This quote is from my favorite author: Fernando Pessoa.
He was a Portuguese poet and a prolific writer, and not only under his own name, for he dreamed up imaginary figures that have their own physiques, biographies and writing styles, but he didn't call them pseudonym. He called them heteronyms.
So, the literary concept of heteronym was invented by him. Pseudonymous writing is not rare in literature, but 'Heteronyms' are something different. For each of these imaginary figures, Pessoa conceived a highly distinctive poetic technique, a complex biography and a context of literary influence and polemics.
You should really check it out. His writing is astonishing.
(Sorry for my rambling).
Happy reading!
I know nothing and my heart aches ― Fernando Pessoa
The Great Hall of Winterfell was bright with light of at least a hundred candles, and the voices of more than two hundred people rose and fell beneath the gentle melody of the music played by the minstrel.
The high table sat raised up on a dais of wood.
From his place, Jon surveyed the hall. There were moments like now when he still couldn't quite believe how much his life had changed. The men who had always addressed him by name, or as 'bastard' or 'snow', now called him 'Your Grace', bowed their heads when he approached, rose when he entered the room and did not seat until he gave permission. Jon would never get used to it.
Servants scurried between the tightly packed benches and tables, carrying trays filled with steaming food and rolling barrels filled with ale and wine.
Jon scanned the gray walls. He noticed the way the torches that hung in metal rings changed the dark hall, bathing the room in a warm and reddish glow.
The Great Hall was filled with people (mostly southern lords) and noise.
Jon looked at the seat to his right – Sansa's seat. It was empty.
She was supposed to be here by now.
Ghost sprawled comfortably at his feet.
Daenerys was sat to his left, talking with some northern lords that had approached the high table. Jon barely listened to them, only contributing with a nod, every time Dany touched his arm. Luckily for him, the northerners were too mesmerized by the Dragon Queen to even notice his lack of response.
Jon looked at the doors of the Great Hall, wishing they could open, so he could see Sansa stepping into the room, but the doors remained closed.
Why was she taking so long?
A bad feeling started blooming across his stomach, but he didn't want to give into it.
Worry wasn't going to make Sansa walk through the doors.
Jon caressed Ghost's fur, trying to erase his own jitters.
His thoughts traveled and the image of Sansa invaded his mind. Flashes of their previous moment together flitted through his mind's eyes, making him smile.
Jon was so lost in his thoughts that he almost jumped from his chair when Daenerys touched his arm, again.
He looked up from his plate, ready to nod and agree with whatever they were talking about, but Ser Davos's look of concern made him tense. The man was accompanied by three guards with matching looks – funeral looks.
"Your Graces" – Ser Davos bowed his head.
Daenerys smiled briefly. Jon did not.
He met Ser Davos's eyes. The look on his face spoke volumes. Something was wrong.
Alarms began shrieking in the back of Jon's head.
"What is it?" – he managed to ask; his mouth felt dry.
Ser Davos gave the men a discrete nod. One of them took a step forward and bowed his head before speaking.
"Two of our men were found dead, Your Grace" – he stated – "Their throats were slit" – he added.
Daenerys looked at Jon. She had never seen a living man so pale in her entire life.
Before any words could leave her mouth, Jon rose from his chair abruptly.
His feet started moving before his brain even knew what was happening.
Jon rushed past the guards. Daenerys, following behind him, had to redouble her pace in order to keep up with him.
Even before he passed through the doors, Jon felt the jangling sense that something dreadful was about to happen.
The people on the benches stopped their conversations as they passed, and by the time they had reached the doors of the Great Hall, the room was silent.
Silently, as he always did, Ghost disappeared from their sight.
The guard's words echoed in Jon's head.
His lungs hurt as the image of Sansa invaded his mind.
She was supposed to be here by now.
Jon tried hard to cling to some hope, but scenarios, each one more twisted than the last, flitted through his brain.
He couldn't help but think that the guards that were slaughtered had been only a collateral damage. They were not the target. Killing them was just a mean to an end.
A bad feeling inside him grew stronger.
Jon had been in the battlefield. He had fought wars. He knew how easy it was to buy someone's services. Not all men knew the meaning of the word honor.
Winterfell's gates could prevent armies from invading the castle, but they couldn't prevent treachery and conspiracy from invading people's mind.
She was supposed to be here by now.
He felt himself growing weaker. He could feel the world – his world – going darker, and it became harder and harder to breathe.
As soon as Jon stepped out of the Great Hall, he saw something glittering at his feet and froze in horror. All his hopes concerning Sansa's safety fled as he looked at the hairpin – the snowflake made of Dragonglass and covered by silver that he had ordered from a jeweler.
He remembered the day he had offered it to Sansa:
"Jon…" – she had said – "You shouldn't have… It's not even my nameday"
His chest knotted with pain.
Biting his lip hard, Jon bent to grab the shiny hairpin. It felt cold on his hand, cold as winter.
Dany stepped forward to touch Jon's shoulder, but he shrugged her touch off as if it stung.
He couldn't stop looking at the hairpin – the evidence that Sansa had been there and that something had happened.
Questions stormed his mind. His breathing came hard and sharp.
He couldn't lose her. Even the thought of it killed him.
Jon stormed through the halls of Winterfell, servants darting out of his way as his cloak swung out behind him.
She was supposed to be here by now.
Two guards were killed. Assassins managed to enter the castle.
It didn't matter; not now. He could think of only one thing: Sansa.
Jon was breathless as he approached the door of his chambers.
Half in dread, half in hope, he crossed the room.
He scanned his chambers, as he walked, looking anxiously for the woman who meant so much to him.
"Sansa" – Jon heard his own voice as it emerged from his throat as if it were a stranger's.
He called out again thinking maybe she just didn't hear him.
He called a third time. Then a fourth.
Still no answer.
Jon could feel the worry and panic growing in his body.
The mere thought of his suspicious being confirmed made him feel sick.
This was a nightmare.
Unconsciously, Jon stepped out of his chambers. He felt like the walls were closing in on him.
The tension made him gasp for breath.
He found himself in front of Sansa's chambers, but before his right hand could reach the iron handle of the door Brienne's figure appeared right in front of his eyes.
Sansa's loyal servant tried to disguise her distress, and failed.
"She's not in her chambers" – Brienne stated, worry etched in her gaze – "Someone took her" – she said the words that Jon didn't want to hear.
His world stopped.
Brienne continued to talk but Jon barely heard her. He could feel the veins popping out on his temples and the blood rushing to his head.
Someone took her.
Jon's mind whirled as it tried to deny what he knew to be true.
A wave of fear washed over him, leaving the King in the North light-headed. He didn't even notice the noise of people approaching.
Something was off. Very off.
Whoever kidnapped Sansa knew that she would not be with him; that she wouldn't have guards with her; that she would make her way to the Great Hall alone. But how? How did they know that? How did the assassins manage to know that?
Besides, wouldn't be easier to kidnap Sansa before he returned home?
His gut was screaming at him, telling him that something was off about all of this. This was not a normal attack. There was something else to it, something more.
The royal party had just arrived. Whoever kidnaped Sansa couldn't have had something in the works already. Unless they'd had. Unless this had been an inside job.
Sansa had been the target, Jon knew that without a doubt.
"The next hours are crucial" – Ser Davos said – "Every minute that passes makes their capture less likely"
"They could be miles away by now" – Brienne stated.
Jon felt as though his soul was being stripped from him.
Fear had blossomed into full-blown terror.
The ground shifted slightly beneath his feet.
"It doesn't matter where they are" – Jon's breath stuck in his throat; the people around him eyed him warily – "I will hunt them to the ends of the earth" – fear made his voice crack.
I'll find her – he added to himself.
He needed to find her. He couldn't live without her. He wouldn't live without her.
"We need to seal off all the roads" – Ser Davos said, clearing his throat – "And we need to question all people in the castle" – he explained – "Guards were killed and …" – he trailed off, glancing at a pale Jon; Ser Davos didn't say 'they kidnaped Lady Sansa', but it was there.
The King in the North felt a sharp pain in his chest. Every word he heard was a knife.
"Use any means necessary" – Daenerys spoke – "We need to know who did this and how they got in"
Jon started to get dizzy and swayed a bit, but caught himself on the nearest wall.
His stomach tightened the moment he realized that he was leaning against the same wall where he had kissed Sansa for the first time.
He had kissed her there, in this corridor, against the stone wall, the night of the spring feast. The memory of it had come to him, often enough since. Now it was torture.
The sound of voices mingled with his own thoughts.
"We should send a patrol to search the woods"
"It's dark. We won't find any tracks"
"We'll have a hard time following them in the dark"
"Most men here are southerners. They don't know these woods"
"We'll conduct a more thorough search after daybreak"
"Your Grace, I would propose that we start searching the woods …"
Jon did not reply; there was no time for it.
He raced out of the room, feeling sick to his stomach.
He needed to do something. He needed to find her.
Jon hit the stables doors at a dead run.
The scent of horses, manure and grasses invaded his nose.
The shape of Longclaw's hilt beneath his fingers comforting and familiar in a world that seemed to shift and change around him like the landscape of a dream.
He made his way towards the nearest horse that stood eating a pile of hay.
Jon swung himself up onto the animal.
A white horse looked at him sorrowfully – Sansa's horse. Jon blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in his eyes and took a deep breath.
Ser Davos, Brienne and at least ten men entered the stables, ready to follow their king, but Jon barely acknowledged their presence.
He dug his heels into the horse's sides.
In a moment, horse and rider were out of sight.
The night sky was overcast; heavy clouds obscuring the moon.
The woods were a dense collection of old birches and tall pines.
Jon's breath passed his lips in frozen clouds.
The occasional gust of wind rustled the birch leaves and caused the branches to creak.
He remembered the way Ned Stark taught him how to find snapped twigs and imprints in the soil.
With each step he took, he scanned the ground, hoping to see something to let him know about Sansa's whereabouts.
Jon walked by a trail of hoof prints. At times the tracks disappeared and it was difficult to see clearly as the tree tops hardly allowed any light to fall on the forest floor.
A harsh wind gusted forth from the darkness. Jon's teeth were chattering.
He replayed over and over in his mind the events of the night.
His stomach twisted.
This was his fault. He shouldn't have left her alone in his room.
He should have escorted her. They should have walked into the Great Hall together.
Sansa was in danger because of him. He failed her.
Jon felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if he had been stabbed. No, it was worse than being stabbed. He had been stabbed to death and this was worse. It was worse than death, because this time he knew that not even the Red Woman could bring him back to life… only Sansa could.
He caught his ragged breath.
He was doomed to lose his family.
First it had been his mother.
People used to say that she was beautiful and willful and dead before her time.
Did she die because of him? Did he fail her?
Then it was his father/uncle. A man who lied to the entire world to protect him, to ensure he had a future.
If I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and murder me – words from the past invaded his mind.
Jon felt a lump in his throat.
He had failed his father/uncle. Sansa was in danger because of him. Whoever kidnapped her got the idea that threatening her was a good way to get to him, to the king.
Jon stared down at his hands. They had begun to shake uncontrollably.
Robb.
Last time he saw him, he was in the courtyard at Winterfell. He still remembered his words: Next time I see you, you'll be all in black.
Jon was jealous of Robb his whole life. He wanted his father/uncle to look at him the same way he looked at Robb. He wanted to hate him, but he never could.
He would have followed him to the ends of the earth.
He failed him too. He should have abandoned the Night's Watch and join Robb's cause. If he had done that maybe Robb would still be alive.
Rickon.
His little's brother death still haunted his mind at night. Ramsay Bolton was dead, but the man still bested him.
Rickon was supposed to be alive. Jon should have saved him, but he failed.
He failed him. He wasn't fast enough.
Bran.
He was alive, but he would probably never see him again.
He failed him. He should have made him stay. Winterfell was his home.
Arya.
His heart ached. He missed her more than he'd thought possible.
She collected scabs as other girls collected dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. She had skinny legs and strong opinions. She was a trial and she was perfect.
He failed her. He should have abandoned the Night's Watch and rescue her from King's Landing.
Ygritte.
He remembered her hair kissed by fire and how she died in his arms.
Do you remember the cave? We should have stayed in the cave – she had said.
We'll go back there – he told her. A lie.
He failed her. They didn't go back there.
Sansa.
The air felt like fire in Jon's lungs, as if he were being burned to death from inside out. He felt like he was being suffocated.
Jon remembered the last time a Targaryen courted a Stark.
He had learned nothing from history. He could have the Stark face, but he was not a Stark. He was a Targaryen. He was his father's son; the only difference was that this time the Stark girl had been taken by another.
The irony. Jon was Rhaegar's son, but he was now playing Robert Baratheon's role… and the worst part was that he knew how the story ended: no one won the war; everyone lost.
Jon's heart thundered in his chest.
He couldn't lose Sansa.
She was his strength. The person he lived for. He truly believed that the reason the Red Woman brought him back to life was because he was destined to meet Sansa again; because they were meant to be together, because he was hers and she was his.
And now she was gone.
He was alone again.
There was only emptiness, as there had been before her. As there always would be.
Hours later, Jon grabbed a torch from the wall, feeling his body shivering violently.
He had cuts on his hands and arms from the shrubs and branches of trees, but he had not slowed down.
His body moved by itself as he struggled to calm the storm of emotions raging within him.
The castle had never been so quiet or felt so cold, and Jon was sure that he had never felt so alone.
He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat, realizing where he'd run to.
Jon studied the door for a long time before finally pushing it open and stepping inside.
The faint torch didn't penetrate very far into the room, but Jon didn't need the light. He knew the layout of the room intimately.
He walked through the foyer into the great room, looking at the slate fireplace and confortable furniture, so familiar it made his heart ache.
The windows were open; gauzy white curtains blew in the breeze like restless ghosts.
Jon gulped.
Everywhere he looked he could see her.
Everywhere he looked he could see Sansa's face. Sometimes smiling, sometimes sulky, but always beautiful and full of life.
He could see her sat at the dressing table, combing her hair.
He could see her opening her closet and searching for the perfect gown.
He could see her sat at the table in the corner of the room, playing cyvasse and eating lemon cakes.
He could see her by the fire, reading a book or plying her needle.
His body started trembling.
He saw a tunic over the back of an old chair and his legs almost gave away. She was making a tunic for him.
Jon shut his eyes; his emotions getting the best of him.
He snuffled out the torch and placed it on the nightstand before climbing onto the bed and curling on top of the furs.
The memory of a familiar voice invaded his mind.
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
Ygritte was right.
He knew nothing. He felt powerless, lost. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to act. He didn't know how to lead. He didn't know how to be a king.
He didn't know how to find the woman he loved.
The man who won wars and defeated death no longer existed.
The King in the North. Jon Targaryen. The prince that was promised. Rhaegar's heir. He was no longer any of those things.
He was only Jon Snow… and Jon Snow knew nothing.
Alone in his misery, he buried his face in the pillows, childishly hoping Sansa's scent still lingered. It did.
Her eyelids felt as if they had been sewed shut. She opened them slowly and blinked. Her mind whirled with confusion.
A quick image of a strong hand placing a scented cloth over her mouth and nose flashed through her mind and she shuddered.
Sansa could feel the sweat that drenched her hair and pasted her gown to her back.
Painfully she hauled herself into a sitting position. Her head ached.
She glanced around and adjusted her eyes to the surroundings.
Sansa realized that she was inside a large tent. She was tucked into a sleeping pallet.
The tent was all of golden silk. The sparse room was lit by a candle on an overturned crate.
Sansa felt a wave of panic. She was no longer in Winterfell.
Where am I? – she wondered, trying to control her breathing.
She had no memory of getting there. She tried to force her brain to remember but it was useless.
She took a long, deep breath and released it slowly.
A sudden, stabbing pain made Sansa clutch at her stomach. She felt like she hadn't eaten anything in days.
What's happening?
She felt dizzy as she tried to understand what was happening. Her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat.
Jon. She was supposed to be with Jon.
The need to run, escape, overtook her and gave her the strength to jump out of the sleeping pallet.
She needed to return home, to Jon.
Sansa searched the tent frantically, looking for an exit, but before she could find it a familiar voice spoke, raising the short hairs along the nape of her neck.
"Cat" – he said.
So much angst, I know. Please don't hate me!
It will get better… eventually.
I love reading your comments. Questions and theories are always welcome, so please don't be shy!