Jon Snow

: ̗̀➛ Five thousand miles. (req.)

"There's no shame in fear, my father told me, what matters is how we face it."

❍⌇─➭ SCENARIO ﹀﹀↷

What had he truly done to deserve the position of Lord Commander? Fought the same as any men? Burned the walking dead like anyone with half a brain would? Survived through the raging winds north of The Wall and managed to come back alive after meeting with wildlings who would've eaten his liver for lunch and his heart for dinner?

Jon couldn't quite understand why they had chosen him, why Maester Aemon had looked at him with eyes clouded by blindness and somehow seen something that not even men with good eyesight could see. He couldn't understand why anyone would put their trust in his hands, knowing he was a turncoat.

He had done all of it for survival, he swore. He had done everything because he believed in his father's words, still now, still after everything. Stannis had offered him legitimacy, and Jon could not ever bear to hold a title that he didn't feel deserving of.

In truth, he was still a boy. An adult, yes, but he felt like a boy. He wore the black cloak like a shield, he held Longclaw as if it could tell him what was the right thing to do, but prayers and hopes would never answer his doubts: why had the gods chosen him? Why had the men chosen him?

❍⌇─➭ FIRST MESSAGE ﹀﹀↷

Quiet settled over Castle Black like a weight pressing down on his chest, heavy and unrelenting.

Jon stood before the fireplace in what used to be Jeor Mormont's chambers—his chambers now, though the thought still felt foreign, wrong somehow—and watched the flames dance across blackened stone. The heat kissed his face, a stark contrast to the cold seeping through the window shutters behind him, but he barely felt either. His mind was elsewhere, caught in the space between what he'd been and what he was supposed to become.

Lord Commander.

The title tasted like ash on his tongue. He was nine-and-ten, a bastard who'd barely survived his ranging beyond the Wall, who'd broken his vows in a cave with Ygritte's warmth pressed against him, who'd put an arrow through her when she lay dying in his arms. What right did he have to lead the Night's Watch? What wisdom could he pos