In Death, Sacrifice. How many times had he heard those words? How many times had he said them to himself? An oath? A promise? ...How long had he been down here? In these large, winding tunnels and caverns, sat beneath the surface of the world? Three years? Four? Had it been Five or more? With no sun to tell him the passing of the days, the man was forced to simply traverse deeper and deeper, immersed in darkness. So far into the Deep Roads, that even the masonry and stonework of the Dwarves had become sparse and few and far between. All in pursuit of that damnable song that grew stronger and stronger as time passed. "Come down here to die, and these bastards can't even give me that," The man said with a sigh, setting himself back against a carven wall. A groan on his lips as blood and grime smeared the wall as he let himself slip down on it and into a sitting position. Flickers of flame and light danced through the large cavern, illuminating the numerous corpses and bodies scattered throughout. With an exertion of will, he spared a few last drops of power to set a particular pile of dead to the flame. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. Even now, surrounded by nothing but death and rot, the man covered in blood and viscera, he stood tall and strong. But was that so surprising? What was a few hundred darkspawn to a man who had slain thousands of them? To one who had faced down an Archdemon and come out the stronger? "Heh," He gave a smirk as his head laid back upon the hard stone of the wall, "Could really go for a bit of Zevran or Alistair's wit right now." Of course that ponce of a blonde had better things to do then come and kill a few thousand darkspawn with his old buddy. You know. Things like keeping a kingdom together in the wake of a major war between zealous bigots and powerdrunk apostates who got a taste of freedom and decided, you know, why not make deals with demons and run amok like psychotic children? Zevran, though, he really had no excuse! Pah, like he had the gold to spend on the man's exorbitant prices! 'Friends Discount' his magical ass! "Then again, things weren't much better topside, last I checked." He said, shifting a bit in the armor he wore, gaze turning upwards. That Inquisitor had done good work, but things had only gotten worse with that Elven Mage. The search hadn't been going well. Breathing out, he felt a ripple of energy on his skin, the wisps of green at the edge of the cavern growing larger. "Guess it had to end sometime, huh?" He said to one of the bodies currently caught aflame, "Still, if the world was gonna end, you'd think one of you damn bastards would put up a better fight, yeah?" Slowly, as the flames he had spread began to grow hotter and hotter, their color turning a whitish green that billowed and burned. Tearing at reality as The Fade began to unravel at the seams. "And here I'd been, wanting my death to mean something." The man said as green took up all around him, "Maybe next time, then." Then, there was nothing.
When Jon woke up, it was with a severe sense of disorientation.
The first thing he did, after stumbling out of the bed and nearly tripping himself, was reach out for his clothes set on a chair to the side. Of course, there was a good few feet between his hand and the chair, and despite some half asleep expectations, the clothes did not leap to his hand. Blinking in confusion, he shook his head, as if trying to clear the fog from his mind.
"What?" he asked looking at his hand, and then at the clothes. For a moment, he could have sworn the fabrics should have leaped towards his hand.
Giving another few blinks, his shoulders sagged and he once more shook his head.
"Just dreams, Jon," He told himself, dismissing the thoughts as he grabbed the clothes and began to change. Muddled thoughts brought about by a lack of wakefulness.
Still, as he shuffled on the tunic that had been laid out for him, he could not quite helpt the sense of wrongness that stayed with him. The cool stones of Winterfell beneath his feet seeming much too close, the way his arms would look much too short when seen out of the corner of his eye. He felt incredibly out of balance, as if he was in a body not his own.
"Jon! There you are!" A voice called from the door to his room, and Jon turned to see the face of his grinning half-brother. "Don't tell me you're just getting out of bed?! It's nearly time for our daily thrashing by Ser Rodrik!"
"You mean your daily thrashing," Jon felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips at the sight of Robb, dressed for practice, at his door, "If I recall correctly, only one of us had our faces pressed into the dirt of the courtyard last time."
"Only because you left me to face him alone!" Robb shot back with an easy grin as Jon finished slipping on the rest of his clothes. Clapping a hand on Jon's shoulder he gave a laugh, "But this time, you're not getting out of it so easily!"
"I liked to think of it as a strategic retreat," Jon grinned, feeling more at ease than he had since he'd woken up. As they passed through the halls of Winterfell and towards the practice yard, however, he did have to admit Robb may have had a point. Had he really slept so long? It was nearly noon!
"Strategic retreat?! You abandoned me!" Robb said with good cheer.
"But I didn't end up kissing the dirt and that's what matters."
"Hah! Someone's in a snarky mood this morning!" Robb said with a grin as they arrived.
"Oh? Has the dour Bastard of Winterfell finally found his sense of humour?" A snide and derisive voice called as they stepped into the practice yard, and Jon began to frown. There, dressed in training pads but with live steel in his hands was an older boy, a smirk on his face.
"Greyjoy." Jon said curtly, his good mood now thoroughly soured.
"And as quick as it comes, it goes!" Theon taunted as he sheathed his sword. "Really now, must you always be so frigid as your namesake? I pity the poor girl to first touch you, Snow, you're liable to freeze her nethers shut!" He mocked.
"Unlike some I refrain from whoring." Jon said tersely, feeling his hackles raised at the sensitive subject. Of course, that was half the reason the Greyjoy always took his shots at such things. There was naught a day went by that Jon was reminded of his bastard status, and Theon took no small joy in constantly rubbing it in his face.
Rolling his eyes, Robb shoved at the both of them, saying, "Oh come off it already, you two!" He strolled into the practice yard, "It's too nice out to have you two going at eachother's throats again!"
"Aye," an older and more grizzled voice called out, "If you've got time to waste on pointless jabs at one another's expense, you have time to practice! Greyjoy, you might be using live steel now, but don't think I won't take it away if you can't handle it!" Rodrik Cassel bit out, glaring at a cowed Theon, before turning his eyes on Jon, "And about time you joined us, Snow. Get in the yard and start practicing the forms I showed you! We'll have a practice match after!" He said, and Jon scurried to do just that.
Joining Robb, he began by going through the standard exercises and motions Rodrik had shown them before, and that Jon had done hundreds of times before. They came easily enough, Jon preferring, ironically, a hand and a half sword when he fought. A bastard sword for the bastard. He was a decent enough hand with it, even above average Rodrik had told him once.
When they were younger, Robb and Jon had had enjoyed playing games and fancying themselves the next Aemon the Dragonknight or Cregan Stark. Even now, part of him still harbored those childish fantasies despite knowing how unlikely they were. He was a deft hand at it, sure, but that was all. Robb tended to beat him on the practice yard, the other boy large and muscular where Jon was lean and quick.
His half brother used a greatsword, like the ancestral blade of the Stark's, Ice. Dealing with Robb's sheer strength, backed up by his speed, was quite difficult.
That didn't mean he wasn't going to try his best, however.
When they were finished warming up, Jon took up one side of the yard while his half brother took up the other. Like Jon expected, Robb held a blunted greatsword, a practice blade much like his own. Still, he kept his shield close to his chest as they began to circle one another. Accidents weren't unheard of, even with dull blades.
"Ready to take your beating, Jon?" Robb asked, taunting with good cheer as he took up a ready stance.
"If I recall correctly, the last time we face off, you ended up yelding," Jon shot back, leaning on his haunches and ready to move at a moment's notice. Despite the greater weight of Robb's blade, he was quick with it and if Jon got caught up in his pace, he wouldn't be able to hold him off. His best bet was to avoid as many strikes from Robb as he could, or else he'd just get worn down.
Robb flushed at the reminder. "Only because I tripped on that damn rock!"
"Right. What did Dacey call it again? 'A tumble to make a mummer proud?'" Jon said with a grin at the memory. Robb had tripped on a rock, and if that hadn't been bad enough, he'd done so by tumbling head over heels and falling flat before Dacey Mormont. Just as he'd thought, his half-brother's flush grew even more as he brought the older girl up.
It was no secret Robb had a small fancy for her. Not that Jon blamed him. Dacey was a far cry from a southern princess, being just as wild and free as her mother. But she was athletic, and fierce and none of that detracted from her beauty.
Jon had a small fancy for her as well, after all. Though unlike Robb, he knew that would never go anywhere. Dacey was the heir of House Mormont, one of House Stark's foremost bannermen, and Jon…
He was a Bastard.
Unlike him, Robb actually had a chance with Dacey, as long as there was no other need for Robb to wed someone for some other political favor or alliance.
"If you weren't before, you're definitely paying for bringing that up now," Robb said seriously, and lunged, the tip of his blade slicing through the air. A basic lunge, but perfectly executed that had Jon scrambling to divert.
On the backfoot, Jon was exactly where he didn't want to be. He could feel his heels digging into the ground, the crunch of dirt and rock beneath his feet giving way as he twisted and turned to the side. Pushing Robb's blade to the side with his own, Jon hefted and forced himself to step forward, regaining his footing as he slashed upwards. Careful to keep his shield up to cover his openings as he turned his parry into a riposte.
That was the downside for using a greatsword. If you weren't careful and quick enough, any mistake could leave an opening. They were great offensively, the power packed behind them usually enough to overwhelm and they could be deceptively quick. But Jon had fought Robb enough to have a decent handle on fighting against them.
Of course, it wouldn't be that easy, as Robb swung up and used his greater strength to force Jon back, their blades clanging against one another with a resounding clash.
From there, the spar started in earnest.
Most fights were over quickly. Unless two opponents were incredibly skilled and masterful swordsmen in their own right, it usually only took a few moves for someone to slip up and then have their opponent take them out. However, most people weren't Jon and Robb, who had been sparring against eachother since they were boys. They knew one another's styles inside and out, every little quirk and habit they tried and failed to keep in check.
So it went. Robb would strike with force and power, and Jon would either deflect or dodge altogether. Rare were the times he'd outright use his shield to block, such moves only serving to make him stagger and let Robb press his attack.
In return, Jon was nimbler and for every strike Robb made, Jon echoed it with quickness and agility. Taking advantage of the openings in Robb's guard every time he attacked, darting in to strike at the other boy. Already he'd managed to land a couple minor hits on the arms, though that would do him little good.
"You might be quick, Jon, but you can't keep this up forever!" Robb shouted with a grin, swiping in from Jon's unshielded side. Unwilling to block, and unable to deflect from such an angle, he was left with no choice but to hop back. That proved to be exactly what Robb wanted, however, as Robb was already pressing forward and swinging up in a lunge into the opening Jon had left him.
"I don't see why you're making me do this." He said, making a face as he was dragged into a muddied clearing in the middle of their camp. "Ah, but it should be obvious my friend!" A too chipper voice called, a slim and narrow face grinning through the markings tattooed on his face, "You may have that fancy new magic to let you pick up a sword, but you don't know to use one at all!" "Zevran's right," A much too smug blonde said in agreement, the clanking of his armor making his presence obvious, "Just because you can swing one like you're Sten now and have the strength to wear armor doesn't mean you'll do well up close." "I know how to use a sword," He huffed, "It's simple. You stick em with the pointy end." "Aha, but as our good friend Isabella taught us, it's not always that simple, eh?" Zevran said, grin widening as a red head giggled off in the distance, "Sometimes, you try and stick em with the pointy end and surprise! It is you stuck with the pointy end!" He said wiggling his brows. Meanwhile, the one being dragged into the clearing furrowed his brow. "I thought we all agreed to never speak of that night again." "What night?" Zevran said with mirth, "I'm just talking about sword fighting. Which, you need to learn." "Exactly!" The armored blonde said after working through the awkwardness of Zevran's casual demeanor, "Now, between me and Zev here," "And myself," The deep, baritone monotone interrupted as a dark skinned man with startlingly white hair stepped forward, carrying a giant greatsword. "And Sten," Alistair corrected, "Obviously. Anywhere, between the three of us, we should be able to get you up to speed." "...And I can't just throw a fireball at your faces why?" "Ah, my friend, because that's just not sporting!" Zevran replied, "Now, Sten's going to attack you in three seconds. When he does, do this-" "Wait, what?!" He called in a panick as Sten hefted his sword with a grunt. "And then you respond with this," Zevran made a vague lunging motions followed by an intricate twirl of his wrist that had his longsword flashing through the air in a complex flurry of strikes. "I can't do that!" "But by the end of the day, you will!" "Or," Sten intoned as he began to charge, "You will be a...What was the term? A cake in the pan." "A pancake." Alistair supplied helpfully.
Instead of backing off further and risking tumbling over himself, or trying to block with his shield and being overrun, Jon stepped into the attack. As he did, his blade came up, stepped forward to precisely strike the flat of Robb's own blade with the tip, pushing it off course as he twirled his wrist. In his hand, his sword quickly flashed back and then slashed up at Robb's own wrist, causing the other boy to stumble and abort his attack, but Jon wasn't down throwing his hand forward and elbowing Robb aside to strike once more in the abdomen and up to the shoulder.
With another flick, Jon's blade rested beneath Robb's chin, and they both came to a complete stop.
He blinked. What? A wave of vertigo washed over him, and Jon nearly wavered as he stood there, feeling as if he was somewhere else entirely. What had just happened? And… How had he done that?
Robb looked up at him with wide eyes.
"Seven hells, Jon, what was that?!" He asked with disbelief and a grin, shaking his head as he began to chuckle. Stepping back, he grinned at Jon, "I don't think I've ever seen you do anything like that!"
"I… I don't know," Jon replied truthfully, in a bit of shock. "It just came to me."
"Hn. An odd thing to have come to you," Rodrik cut in, stomping into the yard. He looked at the both of them with a raised eyebrow, "If I didn't know any better, I'd have said that was a Bravo Riposte. Their Waterdancers are quite fond of the technique from what I remember." Then, the grizzled man shook his head and smirked, "Pretty sloppy though. You should know better than to use some half-arsed technique you read about in a book, Snow."
"U-uh, yes, Ser Rodrik," Jon said, going with the explanation even as he knew it had nothing to do with how or why he'd performed it.
Part of him wanted to tell the man he'd never even heard of the technique.
What was going on?
-
"They say you nearly burned Rogin a crisp in practice the other day," A voice called, and he turned to see another boy, slightly older and with cut short dark hair and a pudgy face looking at him as he browsed through a few shelves of books. He glowered at the other boy. "Rogin was a prat," He told the other boy, "And said things he really shouldn't have." "You'll have no complaints from me!" The other dark haired boy said with a smile, holding up his hands to show he meant no offense, "Rogin's an arse, there's no two qualms about that!" He scratched the back of his head, "It's just… Rogin has been here for years. Nearly as long as me!" The boy gave a nervous laugh, "And you only got here a couple months ago right? From the Freemarches?" "...Yeah." The boy pulled his hands from the spine of a book and replied reluctantly. "From Kirkwall, though I've got family in Highever." "What's it like, if you don't mind my asking?" The other boy asked, "I've always wondered what it's like outside the Tower." Then, he blinked and offered a hand with a smile, "Oh! I'm Jowan by the way!" He looked at Jowan's proferred hand warily. Ever since he'd gotten here, he'd been tense. Older than most of the newly joined apprentices, he'd been the new guy. People had been curious at first, but had left him alone. Except for that loud mouth Rogin who always took every chance he had to insult and badmouth the 'Freemarcher Bastard.' He really did not like Rogin. After a moment, he reached out and took Jowan's hand. "...Daylen."
Jon shuddered as he pushed another book into its place on the shelf. He had no idea how long he'd just been standing there, staring off into nothing.
If that's what he'd been doing at all.
Looking down at his free hand, he took in the glossy title of 'Wyldflower: A Treatise on the Winter Herbs and Flora of the North.' Below the title was a carefully set depiction of a blue rose, like the kind grown in Winterfell's Glass Gardens, made of some type of blue stone inlaid into the leather binding. The book was big and hefty, and Jon knew it was a fairly straightforward and knowledge, if dry, tome on the various flowers and trees to be found in the North.
Except, for the life of him, Jon could not remember reading the book, or even grabbing it from the shelf.
It had been happening more and more as of late. Jon would zone out, caught in thought or memory of something and then, when he came to, he would be standing completely still or doing something he didn't remember doing. Worse yet were the times where he zoned out and remembered everything.
Because in those instances, Jon did not feel like Jon. As if in those brief moments he became someone else entirely.
The worst part was, Jon envied that other him. The one who did not care for his circumstances, who was able to forget or act as if he never knew that he was nothing but a bastard. When he though back to those moments, the way he felt and thought then simply felt so free. Free of the burden of his status. Free of knowledge. Free of the bitterness and longing and envy that Jon buried deep.
"Since when were you interested in plants?" A curious voice called from behind him, and Jon turned to see the furrowed brows of his half-sister. She was dressed in one of those frilly pieces favored by southron girls, but Jon had to admit that it worked for Sansa. Her long red hair fell about her shoulders as she strolled into the library, carrying a set of books in her arms.
"Ah...Just a bit of light reading. You never know what might come in handy." He said, turning away from his sister as she began to put away some of the books.
Sansa was an awkward subject for him. Of all his siblings, she was the one he was the least close to. It hadn't always been that way, of course. While he and Robb had been fast friends from when they were but simple babes, and where Bran was younger brother always pestering the two of them for stories and training, and Arya was… Arya, Sansa had always been the sweet and innocent girl he first remembered her as. Rickon, young as he was, was the only sibling Jon interacted with less, however.
And the reason was simple.
Jon could well remember when the two of them were closer. Sansa would hang on his and Robb's every word and follow them around, but as she grew older, Lady Catelyn had taken over teaching Sansa how to be a 'Proper Lady.' After that, Sansa had become more reserved, trying to be the epitome of a Southron Lady.
Once she knew just what Jon being a Bastard meant, she'd barely interacted with him anymore. At most she'd give a courteous greeting at private family meals.
Much as Jon liked spending time with his family, he hated those meals. At least when the hall was full, there were others to take Lady Catelyn's attention -and here ire- off of him.
"That's right, you wanted to join the Watch, didn't you?" Sansa surprised him by asking, seeming a bit nervous as she asked her question.
"...I'd thought about it." Jon answered, both confused but more than happy to continue the conversation. Then again, it was later in the evening and the library was often deserted. Perhaps she just disliked the quiet?
Or, perhaps she was nervous for another reason, a voice whispered in his mind, and Jon remembered the events coming up in but a few short weeks. Ravens had come but a scant few days ago, and now Winterfell was all in a bustle to get things sorted. For the King came from the South, and it was said he planned to ask the Lord Stark to be his new Hand.
"Though I've honestly been questioning that decision." He told her, and it was true. Even as she gave him a startled look, his thoughts once more turned inwards.
"But I thought you've been wanting to take the Black for years?" Sansa asked him questioningly. Under the feel of her scrutiny, Jon couldn't help but shuffle back and forth nervously as he fiddled with the strings of an old lute decorating the library walls.
"Every time I bring it up, others try and make me reconsider or try and get me to put it off for a few years." Robb wanted him to stick around and help him rule Winterfell, but Jon knew Robb would be fine without him. Father, though. He always looked so conflicted, his eyes, a grey so dark they were almost black seeming stormy and distraught. So much different to Jon's own vibrant violet eyes, even as the rest of him looked so much like his father.
When he brought his thoughts up to father, the man always told him he didn't know what he was signing up for. That there was so much for him to do before he took the black.
Part of him was beginning to think they were right.
Those dreams had him questioning things. About himself. About who he was, and his view of the world. Sometimes he could barely remember them, and yet other times, pieces and flashes of them were so vivid he could almost feel like he was really there.
In those dreams, he wasn't Jon Snow, Bastard of Winterfell, but someone else entirely. Sometimes he was older, traversing the land. Sometimes he was older than that, the feel of weariness and old bones beginning to creak as he delved into dark tunnels enveloping him. Now and then, he was younger, cooped up in a tower and with too much energy for his own good.
For the first time in years, Jon dreamt of things outside of the Black, and that both frightened and excited him in equal measure.
"What would you do instead then?" Sansa asked, pressing him with a frown on her face, setting down one of her books on a table as he plucked at one of the lute's strings.
"I'm not sure. But… Go South, maybe. Or maybe even to Essos?" He'd heard fantastical and wonderful things of the land. There, a person's lineage might get them somewhere, but nowhere as far as their coinpurse, it was said. The more Jon thought about it, the more he began to realize that there were options outside of the Night's Watch to make a name and a living for himself.
"See? You pluck the strings like this, yes?" A woman with a slim face and pretty features smiled with a sharp grin as she began to pluck at the strings of a lute. "First one, then two, alternating in a rhythm." "Hrmm, I'm not sure I'm quite that good at it." He told her, sitting across from the woman as they sat by a fire. He sat atop a log, while he leaned against a tree, as their companions listened in or went about setting up camp. In his lap was a lute of his own, his fingers plucking the strings with a measly 'twang.' She gave a tsk, clicking her teeth and shaking her head. "No, no, no!" She laughed, "You can't just grab at them and expect to make music!" She said with a giggle, "You need to caress the strings! Don't treat them like you would a sword or dagger-" "Or a staff," He interjected with a smirk, and she raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Or a staff," She added easily, "You need to treat them like you would a lover! With a gentle touch, light as a feather that slowly builds up to a magnificent crescendo," The redhead says, Leliana demonstrating as her fingers nimbly begin to strum and pluck the strings of the lute, a gentle melody filling the clearing. "Must it always be innuendo and flirtations with you?" He asked with a roll of his eyes and a chuckle. "Ah, but mayhaps I only do it because you react so wonderfully?" She teased. "Now, again! Remember, like you would a lover! I even have the perfect song!" "Oh?" "Oh yes. There was a stir in his blood And the dreams lay thick upon him~"
"And so he came upon the place, Where so many tread before." He echoed as the last bits of the song drifted through his mind, his hand working as if on their own. "One last look upon the world, Before he crossed that final door. Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
His voice carried through the room as he lost himself in memories not his own. When had he taken the lute off the wall? Jon wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of a lot of things anymore. And yet the song just felt so right the words flowing through him with a sense of sadness and relief.
"Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain. Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain.
Oh sweet gods, hear our song
For his road will be ours too.
Before darkness claims our souls
Let us see that shred of blue.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
As his hands came to a stop, Jon blinked once more, the flames in the candles near him flickering a bit as the unbidden song came to an end.
On the other side of the room, Sansa stared at him, wide eyed.
"I didn't know you could play the lute. Or sing." She said, both awed and confused.
He couldn't, Jon wanted to tell her.
Yet somehow, he could.