Post by JON SNOW on May 23, 2019 18:47:26 GMT
JON SNOW
GENERAL INFO
NAME: Jon Snow
OTHER ALIASES: Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Snow, Crow, King Crow, The White Wolf, King in the North, Warden of the North
AGE: 22
GENDER: Male
BIRTH PLACE:
CURRENT LOCATION: Winterfell/The North
OCCUPATION/TITLE:
ALLEGIANCE: House Stark, the Living, Free Folk, the North, Queen Daenerys
FACE CLAIM: Kit Harington
THE STORY
Winter is coming. That's always been the words of the House you at least partially belong to. You're not a Stark. Not a real one, like Robb and Bran, like Sansa and Arya. Like Theon, you are raised amongst the trueborn Starks, but you're not one of them. Unlike Theon, you do not have noble parents. Well, you have <i>one</i>. An unknown mother, despite the number of questions you've asked him, and your father: the Honorable Ned Stark. Or not so honorable, apparently, as you are a tangible reminder of. You may have Stark blood running in your veins, and was afforded a life most bastards can only dream of, you have always known you're Ned Stark's bastard, reviled by the world because of your birth, no matter who your mother was, and always evidence of the one time Ned's honor failed him.
In a way, you regret that. It's why, despite the lessons in sword-fighting and archery and horse riding and reading you've been given right along Robb Stark, friend, half-brother, and the heir to Winterfell, you decide not to remain behind, a thorn in Lady Catelyn's side, forever a threat to Robb's inheritance. You take your direwolf pup, a visual reminder of your difference, and you swallow your pride, and you ride North when your family goes South.
Because there have been more words to define you. Brother. Steward. Wildling-lover. Oathbreaker. Spy. You joined the Night's Watch when your father South. You are a bastard, but there you could make a name for yourself. The vows didn't matter much to you. You hadn't known love yet and had -<i>have</i>- no desire to father children. At first, you didn't fit well. Most if not all of the Watch consisted of thieves, rapists, murderers and exiles. You were from the start better; in education and fighting skills. It went to your head, but it was the dwarf -you still have fond memories of him- that got you grounded gain. Rather than flaunting your skills, you shared them with the other recruits and taught them. Finally, you fit in, at least a little. The higher echelons don't like you or your direwolf much. They're worried about you, and they might be right about that. Because it feels like you are barely sworn in as a brother when Ghost wakes you, one night, unease thick in the air, to find a dead ranger intent on killing the Lord Commander. You saved the Old Bear and yourself by throwing an oil lamp on the creature, burning your hand in the progress. You still have a scar to remind you of it, often covered by a glove. As a reward, your earlier indiscretions are forgiven, and you are given Longclaw, the ancestral Mormont sword of Valyrian steel. And though you think it is too great a gift, you eventually accept, because you have no other choice.
The sword has saved your life multiple times since then. Because although you have lived amongst wildlings, learning more about them as you kept surviving in order to return home to the Wall and warn them of the number of enemies heading their way, you learned they were just people, too. You learned to like some of them, respect others. You climbed the Wall with some of them, nearly went on a raid, but you could not kill the old man. So you killed Orell, the warg, and got a face full of angry eagle. Then you rode for your life, arrows lodging in your back and leg as you abandon the wildlings in favor of the Watch. And as you nearly died there, you heard about the Red Wedding. So few Starks remaining... But you have broken your vows once already, and nearly another time before that. You will not break them again. So you remain and face the consequences.
But even when under suspicion, ordered around by ser Alliser Thorne who does not like you at all, you find traction and support amidst your brothers, when you return Beyond the Wall to deal with the mutineers at Craster's Keep. You know of the army that is marching to the Wall; you seem to be the only aware of just how disastrous it might be. And you are allowed to go, with volunteers. And you find them. You find Ghost there again, too - the white wolf had been hunting,a nd you knew that through your dreams, but you had missed him. With an ever growing divide at the Wall, you could use someone unquestionably on your side.
So you do what you can. You train your brethren to fight against wildlings, because they do not observe the same rules you are used to. You advice and lobby, but you are ignored time and again. Until the wildling army finally comes, and you are proven right. It's a sour victory, because you are undermanned and under-equipped to have even a snowball's chance in hell to win. Yet you fight, because you cannot give up. And because you fight, and you speak, and you inspire, so do the others. You hold the castle through the night and force a retreat, but it was just one battle. The war is far from over.
You leave the castle behind, and you try to reason with Mance, King Beyond The Wall. You have a common enemy, after all, even though your brothers do not quite believe you yet. They will, though. You cannot convince Mance, though, which leaves you with a more gruesome option. You are saved from having to assassinate the man by the arrival of Stannis' forces, though, and instead see him captured. You can live with capture; you can even live with a swift execution. You cannot live with letting him slowly burn alive. So you do not think; you act. You kill him on the pyre, and while the wildlings do not like you for it, they do respect you for ending his agony.
And then another epithet attaches itself to your name. Sam nominated you, and maester Aemon cast a decisive vote in his favor. Suddenly you are the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Not in your wildest dreams had you imagined this. Nor had you wanted it, not really - though you were educated like a lord's son, you never thought you'd get that much power. Nor did you ever think it would come at such a crucial times, with wildlings besieging the Walls to come over to the safe side, an army of the dead slowly rising far behind him and coming southward. Not an ideal situation, to put it lightly. And to make your position even more complicated, Stannis offers to legitimize you; make you a true Stark. It's what you always wanted, secretly. But you can't. You can't leave the Watch, so decline, with a heavy heart. That is not the only problem you face; you make ser Alliser Thorne the First Ranger, showing he values him even if he doesn't like him, but it might be too little too late. At least the man accepted your offer. Janos Slynt, exile and coward, refused your offer of Greyguard, refused your direct orders. So you remembered your father's words, and you made them bring a block and your sword. You don't like it, but it is your duty and you do not shy away from that. Perhaps the words of your father's wife do apply to you, a little, too.
Your first act is to let go the captured wildlings. You know what walks beyond the Wall, you know the threat that is coming. You know that every wildling that dies North of the Wall will still march on. You know that every wildling fighting at your side will be one more person between the seven kingdoms and the army of the dead. But your brothers don't like your ideas. Some are resistant to the idea of wights, some just don't want to give up their age old grudge against the wildlings. You follow maester Aemon's advice: you make the hard choice. So you take some of the brothers you trust, and some wildlings you trust and respect, and you go to Hardhome in some of Stannis' ships. You want to evacuate what remains of Mance's army to your side of the Wall, and you've brought dragonglass as a token of trust - and defense.
Hardhome, sadly, is one of the biggest failures and nightmares of your life. It's a hard sell to even get the chance to speak - you murdered their king, or so they believe until Tormund tells them it was an act of mercy. But you convince them that at least they have a chance if they come... But time ran out. Hardhome is the first time you witness the true might, and the true horror of The Enemy. An army of wights, and five White Walkers. It was an assault the likes you had never seen before, despite Mance's massive army. They were unstoppable but for fire or dragonglass... And Valyrian steel, as you find when you try to get to the dragonglass in a flaming hut and one White Walker literally dropped in, intent on making sure no more dangerous dragonglass would remain in living hands. In a literal fight for his life you discovered why swords were useless; the intense cold emanating from the Other is too intense and shatters the sword. But then you found Longclaw again, and parried, fully expecting to die. To this day you know not whether you or he was more surprised when Longclaw blocked the fatal blow and eventually killed the White Walker. You now have one more weapon at your disposal, but Valyrian steel is even rarer than dragonglass, to your knowledge. There was your father's blade, that you knew of, but it met a fate equal to that of your father.
But you survive Hardhome, escape by the skin of your teeth with far too small a number of brothers and Free Folk. And then you see a sight that still plagues your nightmares: the Night King, raising all those who had fought valiantly but died. Then, you knew why you were Lord Commander, you knew the stakes. And you know that it is nigh impossible, but you can't give up, not with such stakes.
You return on foot, a strange brotherhood of Westerosi men and Free Folk, the shared horror creating bonds where conflict used to be. But the men that manned the Wall when you were gone did not see the dead rise in those numbers, do not share that horror. They are reluctant to let you pass, and you are warned. You do not heed that warning, though, too obsessed with your goal: finding a way to safeguard the realm of men.
You do not get to explore your choices and opportunities for long. Despite sending out scouts, despite trying to find solutions for the two groups at odds to live together, you fail. Or maybe you don't fail, but the people around you do. You were warned, after all. But you did not heed the warning. But while you suspected dissent, while you expected opposition, you did not expect to be lured outside and stabbed to death by your own men. That, perhaps, hurt worse than your actual wounds as you bled out in the snow, Ghost howling in the distance.
And then you were dead.
And then you were not dead anymore.
You were brought back by Melisandre, Stannis' red priestess, given life back by the Lord of Light. You are not necessarily happy with that. What is dead should stay dead, you think, but she insists you were brought back for a reason, that you are The Prince That Was Promised. You don't care <s>much</s>. You know the threat that is coming, but you don't know how to live on, how to fight. You are tired, <i>so</i> tired. Of fighting against opinions, against enemies. So you want to stop fighting, but you can't. Because the moment you want to give, there is Davos, looking at you with fatherly concern. There is Tormund and Edd and so many others that depend on you.
And then there is Sansa with her lady knight, alive and almost well after her escape from the Boltons, and she ropes you into another fight. You swore a vow, once. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death." And you died, there is no disputing that. So you consider yourself released from your vows, at the thought of needing to risk your life again leading them anew. And you leave, lending your battle experience to Sansa in her quest to regain Winterfell and the North. Perhaps you don't play it safe, or smart, but when you see Rickon, reason leaves you. And when he dies, you are ready to die again. But you don't. Instead, you win. Instead, the North gathers in Winterfell's Great Hall and chooses a new King in the North.
You.
Now, there are new words to describe who you are. The White Wolf, King in the North, so elected by the Northern lords (and ladies). You have Ned Stark's blood, as far as everyone including yourself knows. You are the oldest and likely only Stark man left alive. And so, the North is yours. And they don't follow you because they are afraid of you, like Cersei's subjects. They don't submit to you out of awe for your might, like they might for Daenerys. They listen to you, because they love you. Well, most of them. You have proven yourself to them, and they believe in you. That might yet be the most terrifying thing you've ever felt. But still you can't trust them. You trusted your brothers, once.
You never asked to be made Lord Commander. You never asked to be made King. You always did what needed doing, and people followed you or they worked against you. You didn't want to become the man in charge, because the man in charge is seldom loved. And you are familiar with that feeling. You've been tolerated since you were brought home; you know what it is like. But you had left the Night's Watch, your vows ended in an unique loophole. You were done, but the call of duty never ceased, and Ned had raised his sons right. The irony didn't escape you that even now, you adhered to the Tully's words. No doubt Lady Catelyn would not appreciate that.
There are burdens to being king, to being the man others look at to decide what needs to happen. Sansa looks after Winterfell, and she does it well, and you? You try to take the battered and bruised North and raise an army. You t think from the start that this is a lost cause: boys barely ten years old, men burdened by a life on the fields are now tasked to take up the sword, axe, hammer or pitchfork and to fight for their lives. The girls and women, too. Your decisions are controversial, as they were when you were Lord Commander, but there is no other way, even if the Northerners don't wish to wholly believe you. You wish you could share their innocence, their naivete.
The summons to Dragonstone is at first declined, and ignored. Your sister believes it to be a trap; you simply do not see the use of venturing South to a Targaryen queen. And part of you acknowledges she might be right. It's unlikely good will come from him heading South. It did not do her any good, or Arya, or Robb, or their Father. It did not do their Father's Father any good, either, the last time a Stark faced a Targaryen king. But you are no Stark, not really, and the Targaryen isn't a mad king. When the time is right, you plan to go.
It's a raven from Sam, from the Citadel, that tells you the time is right. You still do not trust the Targaryen Queen, but her castle sits atop dragonstone, and for lack of Valyrian Steel, the dragonglass and hopefully her army are instrumental to survival. So you go, despite the dissent it causes under Sansa and the Lords.
The Queen is not like you expected, nor is her entourage. You've seen strange things, but the hair of her translator and orator draws your attention, as do the Dothraki in clothes that make you shiver at the sight. Your own entourage is... Lacking, you know. There is Ser Davos, one of the few you truly trust, and a few men who stay behind at the shoreline. The dragons overhead inspire awe and fear, and make you miss the reassuring presence of Ghost. The Queen is a surprise to you; your age, you think, and both fierce and cold. She does not seem to appreciate your presence, nor your stubbornness and arguments. You do nto bend the knee to her; you came for help, not to subjugate yourself. You are aware your story will ring false: even to the woman who hatched dragons, an army of the dead will be hard to grasp. But the dwarf surprises you, vouching for you.
And suddenly, there is an alliance. No, not suddenly. Endless conversations precede an agreement to mine the dragonglass. The island is beautiful to you, with hidden treasures. Not just the queen, who is enticing, but also the mine and the cave paintings.
To prove he is a man of his word, and to prove just the stark reality of the threat facing them, he and a ranging party go North, beyond the Wall, to capture a wight. The cost for this proof is high; half their party andarstidir Viserion perish, but finally they have the evidence they need. It is a miracle, aided by Daenerys and her dragons, that he survives, and it is there that the first feelings for her truly start to blossom. For that, you are willing to let her lead. You are tired and sore and cold, but you call her 'my queen', and at that moment you mean it. Your lords won't like it, but to you, she's shown a softer, human side, and in the end, you are not sure if it even matters. Without her aid, the Army of the Dead will come and conquer them all. You'd say dead men need no king, but you know better, now. And you know that battles and wars are a dangerous place. If everyone survives, you will figure out what to do next, how to keep the Lords in line, or ensure the independence of the North. Survival first.
When you finally return home to Winterfell, you are not sure how much good the expedition has done. A truce has been brokered with the Lannisters, but you do not trust the queen to hold true to her word. But for a short while, you cannot be bothered to worry about that, because Bran is there, and Arya, and Sam, and Gilly, and for a short while, you feel whole and like yourself again. The wolves are back together, and you cannot help but feel hope. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, and they are finally a pack again. Remembering that makes you want to honor your Father and the rest of the family. You do not know when you will get the chance, again.
And there, in the catacombs, surrounded by the bones of generations of Stark, in front of your Father, Sam corners you. Sam corners you to tell him about the death of the Tarly's, of what Daenerys had done, and he tells you you would be a better king than Daenerys. And then he tells you who your mother was, the one thing you truly, truly wanted to know. Until you get the answer.
You are not a Stark. You are not even a Snow. And you didn't know how much you cared for that name until it was taken from you with the names of two people, your parents. You are the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Not a product of rape, but of love. Of marriage. You are not Jon Snow; that was a lie Ned Stark told you, to keep you safe. You are Aegon Targaryen. You do not want to be Aegon Targaryen.
There are burdens to being king, to being the man others look at to decide what needs to happen. Sansa looks after Winterfell, and she does it well, and you? You try to take the battered and bruised North and raise an army. You t think from the start that this is a lost cause: boys barely ten years old, men burdened by a life on the fields are now tasked to take up the sword, axe, hammer or pitchfork and to fight for their lives. The girls and women, too. Your decisions are controversial, as they were when you were Lord Commander, but there is no other way, even if the Northerners don't wish to wholly believe you. You wish you could share their innocence, their naivete.
The summons to Dragonstone is at first declined, and ignored. Your sister believes it to be a trap; you simply do not see the use of venturing South to a Targaryen queen. And part of you acknowledges she might be right. It's unlikely good will come from him heading South. It did not do her any good, or Arya, or Robb, or their Father. It did not do their Father's Father any good, either, the last time a Stark faced a Targaryen king. But you are no Stark, not really, and the Targaryen isn't a mad king. When the time is right, you plan to go.
It's a raven from Sam, from the Citadel, that tells you the time is right. You still do not trust the Targaryen Queen, but her castle sits atop dragonstone, and for lack of Valyrian Steel, the dragonglass and hopefully her army are instrumental to survival. So you go, despite the dissent it causes under Sansa and the Lords.
The Queen is not like you expected, nor is her entourage. You've seen strange things, but the hair of her translator and orator draws your attention, as do the Dothraki in clothes that make you shiver at the sight. Your own entourage is... Lacking, you know. There is Ser Davos, one of the few you truly trust, and a few men who stay behind at the shoreline. The dragons overhead inspire awe and fear, and make you miss the reassuring presence of Ghost. The Queen is a surprise to you; your age, you think, and both fierce and cold. She does not seem to appreciate your presence, nor your stubbornness and arguments. You do nto bend the knee to her; you came for help, not to subjugate yourself. You are aware your story will ring false: even to the woman who hatched dragons, an army of the dead will be hard to grasp. But the dwarf surprises you, vouching for you.
And suddenly, there is an alliance. No, not suddenly. Endless conversations precede an agreement to mine the dragonglass. The island is beautiful to you, with hidden treasures. Not just the queen, who is enticing, but also the mine and the cave paintings.
To prove he is a man of his word, and to prove just the stark reality of the threat facing them, he and a ranging party go North, beyond the Wall, to capture a wight. The cost for this proof is high; half their party andarstidir Viserion perish, but finally they have the evidence they need. It is a miracle, aided by Daenerys and her dragons, that he survives, and it is there that the first feelings for her truly start to blossom. For that, you are willing to let her lead. You are tired and sore and cold, but you call her 'my queen', and at that moment you mean it. Your lords won't like it, but to you, she's shown a softer, human side, and in the end, you are not sure if it even matters. Without her aid, the Army of the Dead will come and conquer them all. You'd say dead men need no king, but you know better, now. And you know that battles and wars are a dangerous place. If everyone survives, you will figure out what to do next, how to keep the Lords in line, or ensure the independence of the North. Survival first.
When you finally return home to Winterfell, you are not sure how much good the expedition has done. A truce has been brokered with the Lannisters, but you do not trust the queen to hold true to her word. But for a short while, you cannot be bothered to worry about that, because Bran is there, and Arya, and Sam, and Gilly, and for a short while, you feel whole and like yourself again. The wolves are back together, and you cannot help but feel hope. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives, and they are finally a pack again. Remembering that makes you want to honor your Father and the rest of the family. You do not know when you will get the chance, again.
And there, in the catacombs, surrounded by the bones of generations of Stark, in front of your Father, Sam corners you. Sam corners you to tell him about the death of the Tarly's, of what Daenerys had done, and he tells you you would be a better king than Daenerys. And then he tells you who your mother was, the one thing you truly, truly wanted to know. Until you get the answer.
You are not a Stark. You are not even a Snow. And you didn't know how much you cared for that name until it was taken from you with the names of two people, your parents. You are the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Not a product of rape, but of love. Of marriage. You are not Jon Snow; that was a lie Ned Stark told you, to keep you safe. You are Aegon Targaryen. You do not want to be Aegon Targaryen.
THE WRITER
NAME: Skadi
TIME ZONE: GMT +1
AGE: 27
PRONOUNS: She/her(s)
OTHER CHARACTERS: N/A
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