(no subject)
Author: rachel2205
Title: A Song of Snow and Blood
Rating: R
Pairing: Eventually Jon/Robb
Chapter: 2 of ?? (1 is here)
Wordcount: this chapter - 1700
Synopsis: Jon gets more than he bargained for beyond the Wall. Very loosely inspired by a prompt at stark_n_snow that asked for a vampire!Jon fic, and the result of some of my own speculation about what might happen to someone a wight didn’t manage to quite kill. Set at the end of the first season.
Warnings: Some violence. Meat eating (!).
Disclaimer: Based on the HBO series rather than the books, hence the use of White Walkers as a term rather than Others. I own nothing!
Notes: Beautiful banner by dahliaxxx.
Previously: He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and it came away gore-streaked, and for a moment Jon thought he might be sick. ‘Oh gods.’
‘You should go back to bed, Jon,’ said Sam, as Jon stared at his gorestreaked hands. He could taste blood between his teeth, and that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was that he liked it. ‘Get back to bed. You’re still sick. This is all a - a symptom.’
‘Of what, Sam?’
‘When my mother was pregnant with my little brother she wanted to eat coal,’ Sam said helpfully.
‘I’m not bloody pregnant, though, am I?’ snapped Jon, and regretted it when he saw Sam’s face.
‘I just meant... Sometimes people crave the taste of strange things when they’re sick. Come on,’ he said, and reached out to put his hand on Jon’s arm. ‘You’re frozen.’
‘I don’t feel cold,’ said Jon. Sam’s hand felt very hot against his skin, and Jon had to resist pushing it away.
‘That’s because you’re sick,’ Sam repeated. ‘Come on, Jon. Please.’
It was the please that made Jon nod and follow his friend back up to the infirmary room in Maester Aemon’s chambers.
‘You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,’ said Sam hopefully, and Jon forced himself to smile back at his friend and climb into bed. But sleep didn’t come, not for a long time. Jon felt wide awake, tasting iron and salt in his mouth, thinking of how easy it had been to rip that raw meat to pieces. It wasn’t until the sun began to rise, thin watery light spilling over the windowsill, that he at last fell asleep.
The Old Bear shook him awake in the afternoon. Jon’s whole body ached, deep throb in his muscles and pain in his jaw.
‘I need you to get better,’ the Lord Commander said. Jon’s eyes ached, but even squinting he could see that Mormont looked exhausted. ‘I’ve sent word to King’s Landing about what happened beyond the Wall, but we’ve had no word back, and I doubt we’ll get any.’ He sniffed. ‘King Joffrey - or perhaps I should say his mother - has no interest in what happens here. They’re too concerned with their petty war.’
Jon pushed himself up on the pillows.
‘Have you any word of what’s happened? The Starks?’ To Robb, he meant. Mormont snorted.
‘They’re calling your brother King in the North now.’ Mormont told him something about the capture of Jaime Lannister, but Jon couldn’t take it in. The King in the North. He didn’t know whether he felt proud or despairing. Robb. How could his brother be a king?
‘Are you listening to me, Snow?’
Jon blinked.
‘Sorry.’ He rubbed his aching eyes. ‘I’m - tired, since I got back.’
‘We’re all tired.’ Mormont stood up. ‘Your wounds are healed. There’s no reason for you to keep lying here, not when we have fewer men than ever. I want you back at your post tomorrow.’
What wound? Jon wondered, but Mormont was already leaving, and it was easier just to close his eyes and sleep.
*
The days blurred together, and at the same time each moment was painful. Even his teeth ached with tiredness. He discovered a new talent, for falling asleep where he stood. Any moment he had alone, he would put his head against the wall and sleep, snatched moments of blissful blankness. At least the days were growing shorter, because he found that as soon as the sun set his tiredness eased. And with night came hunger. His stomach growled, but when he tried to eat the bread and pottage that made up much of the diet of the Night’s Watch his gorge rose. Some vegetables he could stomach, but what he craved was meat. He ate the stews the kitchen served, but what he found himself thinking of was the rabbit he’d eaten. One night he even volunteered to feed the dogs so that he could lick the bloody dish clean.
I’m wrong, he thought, but didn’t say to anyone. He thought of how he had burned Othor, the way his hair had burst into flames like dry kindling, and shuddered. He thought half the men of the Watch would burn him, brother or no brother, if they thought he’d changed into something like the wight Othor had become. Wight, a word he’d learned from Castle Black’s library, poring over them on another night he couldn’t sleep. He’d sat in the dark with an ancient tome on the table in front of him, and it was a long time before he realised his candle had gone out. He didn’t seem to need it any more. There wasn’t much in the books about the White Walkers, just stuff of old legends, but more than one mentioned that they could control the dead, make them live again after a fashion. Wight. I’m not like Othor, Jon thought fiercely, but he thought of the cold bodies they’d found in the woods, thought of the chill in his own skin, and he wondered.
*
They’d lost ten men on the expedition beyond the Wall, a heavy loss with the Watch as small as it now was. But the Old Bear was adamant that their retreat was temporary. Some of the brothers murmured amongst themselves that returning was a fool’s errand, nothing better than suicide, but Jon was feverish with anticipation. The thought of coming face to face with something like that little girl or Piper or Othor made his stomach churn, but he felt like he needed to. He had to look a wight in its blue eyes and see if he felt any - (kinship) recognition.
A few days after Jon’s return to Castle Black, Jarman Buckwell returned from a routine scouting trip in the woods beyond the Wall covered in blood. It turned out to be nothing sinister; a branch from a tree had snapped under the weight of new fallen snow and struck him on the head. The wound was not deep, but bled freely, and Jarman was soon bandaged and sleeping in Maester Aemon’s quarters. It was nothing to worry about, but as night fell Jon found that he couldn’t stop thinking of the ranger, the way his square-jawed face and shirtfront had been stained with blood. He told himself he was just concerned for his brother ranger’s wellbeing, but that didn’t really explain why he crept to the rooms beneath the rookery well after midnight. His breath misted inside at this time of night, but his bare feet felt no cold. Jon moved as silently as Ghost as he stepped up the stairs, and his feet made no sound on the rush-strewn floor as he crossed to Jarman’s bedside. The room smelled of healing herbs, and beneath that the iron tang of blood. Jon felt very calm, the world shrinking and sharpening down to what was inside this room, silvery hues of the moonlit chamber, the deep shadows clotting in the corners... and the stained bandages around the sleeping ranger’s temple, white-and-black in the darkness. Jon stared at them for a long time, listening to his heart beat, and realised that his mouth was watering. He was trembling, hand stretching out toward Jarman’s head, when the ranger murmured and turned over. Jon fled as silently as he had come in, and in the kitchen he plunged his hand into a dish of entrails set aside to feed the dogs and sucked them dry, and only when he had finished did he realise that the whimpering sound of satisfaction he had heard came from his own throat.
The next day Lord Commander Mormont took in Jon’s pale face and the dark smudges under his eyes.
‘You’re not fit to go beyond the Wall, Snow,’ he said.
‘I won’t just stay here,’ said Jon furiously. He’d lain awake for the rest of the night thinking of that moment by Jarman’s bedside, saliva in his mouth. What he thought he might have done if Jarman hadn’t stirred. He was too tired to mind his words. ‘What use am I sitting behind these walls? I may as well have gone to my brother after all.’
‘Ah,’ said Mormont, mouth twitching. ‘That’s handy, as I’m sending you to him.’
Jon stared at the Lord Commander for a moment, wondering if he’d fallen asleep on his feet again and this was some feverish dream.
‘I’m what?’
‘We need men, Snow. Lots more men. You saw what happened beyond the Wall. But King’s Landing hasn’t even dignified our request with a reply. The South has turned its back on us. Maybe this King in the North will listen to us. Your father understood the value of the Night’s Watch.’
‘But... Why not send a raven?’ Jon said. He was thinking of if it had been Robb lying wounded in Jarman’s bed, what he might have done, and it made his heart pound hard enough to hurt. He couldn’t go.
‘Ravens are easy to ignore in wartime, if they’re not shot down before they reach their destination,’ Mormont said. ‘Better a personal message.’
‘But - my lord - shouldn’t someone else go? I should be at your side,’ Jon insisted. He could feel the fingertips of one hand curling into his palm, thinking of Robb bloodstained. He couldn’t go near him. Not like this. Mormont gave him a curious look.
‘I’d have thought you’d be glad to see him. Don’t worry; if you think you might be tempted to desert, we’ll send your brother a reminder of his obligation to exact justice,’ said Mormont, and smiled. ‘If he’s calling himself a king now, he’d be obliged to have your head. So go and see him and then come home. With as many men as you can persuade him to give up.’ Mormont crossed to the doorway. ‘And Snow? Don’t take no for an answer. Remember Piper.’
There wasn’t much chance of ever forgetting Piper, Jon thought dismally once Mormont had left, and then went to see the quartermaster about supplies. He would ride for his brother’s camp at once, because there was nothing else to be done, and he’d have to pray that he could keep from showing whatever it was he'd become once he was there - for Robb’s sake, if not his own.
Title: A Song of Snow and Blood
Rating: R
Pairing: Eventually Jon/Robb
Chapter: 2 of ?? (1 is here)
Wordcount: this chapter - 1700
Synopsis: Jon gets more than he bargained for beyond the Wall. Very loosely inspired by a prompt at stark_n_snow that asked for a vampire!Jon fic, and the result of some of my own speculation about what might happen to someone a wight didn’t manage to quite kill. Set at the end of the first season.
Warnings: Some violence. Meat eating (!).
Disclaimer: Based on the HBO series rather than the books, hence the use of White Walkers as a term rather than Others. I own nothing!
Notes: Beautiful banner by dahliaxxx.
Previously: He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and it came away gore-streaked, and for a moment Jon thought he might be sick. ‘Oh gods.’
‘You should go back to bed, Jon,’ said Sam, as Jon stared at his gorestreaked hands. He could taste blood between his teeth, and that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was that he liked it. ‘Get back to bed. You’re still sick. This is all a - a symptom.’
‘Of what, Sam?’
‘When my mother was pregnant with my little brother she wanted to eat coal,’ Sam said helpfully.
‘I’m not bloody pregnant, though, am I?’ snapped Jon, and regretted it when he saw Sam’s face.
‘I just meant... Sometimes people crave the taste of strange things when they’re sick. Come on,’ he said, and reached out to put his hand on Jon’s arm. ‘You’re frozen.’
‘I don’t feel cold,’ said Jon. Sam’s hand felt very hot against his skin, and Jon had to resist pushing it away.
‘That’s because you’re sick,’ Sam repeated. ‘Come on, Jon. Please.’
It was the please that made Jon nod and follow his friend back up to the infirmary room in Maester Aemon’s chambers.
‘You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,’ said Sam hopefully, and Jon forced himself to smile back at his friend and climb into bed. But sleep didn’t come, not for a long time. Jon felt wide awake, tasting iron and salt in his mouth, thinking of how easy it had been to rip that raw meat to pieces. It wasn’t until the sun began to rise, thin watery light spilling over the windowsill, that he at last fell asleep.
The Old Bear shook him awake in the afternoon. Jon’s whole body ached, deep throb in his muscles and pain in his jaw.
‘I need you to get better,’ the Lord Commander said. Jon’s eyes ached, but even squinting he could see that Mormont looked exhausted. ‘I’ve sent word to King’s Landing about what happened beyond the Wall, but we’ve had no word back, and I doubt we’ll get any.’ He sniffed. ‘King Joffrey - or perhaps I should say his mother - has no interest in what happens here. They’re too concerned with their petty war.’
Jon pushed himself up on the pillows.
‘Have you any word of what’s happened? The Starks?’ To Robb, he meant. Mormont snorted.
‘They’re calling your brother King in the North now.’ Mormont told him something about the capture of Jaime Lannister, but Jon couldn’t take it in. The King in the North. He didn’t know whether he felt proud or despairing. Robb. How could his brother be a king?
‘Are you listening to me, Snow?’
Jon blinked.
‘Sorry.’ He rubbed his aching eyes. ‘I’m - tired, since I got back.’
‘We’re all tired.’ Mormont stood up. ‘Your wounds are healed. There’s no reason for you to keep lying here, not when we have fewer men than ever. I want you back at your post tomorrow.’
What wound? Jon wondered, but Mormont was already leaving, and it was easier just to close his eyes and sleep.
*
The days blurred together, and at the same time each moment was painful. Even his teeth ached with tiredness. He discovered a new talent, for falling asleep where he stood. Any moment he had alone, he would put his head against the wall and sleep, snatched moments of blissful blankness. At least the days were growing shorter, because he found that as soon as the sun set his tiredness eased. And with night came hunger. His stomach growled, but when he tried to eat the bread and pottage that made up much of the diet of the Night’s Watch his gorge rose. Some vegetables he could stomach, but what he craved was meat. He ate the stews the kitchen served, but what he found himself thinking of was the rabbit he’d eaten. One night he even volunteered to feed the dogs so that he could lick the bloody dish clean.
I’m wrong, he thought, but didn’t say to anyone. He thought of how he had burned Othor, the way his hair had burst into flames like dry kindling, and shuddered. He thought half the men of the Watch would burn him, brother or no brother, if they thought he’d changed into something like the wight Othor had become. Wight, a word he’d learned from Castle Black’s library, poring over them on another night he couldn’t sleep. He’d sat in the dark with an ancient tome on the table in front of him, and it was a long time before he realised his candle had gone out. He didn’t seem to need it any more. There wasn’t much in the books about the White Walkers, just stuff of old legends, but more than one mentioned that they could control the dead, make them live again after a fashion. Wight. I’m not like Othor, Jon thought fiercely, but he thought of the cold bodies they’d found in the woods, thought of the chill in his own skin, and he wondered.
*
They’d lost ten men on the expedition beyond the Wall, a heavy loss with the Watch as small as it now was. But the Old Bear was adamant that their retreat was temporary. Some of the brothers murmured amongst themselves that returning was a fool’s errand, nothing better than suicide, but Jon was feverish with anticipation. The thought of coming face to face with something like that little girl or Piper or Othor made his stomach churn, but he felt like he needed to. He had to look a wight in its blue eyes and see if he felt any - (kinship) recognition.
A few days after Jon’s return to Castle Black, Jarman Buckwell returned from a routine scouting trip in the woods beyond the Wall covered in blood. It turned out to be nothing sinister; a branch from a tree had snapped under the weight of new fallen snow and struck him on the head. The wound was not deep, but bled freely, and Jarman was soon bandaged and sleeping in Maester Aemon’s quarters. It was nothing to worry about, but as night fell Jon found that he couldn’t stop thinking of the ranger, the way his square-jawed face and shirtfront had been stained with blood. He told himself he was just concerned for his brother ranger’s wellbeing, but that didn’t really explain why he crept to the rooms beneath the rookery well after midnight. His breath misted inside at this time of night, but his bare feet felt no cold. Jon moved as silently as Ghost as he stepped up the stairs, and his feet made no sound on the rush-strewn floor as he crossed to Jarman’s bedside. The room smelled of healing herbs, and beneath that the iron tang of blood. Jon felt very calm, the world shrinking and sharpening down to what was inside this room, silvery hues of the moonlit chamber, the deep shadows clotting in the corners... and the stained bandages around the sleeping ranger’s temple, white-and-black in the darkness. Jon stared at them for a long time, listening to his heart beat, and realised that his mouth was watering. He was trembling, hand stretching out toward Jarman’s head, when the ranger murmured and turned over. Jon fled as silently as he had come in, and in the kitchen he plunged his hand into a dish of entrails set aside to feed the dogs and sucked them dry, and only when he had finished did he realise that the whimpering sound of satisfaction he had heard came from his own throat.
The next day Lord Commander Mormont took in Jon’s pale face and the dark smudges under his eyes.
‘You’re not fit to go beyond the Wall, Snow,’ he said.
‘I won’t just stay here,’ said Jon furiously. He’d lain awake for the rest of the night thinking of that moment by Jarman’s bedside, saliva in his mouth. What he thought he might have done if Jarman hadn’t stirred. He was too tired to mind his words. ‘What use am I sitting behind these walls? I may as well have gone to my brother after all.’
‘Ah,’ said Mormont, mouth twitching. ‘That’s handy, as I’m sending you to him.’
Jon stared at the Lord Commander for a moment, wondering if he’d fallen asleep on his feet again and this was some feverish dream.
‘I’m what?’
‘We need men, Snow. Lots more men. You saw what happened beyond the Wall. But King’s Landing hasn’t even dignified our request with a reply. The South has turned its back on us. Maybe this King in the North will listen to us. Your father understood the value of the Night’s Watch.’
‘But... Why not send a raven?’ Jon said. He was thinking of if it had been Robb lying wounded in Jarman’s bed, what he might have done, and it made his heart pound hard enough to hurt. He couldn’t go.
‘Ravens are easy to ignore in wartime, if they’re not shot down before they reach their destination,’ Mormont said. ‘Better a personal message.’
‘But - my lord - shouldn’t someone else go? I should be at your side,’ Jon insisted. He could feel the fingertips of one hand curling into his palm, thinking of Robb bloodstained. He couldn’t go near him. Not like this. Mormont gave him a curious look.
‘I’d have thought you’d be glad to see him. Don’t worry; if you think you might be tempted to desert, we’ll send your brother a reminder of his obligation to exact justice,’ said Mormont, and smiled. ‘If he’s calling himself a king now, he’d be obliged to have your head. So go and see him and then come home. With as many men as you can persuade him to give up.’ Mormont crossed to the doorway. ‘And Snow? Don’t take no for an answer. Remember Piper.’
There wasn’t much chance of ever forgetting Piper, Jon thought dismally once Mormont had left, and then went to see the quartermaster about supplies. He would ride for his brother’s camp at once, because there was nothing else to be done, and he’d have to pray that he could keep from showing whatever it was he'd become once he was there - for Robb’s sake, if not his own.