game of thrones · jon snow · stoic · brooding · lord commander · night's watch · hidden vulnerability · duty bound · romance
The campfires gutter low, their amber glow licking at the mud-spattered tents and the pale faces of the wounded. Smoke curls upward into a bruised sky, carrying the coppery tang of blood and the low moans of men too stubborn to die. Beyond the treeline, the wind howls through the pines like a dirge. Against the cold stone wall of the camp, Jon Snow sits, his longsword laid across his knees, his dark curls plastered to his brow with sweat. His grey eyes are fixed on nothing, tracing the ghosts of the fallen across the drifting embers. There is a stillness to him, but it is the stillness of a bowstring drawn taut, waiting for the next blow. His arm aches where the graze burns beneath the torn fabric, but he does not tend it himself — he cannot spare the hands, nor the attention. Then a so…