere head held high and his sword's pommel gleaming slightly in the light projected off the wall. Ghost ran off to relieve himself and then scamper off towards the king's road to hunt. Jon felt exceedingly glum without Ghost and listened as their footfalls grew out of synch, the direwolf peeled away from the men.

The snow was slightly slushy but not melted enough to hinder any movement, and the pair reached the training area within a few minutes. A heavy silence had settled between Thorne and Jon, so uncomfortable that Jon was cheered to join the black rank and file of his compatriots.

Recruits had been divided up into groups of four and were further split into teams of two, each duo would work together to ward off the attacks of those opposite them. Surprisingly, the men were able to maintain the semblance of a clean column, and the two parallel lines heaved to and fro when blows were exchanged.

The clash of steel on steel reinvigorated Jon's spirits and he rushed off to the armory before Alliser could find some other reason to scold Jon. A rush of heat greeted him upon entering the armory. Donal Noye was deeper in the building, hunched over an anvil hammering away at a sword.

Jon waved to the armorer, but he was met by no reply. Foregoing further hailings, Jon searched for a suitable blade ensconced in the weapon's stand. He found a blade that looked sturdy and sharp enough to withstand hours of training and took a moment to appreciate the crevices and serrations beaten into the sword from years of use. The weapon was no creation of Mikken, the Winterfell blacksmith, but Donal Noye was skilled at his craft nonetheless. Jon then donned a protective vest and he was all set to train.

Jon sheathed the sword and called out a genuine thanks to the armorer still enraptured with his work.

Jon returned to the training yard and looked for a group to join, while trying to steer clear of Ser Jaremy Rykker who was barking orders and criticisms to the recruits busy at swordplay. The last thing Jon wanted to do was aggravate another senior officer with not only his lateness but also standing around idle.

He spotted Grenn and Pypar crowding around Samwell Tarly who huddled to the side of the steel volleys taking place around him. From the looks of it, Grenn and Pypar were antagonizing Sam with a steady supply of mockeries, deriding the boy's obesity and outright refusal to fight back. Grenn poked Sam with the blunt point of his sword and chuckled as the fat rolls of Sam's belly undulated. Jon could not stand their ill treatment of a man who had done nothing to deserve it.

He called out, "Perhaps the two of you would prefer to fight someone who is actually armed and willing to spar. Samwell has discarded his blade in the snow; therefore he is defenseless. It is tasteless to harass a man without a weapon. Face me if you would. I think I can handle two on one."

Jon's bravado was very uncharacteristic of him, but he had an excess of energy to burn off and he had to teach the delinquents that abusing their advantage was shameful. He shook off any remnants of weariness and warmed up his cold muscles. Grenn and Pypar watched as Jon shuffled in place and left Sam to his own shivering devices. The boy's face had drained of all color and his eyes bulged with disbelief that someone stood up for him.

Grenn was the first to press the advantage while Pypar stayed back for a few moments to assess Jon's technique. Grenn's offensive was like a bristling aurochs stampeding towards Jon, but he was able to easily hop out of the way and catch Grenn's sword, redirecting the blow into the ice trampled underfoot. With Grenn momentarily off-balanced, Jon swiped his own sword at Grenn's bowed back with the flat of his sword and forced him to the ground.

Pypar joined the fray to take the pressure off his partner with a mighty two-handed slash aimed at Jon's head, rather impressive for a man of such slight stature. Jon parried the strike for the most part, and the edge of the sword grazed Jon's vambrace and a flurry of sparks erupted away like a family of lightning bugs. Jon kicked Pypar square in the abdomen and he crumpled to his hands and knees.

Grenn's hulking form had since then risen from the wan muck and swiped away the flakes pressed on his burgeoning beard. He lumbered forward and his face burned indignantly; obviously he was grappling embarrassment. Jon was amply willing to compound Grenn's shame.

"Is that the best you got Grenn? You went down faster and harder than a fallen snowbear."

Jon twirled the sword in his grip to readjust his hold and smiled haughtily at Grenn, goading the man to clumsily attack once more.

Grenn growled roughly but refrained from responding.

Good, I've made him angry. And sloppier to boot I will bet.

Grenn measured his advance this time around and kept his senses about him. His eyes narrowed and this warned Jon to be ready.

"You are gonna pay for that, bastard," Grenn roared.

Jon narrowly avoided a thwack of the sword targeting his neck and he retreated a few paces back. The two circled each other until Grenn made to punch Jon with his gauntlet and then turned his blade around on Jon's vulnerable side.

Jon evaded the punch, but the sword was true in its design and jabbed Jon's ribcage. The air was knocked from Jon's lungs and all he wanted to do was gasp greedily, but by that time Grenn was winding up for another go, and it sounded like Pypar had recovered himself.

"You're playing dirty, Snow, but there isn't anyone dirtier than myself," Pyp bit out.

Jon laughed. "That isn't much of a compliment to yourself."

Pypar then swung at Jon in a wide arc at chest height to stab him, but he clouted only the fog of Jon's breath, as Jon had dropped to his knees. Like a whip Jon snapped up again and undercut Pypar right in the chin and pockets of sanguine jumped from Pypar's battered jaw.

Grenn then made another slash at Jon, but his sword fell out of his hand when Jon's own sword crested the metal of Grenn's half helm. The oaf returned to his knees and cradled his head sporting a nasty gash.

Both opponents lay in heaps at Jon's feet.

"Had enough yet? I can do this all day, but I reckon that the lot of you cannot. Now, why don't we cease the pointless hostilities and I teach you to fight fairly? Eh?"

Jon dropped his own sword and extended both hands to pull Grenn and Pypar to their feet.

Jon continued, "I've already made enough enemies here for having only been here a few weeks. I would much rather prefer to make some friends, and if we are to swear lifelong loyalty to each other, we might as well learn to fight competently."

Pypar and Grenn hesitated as they contemplated Jon's offer. It was apparent that they agreed as they accepted Jon's proffered hands and unsteadily regained their footing.

Grenn started, "You've got the right of it, Snow. Even if we wanted to, we couldn't overcome you. Instead maybe we can figure out how to become passable swordsmen instead of spending decades having our arses handed to us. Thoughts, Pyp?"

Pyp gurgled out an affirmative response as he held his maltreated jaw in his gloved grip. Some blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, but the message was clear enough: he wanted to accept Jon's offer of peace and tutelage.

Grenn then turned to Samwell, and pointed at him. "What about him?" he inquired.

Jon considered that.

Grenn and Pypar have potential if they can be improved if tempered and unstructured properly. Samwell is another matter. But I have no choice other than to help him as well. Gods know he needs it.

"Samwell will become one of us. We will make a Brother of him yet. But first, I think an apology is in order."

Jon looked at Grenn and Pypar expectantly, entirely open to guilting them if need be.

The pair dropped their heads abashedly and mustered up their bruised egos.

In unison they mumbled, "I'm sorry. We need to stick together with men like Ser Alliser Thorne breathing down our necks. It was not proper for us to be so cruel. We need to watch each other's backs instead of making more enemies, like Jon said. Could you forgive us?"

Sam was so speechless, he only nodded wildly and the flubber under his chin whacking back and forth mixed with his cherry red countenance was ridiculous enough to make all three of the other men stifle their laughter.

Jon wagered that if Sam weren't as shy as he presented himself, he'd launch forward and crush them all in an embrace.

"I was so scared to come here, I thought I would die for sure. But now, for the first time in my entire life, I can actually have true friends and brothers. All is forgiven!" Sam cheered.

Jon's stoicism split into a delighted grin.

"Alright then, we have lots of work to do if we want to be in fighting form by the time deem us ready to take our vows." Jon stayed.

Apparently, Ser Rykker had caught wind that Jon's group had stopped training and were instead exchanging words in place of blows. Thus, he ceased the tongue lashing he was giving Todder, Daeron, Jeren, and Halder to descend upon Jon and his friends like a starving vulture.

The ranger arrived in time to overhear the tail end of the conversation and leered deliberately at what he made out.

He knows something. But what?

Ser Rykker stood there and let the recruits squirm for a few minutes with his eerie snicker echoing in their ears. Then he let them in on the secret:

"You won't have much of a wait until officially taking the Black. I heard the Old Bear himself scheming to have the Vows take place tonight. Ready yourselves."

He walked away, laughing once more, seemingly unmoved at the consternation he caused in the initiates.

"Tonight?" Grenn, Pypar, and Sam cried simultaneously, gulping next.

Jon chuckled.

And as if a manifestation of the lot's dismay, Jeor Mormont stalked to the balcony jutting out from the second floor of the Lord Commander's tower. He waited there, unwavering with his massive corn-craving crow on one shoulder and his snowy beard clashing violently with his inky apparel. Until no voices resounded throughout the yard, only then did he address his men.

"The time has come for you to swear yourself to the Brotherhood. This batch of initiates has been here for nigh a fortnight, and where boys once were, I now see men, if my old eyes don't fail me."

Among the masses Jon heard a voice, and he fancied it none other than Alliser Thorne, and the voice was blatantly deriding Mormont, "More likely than not. This lot couldn't tell you the difference between a spade and a sword. Lord Mormont's eyes atrophied long ago." He smirked and looked to his cronies for validation.

However uncannily, Mormont shot a virulent look to Thorne and that shut him up immediately.

Jon could not figure how Mormont detected the jape but now that he looked closer, Mormont's old crow had perched atop Thorne's shoulder and glared at him with as much hostility as his master.

Mormont then continued, "If I could, I would give you more time to acclimate to the cold and perceive Castle Black as a home, no matter how negligible. But that would take days, or even years. And time is what we no longer have. We've been undermanned for far too long by many men of honor or worth, and our numbers have diminished unsustainability. We cannot wait anymore. Just now we have lost one of our very best, Bejen Stark on a scouting mission. The words of his house could not be more fitting today: "Winter is Coming".'

'Thus we must all be ready to face it as brothers of the black. Decide upon where you will take your vows, the sept or the Weirwood. The location couldn't matter less to me. All that I care about is that your words are true and resolute. Senior officers will be assigned to escort those of you who keep with the Old Gods to the Weirwoods at midnight. That is all."

The Old Bear retreated but his crow continued to circle and wheel above everyone's heads. Periodically he squawked "corn" and once he landed on the crown of Jon's head. That got an immense laugh from Grenn and Pypar, but was more preoccupied with the bird's talons ripping his curls out at the root.

The hours dwindled away like the melted wax of a candle. As a flame eventually burned out, the sun receded into the eastern horizon leaving behind ribbons of faint orange and heavy indigo. The remainder of the day was spent training, eating, and getting to know each other until it was time to depart to the Weirwood grove beyond the Wall. A sickle lay suspended in the sky and from its filed edges, brittle but bright moonlight kissed the icy lebe that stretched out beyond the Wall and Castle Black.

It was that moon which signaled it was time to saddle up and take the oath. And that is how Jon flanked by three new allies found himself kneeling before the gaunt and grim face carved upon a Weirwood.

Cold sleet bit through all of Jon's layers from his knees, and the sting permeated Jon's entire body. He quaked and trembled in the open night protected by only the circle of heart trees and his unwavering faith in the Old Gods. Ghost sat panting beside him.

All four men shared a look and began their vows, knowing they could only forsake them upon pain of death:

"Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

Once the words were finished Jon knew that everything had changed, like the ground had lurched beneath his feet and began spinning counter to its innate course. But alas, none of the like occurred.

Jon peered into the cavities carved away to bear the sad eyes of the Weirwood face. And oddly, pupils shown within the depths and flitted downward, catching Jon's attention and encouraging him to look also. From the chapped and swollen lips of the heart tree ruby juice slid down, staining the pearly bark. With no rational thought in his head, Jon lowered his hand and stole a few drops from a nearby deposit. Then he brought the sap to his own mouth and swallowed the viscous material.

His heart pounded in his ears, and then all went silent. He thought he heard a wolf's final whimper, a lady's otherworldly cry, and the angry tears of a young girl, all congealing to yank back Jon's memories of the night before to his mind. Jon recalled all of it.

Ghost knocked me over, and I had a vision. A dream mayhaps, of danger and heartbreak. In my vision, Lady, Ghost's littermate was slain, a lady was inconsolable, so much pain echoed in her cries. But then, the pain abated, muted for the moment, and two girls were running. Flickers of inn walls shattering like frail kindling and Sansa's titanic cry flash in his eyes. Then a forest spins around Jon and he sees a massive man with a face half burnt off come across three sleeping figures. He draws his blood-flecked sword and the direwolf coils back with fangs bared.

One girl is standing hip-to-hip with the grey beast, eyes shining brighter than castle forged steel and brown feral hair. The other wasn't as much a girl, but a woman grown, all elegant and feminine with her copper spirals. Her eyes reflected the cerulean sky above. They couldn't be any more different, but inexplicably they were the same: two girls of noble birth thrust into a world much more deadly than their castle.

But who are they? Do I know them? Am I related to them? San...Ary…. Sansa and Arya! My half sisters! Something is incredibly wrong because they aren't with the royal procession anymore. They're losing loved ones and hunted by the Hound! The Hound is only called upon to exact revenge or shed blood on the Crown's behalf. And where is Father?

Had Father gone with the girls? No, I didn't see that. He must have stayed behind, but why? Oh it didn't truly matter. Lady is dead, and I've tethered myself to the Order for the rest of my days. In taking the black I've abandoned Sansa and Arya. But they need my help, and I can do nothing but freeze my balls off at Castle Black!

Wait, I've made friends. Friends I think in time I can come to love and trust like Robb. That's the way, when the time is right, I will depart the Wall and take my friends with me to rescue Lord Stark and the girls.

Jon snapped his hooded head to read Ghost's own thoughts and he knew they were of the same mind. It wasn't possible to leave so abruptly, as his life would be forfeit due to desertion. Not to mention that his honor would be tarnished beyond repair if he broke his vows.

The son of Eddard Stark was as beholden to duty, as his father before him, they just had different responsibilities. For so long duty meant staying out of the way for Jon, and ruling for Ned. There was nothing else the bastard was compelled to do.

But moments ago that all changed and I've tied myself to another, noble and meaningful cause. I am a man of the Night's Watch, and that means I have forsaken all other loyalties. However, rational this distinction, it doesn't make divorcing myself from the past any easier. What kind of man would I be to abandon the Starks? A man of his word?

Bugger that if I give up on those who still need me Being a Brother that doesn't negate the fact that I am still a child of House Stark and have another family. For my sake, both as a man of principle and worthy judgement, I must not stray from my chosen path, as a kinsman and brother alike!

I cannot let Sansa and Arya get hurt because of my own inaction. There is no path I can take that will not contradict a part of who I am, and erode my integrity. Each option brings self destruction.

If only I could combine the two...but reconcile the Night's Watch with what... fantasies and dreams? No, that makes no sense. And yet, somehow I know it is all too real. Sometimes we have to have faith when rationality isn't enough. And my love for the Starks conquers all reason. I have to trust that what I see and feel is true, no matter how fanciful or disturbing. I must unite my tangible obligation to the Black Brotherhood with the ingrained fidelity I owe my kin.

Yes that might work. I must ensure that my personal wishes align with those of my new Order. I'll have to think of a legitimate reason to venture South. Whatever it is must be sanctioned by the Order, mayhaps getting closer to the likes of Bowen Marsh or Jeor Mormont would yield favorable results. But what could that be?