305AC Maegor's Holdfast, Red Keep, Kings Landing
The eve preceding Jon's departure from the smouldering ruins of King's Landing unfolded as a night draped in shadows, an unspoken symphony of restless thoughts playing in the recesses of his mind. The Sandman, elusive and fickle, had abandoned Jon to navigate the corridors of contemplation haunted by echoes of farewells left unsung.
The conversation with Bran, a tapestry woven with intricate threads of revelation, lingered in Jon's consciousness like a heavy cloak. Sansa and Arya, veiled by Grey Worm's watchful gaze, had been kept at bay, their presence relegated to the realm of missed opportunities. The unspoken acknowledgment that they might harbour intentions of facilitating his escape lingered in the air like an unvoiced refrain. Yet, Jon had no intention of indulging such prospects, the weight of the previous day's discourse with Bran hanging upon him like a tangible burden.
In the mosaic of Jon's inner thoughts, the weirwood tree emerged as a central motif, an enigmatic symbol that dominated his contemplations. Duty, a relentless spectre, seemed to dictate the cadence of his journey, and the weirwood stood as an emblem of that obligation. The prospect of choice, elusive as a wisp of smoke, remained distant as Jon pondered the inevitability of fulfilling yet another cosmic duty.
A yearning for the simplicity of an unburdened life, akin to that of a humble farmer, reverberated through Jon's introspection. The ceaseless refrain of destiny, prophecies, and magical intricacies had woven a complex narrative through the chapters of his existence. The burden of these cosmic machinations weighed upon him like the accumulated layers of winter snow.
Why, in the grand tapestry of existence, did the cosmic hand always seem to place its weight upon Jon's shoulders? The weirwood, a silent sentinel of unseen forces, promised to sing to him—a song that would weave its melody into the very fabric of his being. Duty, an uninvited guest, lingered as a daunting presence, leaving Jon to ponder the capricious whims of fate.
The night remained draped in shadows, and as Jon stood at the precipice of departure, the weirwood's song, whether embraced or resisted, echoed through the corridors of his soul. The prospect of resistance, tantalizing and beckoning like a siren's call, offered a semblance of autonomy in the face of cosmic inevitability. Yet, the weirwood's silent song, a haunting melody, held the promise of revelation, a journey into the unknown that awaited him beyond the Wall with the Freefolk. A venture that stirred the embers of his adventurous spirit.
The heavens above draped themselves in hues of regal purple as Jon found himself ensnared in the clutches of a sleepless night. The impending dawn marked the hour of his departure from the Red Keep, a departure veiled in the ethereal glow of sunrise. Echoes of a restless night lingered like phantom whispers, refusing to grant a reprieve to Jon's weary soul.
The rendezvous with Bran, Sansa, and Arya, shrouded in the early morning's palette, awaited Jon as he prepared to bid adieu. The looming farewell would transpire against the backdrop of the Storm Crow, a ship tethered to the Night's Watch. Its time-worn planks, seasoned by the tempests of the seas, awaited Jon's footfall as he prepared to embark on a journey that would weave through the currents of destiny.
The aftermath of Kings Landing's cataclysm bore witness to a populace rendered homeless, their lives shattered like glass beneath the weight of chaos. The remnants of destruction had birthed a simplicity in choice for some—the sanctuary of the Night's Watch, an asylum for those seeking redemption. As Jon readied himself for departure, the corridors of the Storm Crow beckoned, harbouring the footsteps of new recruits. Faces unknown, stories untold, each a potential cipher in the enigmatic journey that lay ahead.
The prospect of fresh souls joining him on the journey north stirred a subtle intrigue, a respite from the melancholy that had cloaked Jon's spirit. Amidst the grief-stricken landscape, the promise of companionship and the shared burden of the Night's Watch offered a fleeting refuge.
Rising from the embrace of a comfortable bed, Jon ventured to the privy—a chamber of solitude where mundane rituals took on the semblance of routine. The amber glow of sunrise played upon the walls, casting a golden sheen upon the stone. The act of relieving himself became a symbolic release, shedding the weight of the night's restlessness.
In the privy's quiet confines, Jon cleansed himself—a ritualistic ablution that transcended the physical, a purging of the night's shadows. Cloves, fragrant and biting, served as agents of renewal, wiping away the vestiges of weariness from Jon's senses. A return to his chambers followed, a silent preparation for the day that awaited him beyond the Red Keep's walls.
Amid the ablutions that marked the shedding of the night's residue, a diligent servant, a harbinger of sustenance, delivered a repast veiled in the aroma of bacon, the humble bread, and the allure of cheese. A final communion with decadence before the descent into the ascetic realm that awaited Jon. Knowing the ephemeral nature of such culinary indulgence, he devoured the delectable ensemble, a symphony of flavours echoing his impending departure from the realms of gastronomic opulence.
Lemon water, a zesty libation to cleanse both palate and conscience, accompanied the culinary finale. Yet, before the last echoes of flavour could fade, a tap, a herald of temporal constraints, resounded through the door. The voice, a messenger draped in the cadence of a guard, ushered Jon into the realm of temporal urgencies.
"You're to leave in ten minutes," the proclamation, like a celestial decree, unfolded Jon's immediate destiny.
"I'll be ready," Jon affirmed, the solemn oath tethering his words to the imminent departure. As the minutes dwindled, he stood before the looking glass once more, garbed in the regalia of obsidian, a visual testament to his tethering to the Night's Watch, crow once more. An allegiance, for now, cast in the shadows.
The door creaked open, revealing the threshold to the world beyond. Goldcloaks, silent sentinels of authority, awaited the emergence of Jon Snow from his transient sanctuary.
Guided by the stoic guardians of Maegor's Holdfast, Jon embarked on a descent that mirrored a pilgrimage through the ruins of power—the vestiges of a crimson citadel that had crumbled like a fallen deity. Each step down the stairs bore the weight of history, a narrative etched in the very stones he tread upon. The guards, emissaries of order in a realm awash with chaos, led Jon through the skeletal remains of the once-majestic Red Keep, a haunting tableau of shattered dominion.
The path from the Red Keep to the docks was fraught with echoes of destruction. Jon descended the spiralling steps, each footfall a sombre reminder of the consequences of his actions. The air was thick with an acrid scent, a mixture of charred wood and the lingering stench of death. Smoke still billowed from the ruins of King's Landing, veiling the city in a shroud of sorrow.
As Jon walked through the once-proud streets, the grandeur of the Red Keep gradually faded into the backdrop of devastation. The remnants of homes, shops, and streets lay in ruin, their scorched remains casting long shadows. Windows shattered, roofs collapsed, and the very stones of the city seemed to bear witness to the tumultuous events that had unfolded.
The path Jon tread upon was not just a winding series of stone steps; it was a descent into the abyss of consequence, a spiralling journey through the wreckage he, in part, had wrought. Each step was a weighty reverberation, an echo through the hollow corridors of his conscience. The stone beneath his boots felt cold, unyielding, much like the judgment he knew he carried with him.
As he descended, the air clung to him like the guilt that trailed in his wake. It was not just a scent; it was the collective inhale of a city in mourning. The acrid mixture of charred wood and the lingering stench of death assaulted his senses, a visceral reminder of the choices that had birthed this desolation. The smoke, a spectral veil, danced through the remnants of King's Landing, a shroud that whispered tales of loss and despair.
The streets, once vibrant veins of life coursing through the city, now stood as graveyards of grandeur. Jon walked through the skeletal remains of a once-proud metropolis. Homes and shops, once bustling with the heartbeat of existence, now lay in ruin—an orchestra of destruction, the harmony of shattered dreams casting long shadows upon the cobblestone canvas. The very stones, worn smooth by the passage of time, bore witness to the tumultuous events that had unfolded.
Windows, once the eyes of the city, now shattered and vacant, framed the tragedy etched into every brick. Roofs, once proud crowns atop the structures, had collapsed, as if the heavens themselves had wept for the fall of kings. The city's scars ran deep, carved into the very soul of its stones. It was a landscape of sorrow, a tableau of ruin that mirrored the fractured state of Jon's heart.
Jon moved through the desolation, a lone figure in a city brought to its knees. The weight of responsibility clung to him like the soot that stained the stones—a mark of sins both personal and collective. The path ahead was a journey through the wreckage of his own making, a testament to the fragility of power and the toll exacted by duty.
Beyond the Muddy Gate, the sea wall stood tall and stoic, a guardian against the tumultuous waves that crashed below. The salt-laden breeze whispered through the air, a poignant melody of parting carried by the ever-present winds. As Jon approached his waiting siblings, Sansa, Arya, and Bran, the breeze seemed to weave through the unseen threads of connection, a melancholy dance echoing the bittersweet nature of farewells.
Sansa, Arya, and Bran stood together, their figures silhouetted against the backdrop of a horizon painted in hues of dusk. The sky, a canvas of muted colours, mirrored the complex emotions that hung in the air. The sea, an expanse of endless possibilities, cradled the weight of unspoken words as the siblings faced the inevitable parting.
Sansa's voice, a reflection of regret etched in every syllable, cut through the murmurs of the wind. "I wish there had been another way. Can you forgive me?" Her words, like the salt-laden breeze, stung Jon's senses. He felt the lump in his throat, a tangible manifestation of the complexities that lingered between them. The North may be free, but the price paid resonated in the unspoken spaces.
"The North is free, thanks to you," Jon spoke, his voice a murmur carried away by the same breeze that whispered through the sea wall. Sansa's eyes, glistening with unshed tears, sought absolution in the furrowed lines of Jon's face.
"But they lost their king," Sansa mourned, her words a sombre note in the symphony of parting. The sea seemed to sigh in response, as if echoing the collective sorrow that clung to the air. The horizon, stretching infinitely, offered no answers, only the vast expanse of uncertainty.
As Jon reassured Sansa, his words became a gentle breeze, weaving through the sombre atmosphere like a fleeting melody. "Ned Stark's daughter will speak for them. She's the best they could ask for," he uttered, his voice carrying the weight of promises made and destinies intertwined. A faint smile graced his lips, a glimmer of reassurance amidst the uncertainty that lingered.
Sansa embraced him in a tearful hug, and Jon reciprocated, the hug a tangible manifestation of the shared burdens they both carried. In that embrace, he felt the weight of responsibility shifting, passing from one Stark to another, a silent transition of leadership in the wake of upheaval.
Arya, standing beside them, exuded a quiet resolve, her spirit untouched by the heavy air of farewell. Jon, recognizing the adventurous spark within her, placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You can come see me, you know, at Castle Black."
Arya chuckled, a sound that echoed with both bitterness and acceptance. "I can't. I'm not going back north." The resolute edge in her voice spoke volumes about the path she intended to tread, beyond the familiar landscapes of Westeros.
"Where are you going?" Sansa's inquiry hung in the air like a curious bird, its wings fluttering with both curiosity and concern. Jon, momentarily caught in the gravitational pull of Arya's decision, found himself pondering the uncharted territories of the unknown.
"What's west of Westeros?" Arya's question lingered, an enigma that beckoned Jon's contemplation. The metaphorical journey beyond the known world mirrored Jon's own uncertainties. West of Westeros, was an unexplored canvas on the map of their lives, awaited Arya's adventurous spirit. The question lingered in the air, inviting Jon to contemplate not only the literal but also the metaphorical westward horizon of his own existence.
"I don't know," Jon confessed, a quiet admission that mingled with the sea breeze. The uncertainty of Arya's intended destination hung in the air, a mystery that tantalised his senses. He shared a small laugh with Arya, a shared moment of camaraderie that felt like the release of a caged bird, the fluttering wings of freedom.
"No one knows. It's where all the maps stop. That's where I'm going." Arya's decision resonated with the whisper of freedom, an echo of her indomitable spirit reverberating through the words. Jon marvelled at the vastness of the unknown that stretched before her, an uncharted sea of possibilities awaiting her adventurous sail.
"You have your Needle?" Jon inquired, the weight of sentimentality woven into the small sword's name lingering in the air like the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers. "Right here," Arya replied, a tear slipping down her face. Jon, moved by the tender moment, wiped it away gently, as if erasing a small stain from the canvas of their shared history. He pulled her into a tearful embrace, feeling the strength and vulnerability coexisting within her.
As he released Arya, Jon couldn't help but marvel at the resilience that seemed to be an intrinsic part of her being. The tear that had escaped her eye was not a sign of weakness but a testament to the depth of her emotions, a river that flowed through the valleys of her indomitable spirit.
Kneeling before Bran, the newly crowned king, Jon's acknowledgment carried a duality—formal and familial, a bridge between duty and kinship. The sea breeze, now infused with the scent of salt and farewell, bore witness to this moment of transition. Bran, in his newfound role, held a weight that transcended the bonds of brotherhood, a mantle of responsibility that settled on his shoulders like a well-worn cloak. The acknowledgment was both a pledge of loyalty and an acknowledgment of the changed currents that flowed through the Stark legacy.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me," Jon confessed, his words carried by the sea breeze, a poignant admission that sailed through the air like a solitary gull on the horizon. His gaze met Bran's, the calm depths of his brother's demeanour seeming to encompass the weight of destiny, a vast ocean of unknowns stretching before them.
"You were exactly where you were supposed to be," Bran reassured, his words an anchor in the shifting tides of uncertainty. The enigmatic smile he offered held the quiet wisdom of someone who had glimpsed the intricacies of time. Rising, Jon sighed, his breath mingling with the salt-laden air, and he cast a final look at his siblings. Each Stark stood like a distinct constellation in the celestial tapestry of their family.
The sense lingered, an unspoken truth, that each of his siblings had found their own path. Their futures lay uncertain, a vast expanse of uncharted waters, but the resilience of the Stark name lived on, echoing through the sea breeze and the distant waves. The Stark children, like ships setting sail on separate journeys, were bound by the invisible threads of kinship and shared history, their destinies charted by the constellations above, guiding them toward their individual fates.
Jon cast a final gaze upon the Stark siblings, an indelible tableau etching their visages into the canvas of his memories. The moment hung heavy, a tapestry woven with threads of familial bonds that threatened to unravel. His throat tightened, a lump of unspoken farewells caught in the cusp of parting, exacerbated by the tear-drenched eyes of Sansa and Arya. Bran, an enigma of perpetual calm, had bid his adieus the day prior—a prelude to the imminent separation.
Turning abruptly, Jon's departure became a swift pirouette, a dance with destiny that led him toward the waiting Storm Crow. The obsidian hue of his cape billowed in the sea breeze, a shroud cloaking him in the weight of his decisions. At the gangplank's threshold, the boundary between shores and the boundless expanse of the sea, Jon succumbed to an involuntary compulsion. His gaze retraced its steps, drawn to the haunting silhouette of his kin.
Bran, propelled away by the hands of Ser Podrick Payne, already embarked on a journey of his own. Yet, Sansa and Arya lingered on the precipice of farewell, two statuesque figures against the backdrop of the bustling docks. Their silhouettes, a silent tableau, held the promise of unwavering support and enduring love. Jon recognized the unspoken pledge—they would remain until the Storm Crow vanished beyond the horizon.
When the ship set sail, the sea's solitude would become Jon's sole confidant, the only witness to the tears he dared not shed in the presence of his departing kin. Only then, in the privacy of the vast expanse, he could allow the grief to flow, an unbroken cascade concealed by the relentless waves.