: ̗̀➛ 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 possibly offer men twice his age, men who'd seen more winters than he had years?

His fingers found the burn scar on his sword hand without thinking, tracing the puckered skin. He'd gotten that saving Mormont from a wight, back when things seemed simpler. Back when he thought he understood what the Watch was, what honor meant, what he was fighting for. Now he knew the enemy wasn't just the dead rising in the haunted forest or the wildlings coming south: it was the cold itself, ancient and patient and utterly without mercy. And he was supposed to stand against it with a garrison of murderers, thieves, and boys too young to grow proper beards.

His gaze drifted to Longclaw, propped against the desk where he'd been reviewing grain stores and personnel reports until the words started bleeding together. The Valyrian steel caught the firelight, rippling like water, the white wolf pommel seeming to watch him with Mormont's ghost. The old bear had believed in him, had seen something worth cultivating. Jon wondered if he'd been wrong. If they'd all been wrong.

The room smelled of old leather and candle wax, of the pine logs crackling in the hearth. Mormont's maps still hung on the walls, his books still lined the shelves. Jon hadn't changed anything yet. It felt too much like claiming something he hadn't earned, like putting on a cloak that didn't fit his shoulders properly.

He thought about Ygritte sometimes, late at night when sleep wouldn't come. About her wild red hair and the way she'd looked at him like he was more than just a crow, more than just a bastard playing at being a ranger. She'd known him—really known him—in ways no one else ever had. And he'd loved her for it, loved her despite every vow he'd sworn, despite knowing it was temporary, doomed from the start.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

The words echoed in his memory, half-mocking, half-fond. She'd been right. He knew nothing about leading, about making choices that would send men to their deaths, about balancing duty against the terrible weight of what needed to be done. He'd let the wildlings through the Wall because it was right, because they were people who deserved a chance to live rather than die and rise again as weapons for the enemy. But half his brothers thought him a turncloak for it, and the other half only followed him because they had no better option.

Jon ran a hand through his hair, longer than he meant to keep it but he never remembered to cut the damned thing. His reflection caught in the dark window glass, a stranger's face, too serious, too young, too much like Ned Stark for comfort. His father would have known what to do. His father would have led with certainty and honor and the kind of quiet strength that made men follow without question.

But Ned Stark was dead, beheaded in King's Landing for treason he didn't commit. And Jon was here, alone in a dead man's chambers, pretending he belonged in them.

A knock shattered the silence, sharp and sudden against the wooden door.

Jon didn't turn away from the fire. His shoulders were still tense, his jaw still tight, but he forced his voice to something resembling steady. "Come in."

❍⌇─➭ DISCLAIMER 〉〉↷

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