As the infirmary door clicked shut, leaving the man now living as Jon Snow alone, he lay back with a small, satisfied smile. Well, that worked,he thought, surprised at how well the conversation had gone. Despite the grave situation and his unbelievable claims, he'd seemingly managed to convince Lord Stark, though Catelyn remained skeptical, understandably given the circumstances.
In the quiet that followed, the man's mind began to wander, drifting back to the previous night.
Winterfell, The North 11th day, Second Moon, 289 AC
Suddenly, the room was silent again, save for the occasional creak of the old keep. Jon's smile faded as he was left to confront the reality of his situation. Catelyn had just left, and in her absence, the full weight of his illness pressed down on him. His skin was a canvas of itchy pox marks, and a deep, throbbing ache permeated his body. He tried to shift in the bed for comfort, but every movement was a reminder of his weakness and vulnerability.
He closed his eyes, trying to convince himself this was all just a dream. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep, so it made sense. Yet, as he focused, the pain, the itch, the smells of the infirmary, it was all too vivid, too present. He had lucid dreamed before, but nothing had ever been like this. This was no dream.
Accepting the harsh reality, his mind drifted to his past life — the life of John Chandler, a 23-year-old man with so much more to live for.
He thought of his mother, her warm, comforting hugs, and how she'd laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She always insisted on keeping a tidy house and garden. He'd like to help her with chores when he was young, thought sometimes went a bit overboard, like the time when he'd tried to help with cleaning up the dining room after Christmas dinner and accidentally set it on fire. … paper napkins and candles should never be used at the same event.
John's father, a small man, but with a sturdy, reliable presence, always ready with advice or to lend a hand. John still remembered the time his dad tried to help him move his furniture into the new apartment. He'd sprained his wrist and John took him to the hospital for a brace.
John remembered his little sister, always pestering him, her bright eyes filled with mischief and love. She had just started college last year, seeking a degree is business management, now John would never get to see her graduate.
Then there was Emily, his girlfriend. He remembered her smile, the way her blue eyes lit up when she laughed, the softness of her hand in his. They had always dreamed of traveling together, seeing the great monuments and ancient cultures of places like Peru, Egypt, Greece, Mesopotamia, China, Japan, and others.
And of course, there was Minerva "Minny", his and Emily's mischievous tabby cat, always ready to pounce or curl up in the crook of John's arm. They were both Potter fans, and liked the character.
The memories were vivid, a stark 'hah' contrast to the cold, medieval room he now found himself in. Each recollection was a reminder of what he had lost, of the life that was now out of reach. The realization was overwhelming, and a profound sense of loneliness washed over him. He tried to hold back the tears, to maintain the stoic façade he'd cultivated as an adult. But in this moment, in this strange new world, he was just a boy, vulnerable and alone. Tears streamed down his face, a silent testament to the life and loved ones he'd left behind. It had been years since he'd last cried as John Chandler, yet here he was, sobbing quietly in the bed of a boy named Jon Snow. He gave a harsh laugh at the names, at least they sounded the same.
He didn't know how much time he'd spent crying, the absence of a smartphone or any modern clock making the tracking of time in this stupid medieval fantasy world near impossible. It felt ridiculous, really, sobbing in a place that had no notion of the life he once knew. A world where the pressing matters were survival, honor, and the game of thrones, not heartache over a life lost. He gave a bitter chuckle, half in despair, half in disbelief.
Eventually, he wiped away the tears, knowing self-pity wouldn't serve him in this world. He needed to rally himself, to shove down the overwhelming feelings and focus on the very real problems at hand.
Okay, think, John, or Jon, or whoever you are now. He began to assess his situation. He was in Jon Snow's body, in Winterfell, and by some miraculous or cursed twist of fate, living in the world of "A Song of Ice and Fire." A world where dragons once soared the skies, knights in armor rode on horseback, and murder was often seen as a rite of passage. It was a world where shadowy figures plotted behind thick castle walls, the dead walked, and the living feared the coming of night. A world where oaths bound men to life-long servitudes, highborn played deadly games for power, and the whims of kings and queens led to the downfall of entire houses. A world reigned by magic and terror, prophesied by witches in blood and consumed by wildfire's ambition. As the reality of his situation sank in, one thought became clear: I'm fucked.
Next, he tried to remember everything he could about the books and the show, the intricate plotlines, the characters, the looming threats. He frowned slightly, recalling that the Catelyn Stark he had just interacted with didn't resemble Michelle Fairley in the slightest — so he was probably in the book universe. No, it was still too early to assume anything; for now, he needed to focus on survival and understanding the dynamics of the world he found himself in.
Jon decided he was too exhausted to continue piecing together the elaborate puzzle of this world, especially in his worn-out five-year-old body. His mind felt as heavy as his eyelids, and the pull of sleep was too strong to resist any longer. With a final, weary sigh, he let the darkness take him, succumbing to the much-needed rest.
As Jo(h)n slept, his mind wandered through a cascade of dreams, each a vivid vision of young Jon Snow's life. He found himself standing atop the icy walls of Winterfell, feeling the biting wind against his face as he looked out into the endless white expanse. He was beside Robb, his brother in all but blood, their laughter echoing against the stone as they made japes and silly childish songs meant to annoy the stuffy Septa Mordane.
Another vision swept him away to the solemn crypts below Winterfell, where he wandered among the statues of the ancient Stark kings. He and Robb had been running through them playing a game of tag, but Jon had wandered too deep and gotten lost. The weight of his supposed illegitimacy pressed heavily upon him as he gazed upon the likenesses of his ancestors, feeling both a part of and apart from the noble lineage. his father, uncle, Lord Stark had eventually found him and carried him back out on his back.
He then found himself at the lower tables, with the commoners, an awkward, silent observer amidst the lively banter of Winterfell's great hall. Some banner-man of Lord Stark's was visiting, so Jon had been made to sit with the servants and household while the true Starks dined with their guests. His longing for acceptance and belonging was palpable, overshadowed by Lady Stark's cold, distant gaze that always seemed to single him out, reminding him of his place.
In a particularly vivid dream, John, as young Jon Snow, and Robb snuck into Winterfell's armoury and 'borrowed' some wooden swords, pretending to be Arthur Dayne and Eddard Stark in a legendary duel. Their game was interrupted by Rodrik Cassel, the Master-at-Arms, who found them and brought them before Lord Stark. They were reprimanded for their recklessness and tasked with polishing the guards' armor for two weeks as punishment. Despite the scolding, it was still some of the most fun young Jon had ever had.
Finally, he dreamt of watching as baby Sansa took her first tentative steps in the nursery of Winterfell. The family had gathered around, cheering and clapping, their faces alight with joy and pride. He remembered the warmth of that moment, the way his heart had swelled with happiness for his little sister, even as he stood slightly apart, a quiet observer to the family's celebration.
Through these visions, John's and Jon's memories began to intertwine, melding together like two streams converging into one river. As each vision unfolded, the distinction between John Chandler's past life and Jon Snow's began to blur, their fears, desires, and dreams merging into a singular consciousness. This fusion of minds brought a newfound understanding and resolve to the young bot lying in the infirmary of Winterfell, ready to face the challenges of his new world.
Winterfell, The North 12th day, Second Moon, 289 AC
Jon Snow stirred from his slumber, awakened by the raucous cawing of ravens outside his window. The dreams had receded like the tide, leaving him in the dimly lit infirmary, yet he felt a strange sense of clarity and purpose. His mind, now a blend of John's modern sensibilities and Jon's stoic resilience, was alert and focused, ready to confront the new day.
As he lay there, adjusting to the light and the sounds of Winterfell stirring to life, the door creaked open, and Maester Luwin entered, his chain clinking softly with each step. The old maester, with his wise, kind eyes, noticed Jon's wakefulness and approached the bed, a small bowl of corn in his hand.
"Jon, you're awake," Maester Luwin said, a hint of relief in his voice. "I apologize if the ravens disturbed you. I was just feeding them their morning corn. They do tend to get rather loud about it." He placed the bowl on a nearby table and turned his full attention to Jon, his expression shifting to one of concern. "Are you feeling any better, my boy? Is there anything you need?" he inquired, his voice gentle yet carrying the authority of someone used to caring for others.
"Aye. I'm fine, Maester Luwin," Jon replied, his voice stronger than he expected. "The ravens weren't a problem. I'm an early riser anyway." He managed a small smile, appreciating the irony that, in his past life, waking early had been a constant struggle. Jon Snow by contrast was always up with the sunrise.
Maester Luwin, nodding in understanding, walked over to the bedside. Age had only just begun to etch its story into the maester's face. His hair, mostly grey, showed the signs of receding, hinting at the thinning to come. His eyes, sharp and observant, missed nothing as they assessed Jon. His hands, steady and experienced, moved with practiced care as he began to examine Jon, checking his pulse, the pallor of his skin, the temperature of his forehead, and the fading marks of the pox that had brought him so low.
The maester's robe, a simple, well-worn garment, held the choker of chain links that marked his order, all different metals, each representing a field of knowledge he had studied. He pulled various instruments from his many pockets during the examination. His presence was a comfort, an anchor of wisdom and stability, something that called out to the part of Jon that was still the little boy before the pox and his new memories.
Deciding to seize the opportunity for a one-on-one with the most learned man in Winterfell, Jon asked, "Maesters Luwin, how long have I been sick, and what is the date today?"
Maester Luwin, pausing his examination, replied, "You've been asleep for nearly a sennight now. It's the 12th day of the Second Moon, 289 AC. Rest assured, you haven't missed much, just the quiet routine of Winterfell." His voice held a reassuring calmness as he continued his examination.
Wracking his brain, Jon tried to recall anything he could about 289 AC. If he remembered right, that would be just after the beginning of the long summer... oh, the Greyjoy Rebellion! Maester Luwin hadn't mentioned anything about it. Was that because it hadn't started yet, or was the maester just trying to spare his patient some stress?
Trying to be as disarming as he could, Jon said, "That's good to hear. I hope Robb and Sansa recovered better than I did?"
"Oh, yes. Both of them were over the pox within days."
"Good," Jon said. "I'm glad they're well. Has there been any other news, what of the other kingdoms?"
Pausing again, Luwin replied, "Nothing of note that I can recall. I had heard that the Riverlands were expecting a great harvest this year and will be sending some of the surplus north. That will ease Master Poole's coffers a bit," quietly chuckling to himself.
That was good. The rebellion hadn't happened yet.
Jon was about to ask more questions, "thump, thump", but a knock came from the door.
"Come in, we're almost done," said Maester Luwin.
Jon had been very nervous and uncertain about how much to reveal but tried to maintain composure. When Jon tentatively mentioned his mother's last words, he closely watched Lord Stark's reaction, noting the pallor that crept over his face. This reaction validated Jon's guess about his parentage, a detail gleaned more from the show than known history. If anything, it was more luck than anything else that this Lyanna had also survived long enough to speak with her brother.
The rest of the conversation had gone almost as well as he'd hoped. Now, it was time to rest and plan for the next conversation.
Winterfell, The North 15th day, Second Moon, 289 AC
Three days later, Jon Snow was escorted by Maester Luwin into the lord's solar. The journey from the infirmary was slow and awkward. Jon was greatly looking forward to his full recovery. As they approached the heavy wooden door, Jon felt a mix of nerves and resolve. This meeting would be crucial in setting his path forward in this new and complex world he found himself part of.
Cayn, one of the household guards, stood by the door. He turned and rapped his knuckles against the door politely.
"Aye, send them in," came Lord Stark's gruff voice.
Cayn grabbed the handle and opened the door, ushering Jon and Luwin through.
They entered the chamber to see Eddard Stark standing behind his great desk. Ned came around the desk and took over the job of supporting Jon from Maester Luwin.
Jon took his seat, courtesy of Luwin's assistance. Luwin looked to Lord Stark, and waited for him to nod and give his thanks. Seeing his dismissal, the maester left the three alone once more.
Ned Stark settled into his chair, his gaze never leaving Jon. "Well Jon, you said we had more to speak of?" he queried with a weighted tone.
"Aye, we do. We both have questions and answers the other needs to hear," Jon replied steadily.
Ned slumped forward, propping himself up with his elbows on the desk. His fingers interlaced and his forehead bowed on them, somewhere between prayer and defeat. After a moment of heavy silence, he lifted his gaze, meeting Jon's eyes with a resolute stare. "I suppose I owe it to let you ask first, don't I," Ned murmured.
"Aye, that would be fair," Jon responded, desperate for answers to many of his questions.