305AC Kings Landing
The eve preceding Jon's departure from the smouldering ruins of King's Landing left Jon ensnared in the clutches of a sleepless night. The conversation with Bran, 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. 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.
A yearning for the simplicity of an unburdened life, akin to that of a humble farmer, reverberated through Jon's introspection. Why, in the grand scheme of things, did the gods always seem to place their weight upon Jon's shoulders? Duty, an uninvited guest, lingered as a daunting presence, leaving Jon to ponder the capricious whims of fate.
The heavens above draped themselves in hues of regal purple as the impending dawn marked the hour of his departure from the Red Keep. 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 secret journey only he and Bran were privy to.
The morning of his departure had arrived. Rising from the embrace of a comfortable bed, Jon ventured to the privy. The amber glow of sunrise played upon the walls, casting a golden sheen upon the stone. In the privy's quiet confines, Jon made water and cleansed himself. Cloves, fragrant and biting, served as agents to cleanse his mouth, 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, 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 unknown that awaited Jon.
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 guard, ushered Jon into the realm of temporal urgencies.
"You're to leave in ten minutes."
"I'll be ready," Jon called out. As the minutes dwindled, he stood before the mirror once more, garbed in the black regalia of the Night's Watch, crow once more, albeit temporary.
The door creaked open, revealing Goldcloaks waiting for him. Alongside them, Jon embarked on a descent through the skeletal remains of the once-majestic Red Keep.
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.
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.
Beyond the Muddy Gate, the sea wall stood tall and stoic. The salt-laden breeze whispered through the air. Jon approached his waiting siblings: Sansa, Arya, and Bran, the breeze seemed to blow a chill of melancholy, echoing the bittersweet nature of farewells.
Sansa, Arya, and Bran stood together, their figures silhouetted against the backdrop of a horizon, still painted in hues of dawn.
Sansa's voice, held regret in every syllable. "Jon, I am so sorry. 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.
"The North is free, thanks to you," Jon said as he saw Sansa's eyes, glistening with unshed tears, seeking an absolution which Jon was not yet ready to give.
"But they lost their king," Sansa mourned, her words a sombre note in the symphony of parting. T
"Ned Stark's daughter will speak for them. She's the best they could ask for," he uttered. A faint smile graced his lips.
Sansa embraced him in a tearful hug, and Jon reciprocated. 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 placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You can come see me, you know, at Castle Black."
Arya chuckled. "I can't. I'm not going back north."
"Where are you going?" Sansa's inquiry hung in the air like a curious bird, its wings fluttering with both curiosity and concern.
West of Westeros, was an unexplored canvas on the map, which had sparked Arya's adventurous spirit.
"I don't know," Jon confessed.
"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.
"You have your Needle?" Jon asked.
"Right here." Arya replied, a tear slipping down her face. Jon, moved by the tender moment, wiped it away gently. He pulled her into a tearful embrace, feeling the strength and vulnerability coexisting within her.
Kneeling before Bran, the newly crowned king, Jon's acknowledgment carried a duality—formal and familial, a bridge between duty and kinship. 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 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. Neither uttered a word of their previous night's conversation.
"You were exactly where you were supposed to be," Bran reassured him. The enigmatic smile he offered held the quiet wisdom of someone who had glimpsed the intricacies of time. Rising, Jon sighed, and he cast a final look at his siblings.
The sense lingered, 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.
Jon cast a final gaze upon the Stark siblings. The moment hung heavy, and 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 departed toward the waiting Storm Crow. The obsidian hue of his cape billowed in the sea breeze. 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 was already being wheeled away by the hands of Ser Podrick Payne, ready to embark on a journey of his own. Yet, Sansa and Arya lingered, two statuesque figures against the backdrop of the bustling docks. Their silhouettes, 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.
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, seemed to loosen.
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 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 choice for some—the sanctuary of the Night's Watch. Once an asylum for those seeking redemption, now a place of refuge.
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 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 practised 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.
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.
Finally, the moment of departure approached. The captain signalled to the crew, and the rhythmic sound of the capstan turning echoed across the dock. The crew, their tasks completed, gathered along the deck's edge. 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. 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.
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, in the back of Jon's mind, whispered that their paths might cross again. He heard the guards speak of her being his staunchest advocate during the fateful council meeting. Even going as far as threatening war if one hair on his head was harmed. Jon knew their story was far from over.
Bran's cryptic message, echoed in Jon's thoughts. Castle Black, a familiar landmark, seemed a plausible final destination, yet Bran had subtly suggested otherwise, without giving too much away. Jon wished he'd asked more questions. However, what was done, was done. It was time to move on.
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 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 rarely crossed paths. 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 he suspected it would soon be a bustling trading port for the Night's Watch and Freefolk alike.
Jon had hoped for a peaceful trip. Time to be alone with his thoughts. Time to stare into the black abyss of regret and brace himself for what lay ahead. 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 spent in the docks without a family of his own. With his kin now departed, he yearned for a taste of adventure in his later years. He found 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 veering northwards, up 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. All the while, 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.
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. Divisions between noble-born and commoner blurred, replaced by the camaraderie forged in the shared uncertainties of their future, and the numbers on a die.
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.
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 skilfully 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. "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 practised 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 decree, had sent his little birds flying with the revelation of his identity. "Is what true?" Jon inquired, the words laced with a subtle tension.
Merrick 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 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."
Tommo, wide-eyed and captivated, leaned into the next question. "What's it like?"
"Exhilarating."
Tommo wore a visage of mighty admiration, Merrick, however, displayed a demeanour less swayed by the allure of Jon's dragon exploits. "Did you kill anyone with your dragon?" Merrick asked.
"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 seemed relieved his friend was not a mass murderer like the rest of his family.
Tommo, perpetually inquisitive, delved deeper. "Have you ever killed anyone?"
Jon nodded in acknowledgment. "What about you two?" he queried, both Merrick and Tommo shook their heads.
"How many?" Tommo asked.
Jon shrugged. "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 it end."
"Do you think we'll have to kill anyone?" Tommo, eyes wide and earnest.
Jon shook his head. "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 asked.
"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.