305AC The Docks, Kings Landing
The wood beneath Jon's boots yielded beneath the weight of his uncertain steps as he ascended the gangplank to the Storm Crow. The dampness clung to the timber, making each footfall treacherous. An urge to turn back tugged at Jon's resolve, but the path beneath him offered no retreat – too slippery, too binding.
The moment Jon set foot on the boat, a subtle release echoed within him. The ties to his family, like threads untangling in the wind, seemed to loosen. Yet, with each loosened strand, an intangible weight settled on his shoulders. He couldn't shake the sense that Arya, Sansa, and Bran had found their own paths, diverging from the one he now tread.
Facing Arya and Sansa on the deck, their figures waving in the distance, Jon reciprocated the gesture until the boat sailed beyond their view. Only then, hidden from the prying eyes of kin, did the tears, unbidden, cascade like raindrops on a stormy night. Would he see them again? The question lingered, unanswered, in the recesses of Jon's mind. The parting from Arya felt final, a severing of bonds etched in destiny. Sansa, however, lingered in the realm of uncertainty. A foreboding sense whispered that their paths might cross again. She, his staunchest advocate in the fateful council, left an indelible mark on the tapestry of his fate.
Bran's cryptic message, a puzzle of north and far north, echoed in Jon's thoughts. The distinction between the two, delicately woven in Bran's words, intrigued him. Castle Black, a familiar landmark, seemed a plausible destination, yet a subtle intuition suggested otherwise. The north, far north – a spatial dichotomy that resonated with the enigma of Bran's visions. The boat, now a vessel between worlds, sailed toward an uncertain home, guided by whispers that left Jon grappling with the mystery of his destiny.
The Storm Crow, weathered by time and the briny embrace of countless voyages, creaked and groaned against the wooden pier as the crew prepared to cast off. Tied with thick, coarse ropes that had weathered storms and calm alike, the vessel strained against the constraints of the dock. The scent of brine and tar lingered in the air, a familiar perfume of the maritime world.
The crew, a motley assembly of sailors clad in worn leathers and faded woollens, and the naval men of the Night's Watch, dressed in black, moved with practiced efficiency. They navigated the narrow gangplanks and bustling decks, attending to the myriad tasks that heralded the commencement of another journey across the open sea.
On the quay, aside from Sansa and Arya, few curious onlookers gathered, drawn by the spectacle of the departure of a Night's Watch ship, a rarity in the south. The vessel, with its towering masts and billowing sails, loomed against the backdrop of the harbour like a creature poised for flight. Seagulls circled overhead, their calls blending with the distant echoes of the bustling port.
The captain, a civilian, distinguished by a weathered tricorn hat and a salt-stained coat adorned with nautical insignias, barked orders in a language seasoned with the salt of a thousand maritime miles. Sailors, both crows and regulars, scurried up and down the rigging, adjusting the lines that criss-crossed the mast like a complex web. The ship's cargo of grain, nestled within the belly of the vessel, clinked softly as it settled into place.
At the helm, a helmsman with weather-beaten features, stood ready, hands gripping the worn wheel. His eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned the horizon, gauging the winds that whispered promises of distant shores. The ship's back sails, unfurled and billowing, caught the breeze, straining against their ties like eager wings yearning for the open sky.
The moment of departure approached. The captain signalled to the crew, and the rhythmic sound of the capstan turning echoed across the dock. An anchor, heavy and rusted, emerged reluctantly from the harbour's embrace. As it broke free from the seabed, the ship trembled with newfound freedom, bobbing on the gentle swells that cradled the vessel.
The crew, their tasks completed, gathered along the deck's edge. With a final tug, the last rope was cast off, and the ship, unshackled from the quay, slowly drifted away. The creaking and groaning of time-worn wood blended with the lap of water against the hull, creating a symphony of departure that resonated through the harbour.
The ship swayed gently on the undulating sea, its aged planks groaning in tandem with the rhythmic cadence of the waves. Jon Snow, stationed at the prow, fixated his gaze upon the expansive stretch of Blackwater Bay. A gust of briny air tousled his locks, and the distant calls of seafaring gulls merged with the subtle symphony of the ship's journey.
Amidst the cerulean expanse, the former Lord Commander gravitated towards a secluded niche on the ship's deck. A haven shielded from both the watchful eyes of the crew and the probing fingers of the maritime winds. Here, he sought a moment of solitude, a refuge to grapple with the tempestuous turmoil within.
The ship, a vessel slicing through the waters, metamorphosed into a metaphor for Jon's odyssey—a journey departing from the known into uncharted realms. Each undulation of the waves mirrored the ebb and flow of his thoughts. Duty, a relentless current, tugged at the keel of his resolve, steering him into uncharted waters of leadership and sacrifice.
The ship's time-worn deck, a stage for silent contemplation, enveloped Jon. Wooden planks beneath his boots reverberated with the rhythms of his internal strife. The pull of duty and the allure of personal fulfilment became the winds propelling his sails of introspection, propelling him into uncharted territories.
As the vessel sailed on, Jon's thoughts meandered to the faces left behind—Arya, Sansa, Bran, and countless others woven into the fabric of his existence. The sacrifices demanded by the realm echoed in the sea's lullabies—a melodic reminder of the choices defining a leader's journey.
The distant shores of Westeros, obscured by the horizon, symbolised the uncertainty awaiting Jon upon his return. The weight of duty, akin to an anchor, threatened to plunge him into the depths of obligation. Yet, amidst the internal tempest, a yearning for purpose unburdened by the shackles of political exigency pulsed like a heartbeat.
In the hallowed corners of the ship, Jon's reflection endured—a contemplative waltz between the known and the unknown, the duties of the realm and the call of a purpose yet to unfold. The voyage, both corporeal and metaphysical, carried him toward a destination where the sea met the sky, where duty met destiny. Where Jon Snow, burdened but resolute, sought to navigate the uncharted waters of leadership and self.
The men on the ship were like shadows to Jon. Even after all those years up at the Watch and wearing the title of Lord Commander, ship folk and Jon didn't cross paths much. Sailing was a whole different world, based out at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, a good fifteen leagues east of Castle Black. Right now, Eastwatch was more rubble than a watchtower, but Bran seemed to think they'd patch it up, eventually. How long it'd take, Jon couldn't reckon. Not his worry at the moment.
Jon had hoped for a bit of quiet during the trip. Time to be alone with his thoughts, the kind that nagged at you like a crow on a winter's morn. Time to stare into the black abyss of regrets and brace himself for what lay ahead. The business of whether he'd go back to being the Lord Commander again, that wasn't in the cards. Jon wasn't even rightly joining the Night's Watch; it was more a show than anything else. But wishes and wants don't always match the tune the world's playing, As the ship charted its course through the Blackwater Bay, Jon found himself not alone in the solitude he sought. For as soon as he set foot on that ship, the new lads spotted him, and the questions came flying like arrows in a skirmish.
"What's the ale like?"
"Is the food good?"
"Is it really true you can't wet your prick with a woman?"
"Have the whitewalkers really gone?"
"Is it cold?"
"How do you climb the wall?"
"Crap. Crap. True. I think so. Colder than you can ever imagine. Up a ladder," Jon responded, a hint of sarcasm seasoning his words.
After a while, most of the men stopped hounding him with questions, but two lingered on. Tom Tanner and Merrick. Tom, once known as Swifty in his pickpocket days, was older than Jon. The ruination of Kings Landing had thinned out the pockets he used to filch from, and with scarce food in the capital, heading to the Wall seemed a decent plan. Quick-witted and street-smart, Tom knew the art of survival in the grittiest conditions. A knack that would serve him well up north.
Tom sported dirty blond hair, brown eyes, and a scar down his left cheek, a memento from a disgruntled victim of pocket-pinching. His build was lean and agile, a result of years slipping through crowded streets and evading those hot on his tail. He'd do well at Castle Black, Jon thought.
Merrick, or Merrick Clubfoot as they called him, was an elder, perhaps akin in years to Ned Stark when he met his fate. Dark, receding hair with streaks of grey adorned Merrick's head, complemented by bushy eyebrows and a matching beard. His face, etched with the lines and wear of a life spent outdoors, bore the rugged marks of weather and toil. A solid and imposing figure, Merrick's calloused hands and robust physique told the story of years spent in the heavy labour of docks and hard work. Despite this grizzled exterior, Merrick harboured a quiet and contemplative spirit. Much like Jon, he had a penchant for brooding, earning him the affectionate nickname "Merry Merrick."
Merrick's life had been woven into the fabric of the docks, a tale without a family of his own. With his kin now departed, he yearned for a taste of adventure in his later years, finding the Night's Watch to be the perfect pretext. Jon suspected Eastwatch would be Merrick's new harbour, resembling the life he knew in Kings Landing but without the temperate climate.
The trio formed an unlikely camaraderie. Jon, Tom, and Merrick, each burdened by the weight of their individual pasts, found solace in the shared journey across the Narrow Sea.
Their interactions became a mosaic of diverse experiences and perspectives. Tom's quick and resourceful nature complemented Merrick's quiet strength. As they navigated the confined quarters of the ship, stories unfolded—the alleys of Flea Bottom, the bustling docks of King's Landing, and the stories of the whitewalkers. These stories were always accompanied by the inferior quality rum, provided by the captain, ensuring many an interesting night, and many a hungover morn.
As the ship sailed northward, the camaraderie among Jon, Tom, and Merrick evolved—a bond forged in the crucible of shared destinies. The sea, witness to their journey, carried not only the weight of their ship but also the collective aspirations and quests for redemption that resonated among its passengers.
As the ship ventured further north, the monotony of the sea journey settled over the vessel like a pervasive mist. Attempting to stave off the tedium, a sense of camaraderie emerged among the all the new recruits as well as the existing Night's Watch brothers, including Jon, Tom, and Merrick. The shared tales and laughter that once filled the nights now found a new expression—games of dice, with one particular game gaining prominence among the crew, a game called Hazard.
In the dimly lit corners of the ship, the rhythmic clatter of dice against wooden surfaces became a backdrop to the conversations that unfolded. Tom "the Swift," with his nimble fingers and quick wit, introduced the crew to the nuances of Hazard. The game, a blend of chance and strategy, provided a welcome diversion from the weight of their shared destinies.
Nights on the ship turned into impromptu gatherings, where the trio and their newfound companions engaged in heated rounds of Hazard. The dice, marked by the twists and turns of fate, rolled across makeshift tables illuminated by flickering lanterns. The game became a levity, a shared reprieve from the gravity of their impending journey beyond the Wall.
As the dice clattered and the crew's laughter echoed across the ship, bonds strengthened. Jon, once the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, found moments of mirth and jest with those who had once been strangers. The divisions between noble-born and commoner blurred, replaced by the camaraderie forged in the shared uncertainties of their future, and the numbers on a dice.
In the tapestry of Jon's adult life, this was an unexpected splash of vibrant hues, a palette free from the monochrome of battles, rulership, and the relentless chill of the White Walkers. No longer shackled by the burdens of governance, he revelled in a respite, a sojourn where the weight of a realm's survival no longer rested squarely upon his shoulders. Instead, he found himself immersed in the simple joys of camaraderie, an ordinary man amidst a sea of his ilk.
Amidst the creaking timbers and the rhythmic lull of the ship, Jon felt the tendrils of his melancholy gradually loosen their grip. Here, in the company of kindred souls unburdened by titles and destinies, he rediscovered the echoes of simpler times, his brooding spirit finding solace in the laughter and tales shared among these newfound compatriots.
As the ship ventured north, ploughing past the cerulean expanse of the Narrow Sea, and eventually through the Shivering Sea, the air thickened with the bite of a northern chill. Jon pondered whether the climes had softened, the harsh grasp of winter relenting to the tentative embrace of spring. The sea breeze, though crisp, carried a whisper of warmth, and Jon contemplated the possibility that a season of renewal had graced their journey.
Yet, Tommo and Merrick, steadfast companions aboard this maritime odyssey, remained less enamoured by the changing winds. Their discontent, a tangible presence in their furrowed brows and the layers of clothing they added to shield against the encroaching cold, stood in stark contrast to Jon's musings. As the ship sailed further north, the evolving climate became a canvas painted in contrasts—the promise of rebirth tempered by the reluctance of winter's lingering touch.
On the weathered deck, the trio stood, their gaze traversing the vast canvas of water that sprawled before them, a monochrome expanse mirroring the leaden skies above. White flashes, the ominous sentinels of icebergs, punctuated the sea—an impending hazard skillfully navigated by the seasoned captain.
"It's fucking freezing." Tommo's shiver carried the bite of the frigid breeze.
"That's 'cause you're a skinny fucker," Merrick chuckled, a rough symphony to the sea's sombre cadence. "No meat on your bones to ward off the chill."
Jon's smile, a subtle response to the biting jest, bridged the gap between camaraderie and the ceaseless dance with the elements. "You get used to it. But I swear, it was colder than this once. Perhaps spring is stirring."
"More like winter is coming." Tommo shook his head, scepticism etched in his furrowed brow. "Isn't that what you Starks say?"
Jon's gaze, a fleeting shift to the vastness beyond, carried the weight of memories veiled in the cloak of Stark ancestry. "I'm not a Stark."
A beat of silence hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken truths. Tommo, his voice a mere whisper against the sea's melancholic tune, breached the unspoken pact of the moment. "Is it true? What they say about you?
Jon's brow furrowed, a practiced mask of ignorance concealing the undercurrent of knowing that danced beneath the surface. Rumours, like wraiths on the wind, had whispered their secrets. Lord Varys, before meeting his fateful end at Daenerys's decree, had woven a tapestry of revelations. "Is what true?" Jon inquired, the words laced with a subtle tension.
Merrick, the stalwart companion, shot Tommo a warning glance, a silent plea for restraint. Yet, the pickpocket, unheeding of caution, leapt into the conversational fray. "Your father. Is it true he was her brother?"
Tommo's words, seemingly innocuous, bore the weight of unspoken implications. Jon, no stranger to the shadows of ancestry, discerned the unspoken name beneath the surface. "My father was Ned Stark. But aye, my sire was Rhaegar Targaryen."
The revelation, like a stone cast into a still pond, rippled through the air. Tommo, his excitement palpable, seized the moment with the unbridled curiosity of a child. "Is it true, what they say, about you riding a dragon?"
Jon's smile, a flicker of nostalgia and pride, illuminated his features. "Aye, I did."
The air seemed to shimmer with the echo of wingbeats, a memory woven into the fabric of Jon's existence. Tommo, wide-eyed and captivated, leaned into the next question. "What's it like?"
Jon, the keeper of tales untold, shared a glimpse of the ethereal. "Exhilarating."
Tommo wore a visage of mighty admiration, his eyes reflecting a fascination that mirrored the sparks of a distant constellation. Merrick, on the other hand, displayed a muted acknowledgment, his demeanour less swayed by the allure of Jon's dragon exploits. "Did you kill anyone with your dragon?" Merrick, the pragmatic voice of inquiry, cut through the air.
Jon, a stoic silhouette against the backdrop of memory-laden skies, shook his head. "No one alive. I rode Rhaegal to obliterate the army of the dead. I've never had a taste for taking the lives of the living."
"Good!" Merrick's approval, a gust of wind through the sails, alleviated the unspoken concerns etched in his features.
Tommo, perpetually inquisitive, delved deeper. "Have you ever killed anyone?"
Jon nodded in acknowledgment, the weight of a warrior's history etched in his gaze. "What about you two?" he queried, but both Merrick and Tommo shook their heads in silent admission.
"How many?" Tommo's curiosity, a relentless river seeking knowledge, surged forth.
Jon, caught in the undertow of recollection, pondered a question without a definitive answer. "I've fought in too many battles to count. When swords clash, and survival hangs by a thread, there's no luxury of tallying the fallen. You strike your blade against the next person aiming for your heart and hope you live to see the end of it."
"Do you think we'll have to kill anyone?" Tommo, eyes wide and earnest, voiced a question that hung in the air like an unspoken prophecy.
Jon shook his head, a weathered acknowledgment of the shifting tides. "I joined the Watch during their war with the Free Folk. Much has changed since those days. You'll likely be setting up trade deals with them instead of fighting." The slip of the tongue, a subtle shift from "we" to "you," tugged at Jon's internal sensibilities, but the oversight went unnoticed by Tommo and Merrick.
Merrick, attuned to the subtleties of survival, latched onto the mention of trade. "I'm just moving from one set of docks to another. Only, this time, I'll be freezing my arse off."
Jon laughed. "Aye, most likely. But at least the sea up at the Wall doesn't reek of shit,"
Merrick, a product of King's Landing's unrelenting embrace, acknowledged the reality with a nod. "In King's Landing, you eat, drink, sleep, wake, and smell shit all your life."
"Life's a piece of shit when you smell of it," Tommo chimed in with a mischievous grin.
"Your poetry skills are shit too," Jon retorted, laughter punctuating the exchange. However, the mirth was cut short as Jon's gaze fixed on the horizon, where a looming shape, stark against the sea's expanse, emerged.
Merrick and Tommo, sensing the gravity of the moment, followed Jon's gaze. "What's that?" Tommo's inquiry hung in the air like an unspoken omen.
"That is your new home. Welcome to the Wall." Jon's words, delivered with a weight that echoed across the sea breeze. The sight marked the threshold of their journey's end and the commencement of a new chapter in the shadow of the Wall.