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His first memory of summer was of the insistence of all around him that he call his father by his official title.
Ever since he was a babe, although the mild weather signaled the beginning of good tidings for the average northerner, it meant that Jon’s difficulties would only grow. The cool mornings that should have been Jon’s time to play games with his siblings near the streams were filled with snapped insults and isolation. It was the time when Lord Stark, the Warden of the North, was at his busiest, preparing for the next winter, and the care of the children was left to the maesters and Lady Stark. It was the time when he was encouraged to take his meals in his room and given private tutoring from dawn to dusk.
And so summers were difficult for Jon.
It wasn’t until Jon's first real winter that he was able to share a meal with his half-siblings, when Lord Stark would have nothing to keep him occupied during meal times and would expect to dine with his family, despite Lady Stark’s protests.
Jon understood that his existence brought shame on the Lord and Lady’s honor. He knew that he should never have been born. He knew that he should be grateful that Lord Stark had taken him in at all, let alone taken the time to dine with him.
And yet, as he endured Lady Stark’s disapproving looks that Sansa was quick to imitate, as he saw Rob poke fun at Bran for his subpar recount of history with the maesters, as he traded saw Arya share a grin with Lord Stark in secret when Lady Stark reprimanded Arya for wearing britches instead of skirts, as he found that while he would feel only love and respect for his family, he knew that he would never be one of them.
Jon’s name was not Stark, even if his blood sang when surrounded by wolves.
—
When the King came to Winterfell, Jon took pains sure to stay out of sight.
It was only a month prior when he had been able to persuade their Lord to keep the dire wolf pups, and only a week since it had been decreed that John’s Ghost would not be put down, despite Lady Starks insistence that the animal was more trouble than it was worth. Lady Stark had been particularly cold since Lord Stark had made his decision, especially since the Stark siblings went out of their way to show their gratitude for Jon. It made the older woman’s pointed remarks all the more sharp.
So Jon kept away. Though he felt a bit bad that Arya was left to fend for herself in the layered skirts that he knew she hated, he knew that it wasn’t his place to offer her comfort. Not with the royal family so close.
He had left the hall for some time alone. He picked up a sword because he felt too many emotions warring within him. He slashed the dummies because he decided to focus on imagining himself fulfilling his imagined destiny, protecting the realm with a blade in hand, instead of his reality.
That was of course how the infamous Tyrion Lannister found him. The dwarf was blunt and had little tact. Of course, by the end of the conversation, John realized that that actually translated to honesty and insight. His bond with Arya was based on their status as unseemly, for the way they were born, and it was that same kinship that Jon felt with Tyrion.
He found that Tyrion’s advice followed him to the Night’s Watch. Among that lot, you were either a bastard, a criminal, or a disgraced son, and yet, for some reason, it did not comfort Jon. Here he was, with the chance to become more than Ned Stark’s bastard and escape the oppressive company of Lady Stark, and he couldn't crawl out from under the thumb of those who treat him like dirt.
When word of a war breaking out comes to the Wall, it is almost welcome. Then he hears of Ned Stark’s fate, beheaded on charges of treason. Jon knew that his birth was the only stain on his father, the most honorable man that had ever been the Hand of the King. He knew then and there that something was rotten, that his half-sisters were in danger. He wanted to ride back as fast as a horse would allow back to Winterfell, to join his brother and give him his sword.
It was only the interference of his brothers that he wasn’t branded a deserter. Grenn, Pypar, and Sam became his family in a way that the Starks were never able to, openly treating him as an equal.
(For all he loved Rob, he would never risk his mother’s ire for Jon, and the others were far too young…and it’s best he didn’t mention Sansa.)
And yet, their camaraderie was founded in their brotherhood, their vows. Jon knew what it was to have a relationship be tested, and one rooted in vows seemed both stronger and more fragile than anything Jon had ever cradled close to his chest before. Perhaps it’s because he was raised to believe that the Wall would be his great escape only to find rapists and murderers and last resorts and castaways. It wasn’t his brothers that told the lie, but they were the lie itself, and so Jon found himself ill at ease. It didn’t stop him from sticking close to Grenn, Pypar, and Sam, letting them shield him from the insults and he would shield them in return. It was not perfect, plague with the intricacies of duty and honor and vows (vows that kept him from his family as it crumbled, from his blood-.
It was at Jeor Mormont’s gathering that they heard that his uncle had not returned from his expedition beyond the wall that Jon stopped thinking of these challenges and vows. This marks the beginning of a chapter that would mark winters as difficult times for Jon as well.
—
Sam calls her Gilly and insists that they must save her and her baby from Craster, as she is sure that it will be a boy. While Jon at first declines, he can’t help but follow Craster, seeing him leave a newborn baby out in the woods. Jon was about to move out of the bushes he was crouched behind and towards the child, but he sees movement that makes him pause. It was something straight out of the stories that Old Nan would tell them, skin like ice and eyes a chilling blue like the depths of a frozen river in sunlight. There was no denying the truth. This was a White Walker.
A sharp crack followed by a stinging pain in his skull is all he can process before he sees nothing but darkness.
—
Jon was sure that he is only allowed to join the Halfhand’s mission because they wanted him out of the way after getting them booted from Craster’s keep.
Whatever the reason, he was unprepared for the reality of the Wildlings.
Ygritte was a breath of fresh air. Beautiful and free-spirited. She reminded him of Arya, unconventional and fierce, and she was a force of nature that Jon would attribute to a goddess if he didn’t know her to be mortal. Her flaming red hair is tucked up and out of the way so that she may take aim without obstruction.
She used her beauty to trick him, luring him into an ambush. Despite the danger, he did not regret sparing her.
Halfhand, being the strategist that he was, orchestrated a ruse for Jon, beginning with the older ranger’s death. As Jon held the sword that pierced the belly of the great Halfhand, his grip was strong though his arms trembled. Here was a man who believed in Jon, more than anyone had ever believed in him.
(He tried not to think of his father, who believed that he would become a ranger, who promised him information about his mother when they would meet next.)
And so, even despite his growing affection for Ygritte, despite his understanding of the Wilding plight, Jon knew his role. Even as he shook hands with Mance Rayder, swearing his false loyalty.
The lie tasted like ash in his mouth. He wanted to be known for his honor, wanted to be steadfast and true like his father, and yet here he was, hidden among those who trusted him waiting to drive a knife through their backs.
—
Orell, the Warg, had eyes for Ygritte. It was as plain as day. Jon would expect that jealousy would rise in him, but as he looked into Ygritte’s eyes, he felt only peace.
Listening to the Warg, Jon was intrigued. The description of it all sounded so familiar. His dreams of running through the woods, hunting for food, and feeling the twigs and snow under his paws, came to mind. Dreams of Ghost kept him grounded, but it always felt like he was somewhere else during them. Jon kept that, along with his true loyalties, to himself.
Beyond the wall, the people were closer to the first men than anyone that he had ever met. There, Giants roamed and White Walkers lurked. Jon walked side by side with them and fell for his own trick. At least until they arrived at the Fist of the First Men.
His resolve was strengthened at the sight. And when he was chosen to climb the wall with Ygritte, led by Tormund Giantsbane, he knew that he would do anything to survive and warn the Night's Watch. He exaggerated their numbers, saying that bases were manned when they were not.
Ygritte wanted to ensure his loyalty, giving herself to him. Although the cave was beautiful, he wished the circumstances were different.
It was Tormund who found them later, mirth-filled eyes roaming over them both. Ygritte lazily shifted, exposing more of Jon’s torso to the open air as she did. John never thought that he would be one to blush, but then he also never thought his first would be a Wildling, and Tormund’s eyes moved over more than just Ygritte. She had told him that things were different beyond the wall, less restricted.
And so when Tormund caught his gaze, he held it for a moment before looking away and pulling on his clothes. It was time to climb the wall.
—
As he slept with Ygritte in his arms, both bruised and sore from their near-fatal fall, he looked up at the sky. He swore, looking to the heavens, that his love for Ygritte would stand the test of time, even if she went on to love someone else after him. Even if he loved someone after her.
She shifted, pressing further into him. He held her tighter.
But then he found Bran, his little brother who was urging him to run. Bran who gave him an opportunity to do so. How could he waste it?
Three arrows pierced his back as he rode towards Castle Black, hoping against hope that he wouldn't pass out before he was able to give them a warning.
—
Jon was allowed to live. Sam called him a hero for warning them. Jon thought of the pain in Ygritte’s voice as she asked him to stay between kisses a couple of nights before he left. The urgency that came over her when he would give no answer, the panic that told him that she had been left before.
It seemed that he was never meant to keep promises when he was held to his oaths.
Lady Stark’s murmurs of stained honor mixed with Lord Stark’s whispered promises that he died before he could fulfill.
It was clear that he had less of Ned Stark in him that he ever wanted to admit. A disappointment to the end.