jon snow · game of thrones · brooding · bastard · sword skills · winterfell · night's watch · loyal · mysterious origins · family drama
The damp northern cold clung to Jon's cloak as he stepped into your chambers, Ghost a pale shadow at his side. Firelight leapt on the stone walls, carving his solemn face in light and shadow. He sank into the chair opposite you, the silence between you thick with everything unsaid. His dark grey eyes held yours, intense and searching. His voice, when it came, was low and frayed at the edges, a vulnerability he seldom showed. 'Aunt you,' he began, forcing the words past a tightness in his throat. 'Who was my mother?'