Chapter Text
They had said that she was his little sister, with dark, tangled hair, which Jon loved to run his fingers through and muss, feeling the texture of her hair strands sliding across the skin of his hand, burned and filled with hatred. That girl who called herself Arya Stark, the same one who was being protected by the Wildlings and what was left of Theon fucking Greyjoy, while Jon ran through the icy darkness of death, was desperately struggling, but to no avail.
His hands squeezed the neck of Jeyne Poole, that girl who had once despised his little sister, now using her name to save herself from the fate that had once been meant for the real Arya Stark of Winterfell. Noseless and ruined, Jon could have let the girl go to Braavos and find some kind of life far away from there, but the frustration and disappointment of seeing her, after months of thinking that his lovely little sister was safe and sound, made him change his mind.
She let out yelps of surprise, slapping Jon's hands away, struggling to breathe, calling him by his name, which had been shunned and rejected in Winterfell.
Jon Snow.
A bastard who never knew his mother, a bastard who always knew the contempt of another mother. That was his name in a life that had been taken, stabbed and slashed in the betrayal that led the Night's Watch to its ruin. When Jon woke up with his little sister's name on his lips, they told him she was safe at the Wall, sheltered at the Nightfort along with that weird Braavosi man from the Iron Bank. I should've known, I should've known well. Dreams existed only while he slept, or when his mind slipped into Ghost, learning that Nymeria was alive but separated from Arya.
He had hopes. He had expectations.
Tears slid down his pale, scarred cheeks, dropping on the girl's face under his body, still pressing Jeyne Poole's neck with his thoughts far away and his heart broken.
“No, Lord Crow!” Mance Rayder kicked Jon's ribs, pulling him off the one who had deceived everyone, his thoughts still overcome with disappointment and anguish, because if that wasn't Arya, where the fuck was she? Where could he look for her? She's alive, she is. Ghost knows, I know. “Are you fucking mad?! She's your sister, the one you died for!"
His silver hair slid over his pale, scarred face as Jon lowered his head, turning his back on them. He swallowed hard, unable to hide his disappointment at not seeing Arya nearby, because ever since he had woken up, everyone had been saying that she was nearby, that they had managed to rescue the girl. He had even thanked that fucking traitor Greyjoy, even after he had burned Winterfell and murdered those who had raised them, the ones they looked up to.
“That's not her,” he muttered, closing his eyes, trying to control and resist the temptation to go back to the girl and finish the job Ramsay Bolton had started. At least he was glad and thankful that Arya, the real one, hadn't been around that bastard. He knew he would probably lose his mind if his little sister appeared at Castle Black without a nose, after being tortured endlessly by the one who sat in the chair that belonged to the Starks. Jon opened and closed his hands, breathing deeply to control the hatred inside his heart, spreading throughout every part of his being. “They lied to you, Mance. That’s Jeyne Poole, not Arya Stark.”
Dumbfounded, Mance’s eyes widened, now turned to the noseless girl on the floor, coughing and gasping for breath, as if she had been underwater for too long, struggling for fresh air.
Jon's long fingers ran through his silver hair strands, narrowing his gaze to that miserable poor soul on the floor. He pitied her, and Jeyne Poole's life was just another tragedy among so many others, but his feelings corroded all the hope he had nurtured, strangling his heart, making it bleed, poisoning himself.
“Who the fuck is Jeyne Poole?” asked Mance, rolling his eyes and taking a deep breath, unable to believe that they were protecting the wrong girl, a fraud.
A liar.
Jon's fingers trembled, enraged, consumed by the poison of longing and loss, by the anguish of not knowing where Arya was and what might have happened to the girl who occupied his thoughts and hopes. He had smiled when Val mentioned her presence nearby, and Jon managed to get a night's sleep knowing that at least something had been done regarding that matter. He hadn't died and suffered for nothing, for his sister was there, sleeping under the same ceiling, protected and loved. When the first opportunity presented itself, when he managed to stay awake and free of Ghost's influence in his mind and thoughts, after Val brought him back to that world, kidnapping and sacrificing Stannis Baratheon's daughter, Jon could only think of Arya.
When he felt the blades enter his body forcefully, he also thought about her.
Stick them with the pointy end, they said once, in one of the happiest and most melancholic memories he had, when he had convinced Winterfell's master blacksmith to craft a sword for Arya. He had researched and studied the types of weapons she could use and wield without trouble, keeping herself safe in his absence, but also to remember him. For the place she had gone to, there would be only enemies and husbands, and these two things were directly linked.
He had a fight with Lord Stark that night, trying to convince their father not to take Arya to King's Landing. He had seen how that Tommen Baratheon, that fat boy with golden hair, had taken her small hands in his, when King Robert Baratheon and his court went to the North, to their home, taking her from him.
“Her father was loyal to the Stark,” Jon explained slowly, his throat tightening as those memories of happy times surfaced, reminding him that once, his life had been happy and filled with warmth, surrounded by their wolves, siblings, and their home. “It was a lie, Mance. It was a trap, and I died for this.”
Jeyne Poole tried desperately to breathe, her hands clutching her swollen, reddened neck, spitting on the cold stone floor. Part of her ears and lips were missing, and her nose had been completely torn off. If Jon were the same as before, her appearance would touch his heart, and he would be gentle to her, but not now.
Betrayed, enraged, and now deceived, Jon couldn't ignore the beast raging inside his heart, crying out for fury and blood, barely looking at her because he knew that some part of himself had been lost.
I died for this mockery.
A sad smile took over his lips, and he shook his head in disbelief. His hands were trembling, thinking about how much he missed his little sister, and how that hope had poisoned his feelings, thoughts, and heart.
“Why did you lie, girl?” Mance asked seriously, crouching in front of her with the compassion that Jon lacked at the moment. “You knew he could recognize you, so why did you lie?”
Still trying to catch her breath, Jeyne Poole looked around, visibly not trusting any of them. Tears and more silent tears slid down Jon's pale, scarred cheeks, feeling the hand of the sword itch terribly. He had even dreamed that he was mussing her hair once more, that tangled bird's nest he loved so much.
“Why did you lie?” Jon asked menacingly, finally turning his attention to her, still on the floor, that miserable poor soul. His voice echoed through the tower, capturing the girl’s frightened eyes, who had wet her skirts after nearly being suffocated to death. “I’m not repeating myself.”
Jeyne Poole looked around, probably searching for some kind of support, but she found none. Lying was not the way to earn the respect and loyalty of those who had only this to offer.
“Theon told me...,” she began weakly, her vocal cords damaged. If Jon were the one who hadn't been betrayed by his own black brothers, he might have felt guilt, but the anger he felt for believing that Arya was safe and sound, and nearby, brought out the worst in him. “...that... that I should. He told me that... everyone would... protect me. Jon Snow was always... fond and protective of... of her. Theon told me that.”
Of course.
With an impassive face, as still as a frozen lake, but with tears sliding down his face, Jon looked down at that noseless girl, approaching her silently. A cold wind penetrated that room in one of the towers of Castle Black, coming from the partially destroyed wooden door, a reminder of the battle that had taken place between the Wildlings and those who had betrayed their Lord Commander.
With the wood charred, wind penetrated through the cracks, and for now, there was nothing to be done. Just like Jon's heart, which remained destroyed and trampled by the hopes he had nurtured, by the fantasies of seeing that girl who had his heart in her hand at disposal.
“You're welcome here, Jeyne Poole, and you're protected from the ones you're running from,” he spoke in a whisper, crouching right before her body on the floor. Jon's eyes were bloodshot, but now his pupils also displayed the same reddish tone as the Weirwood, as well as Ghost. He now belonged to the Old Gods, and it was this girl's fault. “I have three rules for you. Do not cross my path. Do not look at me. Do not utter Arya's name, otherwise I'll make sure you're not only noseless, but tongueless as well.”
Jon stood up and cast a meaningful look at Mance, turning his back on Jeyne Poole, still sprawled on the floor, staining her skirts with her own urine. Without looking back, they left her alone in the tower, descending the stairs in silence.
A cold wind whipped against the stone, whistling menacingly in their ears. He could hear the Winter mocking his anger and sadness, laughing at him for truly believing that Arya was close, that he would soon mess her hair once again. He clenched his hands into fists, still trying to deal with the lack of control from moments ago.
“You must take me for a cruel fool now,” he spoke, breaking the silence between them, still walking down the stairs of the scorched tower, the smell of burnt wood still lingering.
Their footsteps echoed in the darkness, in the silence of the night, listening in the distance to some of the Wildlings working to rebuild the remaining parts of Castle Black.
They would not remain there for long, that fortress was no longer enough to withstand the cold that fell upon them. With Stannis Baratheon still absent, and unaware that his only daughter had been sacrificed before a Weirwood, his wife and her supporters were the only ones at Nightfort when the Wildlings took it from them.
The events were still confusing for Jon, who had perhaps spent too much time in Ghost's mind, for his body wasn't as agile and light as his direwolf's. Running through the snow and chasing those who had betrayed him brought satisfaction, but Jon tried to remember that they were two separate entities and should remain so, even if there was an intimate exchange between them.
For instance, Jon had finally learned what Ghost had been eating. It was no surprise to learn that his direwolf had been eating humans, but it also made him realize that with each passing day, he felt less like that Jon Snow from Winterfell, who had once protected Samwell Tarly from his own vulnerability, finding a path to him. That Jon had died, but not in one night, as he slowly realized.
That Jon Snow from before had been dying slowly since the Winter came.
“I do not judge you, Lord Crow,” Mance confessed after a few moments of silence between them, stopping down the stairs to finally have a conversation alone. Winter was in Mance's eyes, in the wrinkles around his mouth and forehead, in the worries of having a son on the other side of the continent, lost but safe. “You belong to the Old Gods now, and the Old Gods are not known for their kindness. The girl lied, but not only to you, she lied to everyone else. After that, I'm afraid she cannot stay with us.”
“Find Theon Greyjoy and keep them together,” Jon suggested, nodding in agreement. “He brought Jeyne Poole to the Wall, and now she's his responsibility, not ours.”
Mance's eyes sparkled under the torch, guiding their path down the stairs.
“There's something I must tell you as well,” he began seriously, attracting Jon's attention at once. His blood-colored eyes shone before the warm glow, noticing that Mance hesitated as he stared. With his appearance changed to something that shouldn't even belong to this world, Jon tried to forget who that person looking at him was when he saw his own reflection. His silver hair and blood-red eyes attracted admiring but fearful glances, for everyone knew what Val had done after learning he was stuck in Ghost's mind and body.
“I thought it might be better to tell you after spending some time with your sister, but now I see that was a mistake. I should have told you as soon as you opened your eyes, Lord Crow.”
Jon frowned, and his heart twisted painfully.
“I'm not talking about that girl and their lies, Mance,” he said, sighing and running his hand over his face, still wet with tears, his throat dry and tight. He wanted to cry out of frustration, anger, and despair, because if Arya wasn't there, after all, where was he supposed to start looking for her? Through Ghost's mind, Jon knew she was alive but very, very far away.
If Jeyne Poole suffered like that, what could have happened to Arya?
He closed his eyes shut for a few moments, and Mance waited for him.
Control yourself.
“Val shouldn't have done this,” Mance observed, shaking his head after sighing. Steam gathered around his face, studying Jon's appearance. “I’m thankful you sent my son away, and I’ll never forget it. When she burned that girl’s child, and you didn’t wake up, Val knew exactly what should be done. We wanted you back, Jon. You’re the bridge between us and the kneelers. We need you, but don’t let the Old Gods take more than you’re willing to give.”
“I know,” he looked away, aware of his appearance. Every now and then he forgot that he no longer looked like a Stark, or at least what a Stark would usually look like. He couldn't help thinking about what Arya would say about his eyes and hair now, but perhaps that was the least of his worries and paranoia. He glanced at Mance, turning his attention back to him, and took a deep breath. “Tell me, Mance. Whatever you have to tell, just do it.”
“Stannis Baratheon is alive, and his army defeated part of the Boltons,” he replied in a whisper, staring at Jon with wide open eyes. "He's injured, though. The fat old man from White Harbor is taking care of him, planning for Winterfell's siege. The Boltons still have some men left, but the fat man is up to something. Many lordlings are going to White Harbor while we talk.“
Jon moistened his cold lips, deep in thought.
”What would you do?“ he asked, narrowing his bloodshot eyes.
”Get their support,“ he spoke promptly. ”Make them see you."
But Jon shook his head almost immediately, not giving much consideration to that suggestion.
“No,” he said, frowning. “Look at me, Mance. Do I look like a Stark? Why would they support me? And you mentioned Stannis Baratheon. He’ll ask about his daughter, and I’m not the one who sliced her throat before a Weirwood as a sacrifice.”
“You're not understanding, Lord Crow,” he insisted, stepping closer, his eyes showing a kind of desperation that he had rarely seen in him. “They don't need to recognize the Stark in you, but they need to recognize us as friends. Not Wildlings, not an enemy. You're still the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch...”
“I was,” Jon corrected him, interrupting him. “Most of the Night’s Watch is dead, Mance.”
Mance Rayder looked at him in disbelief.
“Don’t you want to kill that bastard for using your sister’s name?” he asked, knowing that this was Jon’s weak spot, his most vulnerable part, and he closed his eyes once again.
“You know that's what I'm going to do,” Jon continued patiently, opening his eyes. "I'm a bastard, Mance, and it doesn't matter if I have a direwolf or not. I'm still a bastard, and bastards are only taken seriously when armies follow them. We have the Wall, but we need the support of a proper House first. A castle and a name, otherwise we're just another target, another enemy. Let's take Karhold and give it to Lady Alys Karstark first, and then we talk about meeting other lords. And Mance, you still did not explain how you left Winterfell, even though you were there as a prisoner."
I know it was you who wrote the pink letter, you and uncle Benjen.
They were both in Winterfell when Jon’s body was brought back to life before a Weirwood, with Shireen’s blood spilling on the snow with her sliced throat. His mind left Ghost’s, but for a moment, Jon had been stuck in a strange, dark place. And then, he was back to Winterfell, watching Mance Rayder and Benjen Stark discussing how they could take the castle, hidden in the Godswood, right before its Weirwood.